Chapter 3
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I squeeze my eyes tighter when music infiltrates my foggy brain.
If I keep pretending to be asleep, he’ll go away. Just this once maybe he—
“Rise and shine, Reap!” Opening my eyes to narrow slits, I notice the black and blue plaid material surrounding me like an ocean.
Jesus, this isn’t even my bed. I groan and roll onto my side, slamming a pillow over my ear in a poor attempt to block out the noise. Cold hands grip my ankles and I’m slid across the bed until my ass is hanging off the edge of the mattress.
“Holy shit, keep your death hands off me you prick!” I screech at the most insufferable human on the planet. I attempt a kick, but my foot only catches air.
“Oh hush, you know the drill. Don’t fight it, embrace it, baby.” Lifting me the rest of the way off the bed, Chase wraps one arm around my waist and pulls me into him.
When I press my hand flat against his heart, he sings along to the music, his voice a few octaves too high.
It’s eight in the morning and I’ve got the hangover from hell.
Kill me.
Against my will, I’m serenaded to what Chase deems my theme song “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant. His feet guide mine and I’m forced to dance with him to the music. A traitorous laugh escapes my lips as he does a feminine shimmy that makes my whole body shake.
“It’s been four years. Don’t you think it’s time to let me use an alarm clock or something?” I try to keep the smile off my face.
He scrunches up his nose and pretends to consider it before shaking his head. “You passed out in my room last night,” he says, brown eyes twinkling with amusement.
I eye his bed with suspicion. “Yeah, remind me to scrub a layer of my skin off.”
“You’re lucky I boned Shannon out on the couch instead of bringing her back here.”
I make a gagging sound in my throat. He leads me into a forceful spin that causes my empty stomach to revolt.
“She’s a little slut and you know it. And if you spin me like that again, I’m gonna puke all over you,” I shoot back.
“Yeah, she’s a slut”—he winks—“a slut with no gag reflex.” I roll my eyes with a laugh. Stepping back, I tap on his phone to turn off the music.
“Gross. Okay, I’m officially awake now. Dance party’s over.” I step over a pile of dirty clothes and stride across the room.
“Good morning, Reap!” he yells to my back.
When I reach the door, I blow him a kiss before heading to the bathroom for a much needed shower. Once I’m standing under scalding hot water, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. A time or two I’ve accidentally witnessed the kind of debauchery that happens in Chase’s bed. A shudder runs down my spine. I pour a ridiculous amount of soap onto my loofah. As I scrub my skin thoroughly, I find myself once again thinking back to the first six months of our life here in the city.
To say I was a fucking mess, would be the understatement of the century.
I wouldn’t get up, couldn’t eat, and I refused to bathe. I sat in our new apartment wrapped in a blanket, under a swarm of black thoughts. The demon had come back with full force. It delighted in squeezing my heart, till once more it bled with guilt and despair.
After about a month of zombie Tessa, Chase stormed into my room one Monday morning and blared my “theme song”. Dragging me out of bed, he wrapped his arms around my waist compelling my body to dance against his. Eventually, my resolve broke and I fell into a fit of giggles.
Tuesday morning was the same, except a lot more swearing from my end.
Wednesday, he danced me out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. Throwing me in the tub, he turned on the shower head and yelled for me to get my “filthy ass clean”, before stalking out.
Thursday morning, we danced. That afternoon, he sat me in front of a giant cheeseburger and a mountain of fries. When I refused to take a bite, he started telling jokes. Joke after awful joke until I agreed to take a bite.
“Why does Santa have such a big sack? ‘Cause he only comes once a year!”
“What’s the difference between a hooker and a drug dealer? A hooker can wash her crack and resell it!”
“What did the baby say to its mother after breastfeeding? Thanks for the mammaries!”
“What do you call someone with six eyes, two mouths, and three ears? Ugly!”
On and on until I couldn’t take anymore and began shoveling fries into my mouth just to make it stop.
Friday, we danced again. I showered, had breakfast, and realized in surprise, I had no desire to spend the day trapped in my head. It kind of became our thing, strange as it is. Sometimes, it happens once a month, sometimes it’s every day of the week. It’s funny how he seems to know when I can’t bear to get out of bed and face the world.
Andrew, my sun and all the warmth and radiance that came with it, was gone.
But Chase, who like me, was born into anger and darkness—became my moon, giving my life a guiding light and sense of direction.
After that initial rocky year, everything fell into place. I had a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a best friend I could rely on. I’m still angry. My heart is twisted into an unrecognizable shape, and there are chunks missing from my soul. But, I’ve found something that resembles a normal life.
Here with Chase, I can almost be happy.
Almost.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my body before I blow dry my hair, then head to my room. The smell of bacon wafts through the air giving me a little pep in my step. The boy is a pain in my ass, but he can cook a mean breakfast. I dress quickly, my attire—much like my attitude—hasn’t changed drastically since high school. I slide into black jeans and black boots, but instead of a sacred band tee, I tug on a respectable maroon blouse made of flowy material that hugs the twins just right. I dab on some makeup and throw my thick hair up into a high ponytail.
“Stop plucking at your unibrow. Breakfast is ready,” Chase shouts from the kitchen.
I snarl in response but do a double take in the mirror to make sure I don’t need to attack them with tweezers again.
When I pass the living room, I do my second double take of the morning.
On my beautiful leather couch, plump little butt cheeks are peeking out from beneath a thin sheet. Turning the corner to where our kitchen nook is, I find Chase at the stove, flipping a pancake.
“You know they aren’t allowed to stay the night,” I warn in a low voice.
“Oh c’mon, I couldn’t just kick her out after she passed out. She was trashed to all hell, and well, did you see that cute little ass?” He beams in the direction of the living room toward the exposed peach.
“Am I. . . well, can I at least be the one to get rid of her?” I bat my eyelashes a few times for good measure, before adding, “Please?”
He looks away trying to suppress a smile. “I suppose, but at least be a little nice. She has hot friends.” When his attention is returned to the stovetop, I stick my tongue out and make an ugly face. We may technically be adults now, but there’s not a lot of adulting that goes on in this tiny apartment.
When I reach the couch, I rip off the flowery sheet and toss it to the floor in disgust. Little-Miss-Pixie is wearing one of Chase’s shirts, so she’s not entirely naked on the defiled furniture.
Pixie blinks a few times and yawns as she moves to a sitting position, a smile blooming across her face. “Mmm, that smells so good, Chase.” She startles when she notices me sitting across from her. I let my eyes linger on her legs until she’s wiggling uncomfortably, trying to cover more of herself with the flimsy material. “Oh, h—hey,” she stammers.
“Good morning, Pixie. Did you sleep well?”
Confusion clouds her expression. “Um yeah, thanks. Ch—Chase?” Straining her neck to look around me for him, she flicks me a nervous smile.
“I’ve decided I like you, Pixie.” Sliding the knife out of my boot, I flip it between my fingers.
“I like you too. It’s um, Shannon, actually.” She widens her smile, but her eyes never leave the twirling knife.
“Everyone else keeps telling me you’re just a nasty slut riddled with herpes, but I said ‘No, can’t be true. Not my sweet Pixie.’”
Her eyes widen as her jaw drops open. “What? Who the hell said that about me? And where is Chase?” Her voice has a nervous edge to it.
“They say the most terrible things about you, and well, I’m very protective of Chase. You can understand that.” I click open my knife and clean out imaginary dirt from my nails.
“Who is saying that?” Her eyes light up with anger and a touch of embarrassment.
“My special friends, quite chatty they are.” I stop to tap the blade at my temple a few times to make a point.
“Chaaase?” Her eyes are locked on mine even as she yells for him.
“Play nice ladies, breakfast is almost ready,” he shouts back from the kitchen.
Her tone changes when she realizes she’s not getting any backup. “Okay bitch, what’s your damage? You just want Chase all to yourself, right? Like some sort of psycho ex-girlfriend. It’s either that, or you’re bat shit crazy. Don’t think I haven’t heard the stories.” She huffs, crossing her arms in defiance and trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the fear out of her voice.
“What?” I ask softly. My lips purse together creating a thin line.
“I—I just think you should get your own man. Chase is mine.” Her eyes return to the blade I continue to twirl lazily.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you just call me crazy?” I gasp as though I can’t believe my ears.
“N—No. This isn’t funny. I’m just gonna go get Chase.” She jumps to her feet, but I slam her back to the couch.
“My friends said I’m. Not. FUCKING. CRAZY.” I stress each word and force my body to tremble with fake fury.
“Okay, okay, okay—you’re not crazy. I’m sorry.” She raises her hands motioning for me to calm down as she simultaneously reaches for her purse.
Raising my knife a few inches from her face, I fling it across the room, putting all my strength behind it. With a yelp, she clutches her purse to her body and flees. When she reaches the front door, her eyes slide to the knife that’s still wobbling and stuck half way into the wood. Making a strangled sound in her throat, she throws open the door and runs out.
Humming, I retrieve my knife, snapping it closed before I slide it back into its proper place. Turning around, I see Chase peeking out from around the corner with a disapproving look.
My smile slips a fraction as I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Whaaat?”
“You really are crazy, you know that, right?” He shakes his head. After disappearing into the kitchen for a moment, he returns with two plates of pancakes and sets them on our small dining room table. While he pours us each a glass of orange juice, I grab the syrup and the steaming plate of bacon from the kitchen. Sitting down for breakfast, I shoot him a mischievous grin as I use a fork to pile bacon onto my plate.
“Just a little crazy,” I correct.
He grunts his response as he takes a bite of food. “None of her hot friends will sleep with me now,” he says with a mouthful of chocolate chip pancake.
“You meet new girls at work every damn night, don’t be so dramatic.”
“True. Speaking of, Jason has been asking about you.” He avoids eye contact, pretending to be more interested in examining the voluptuous, Aunt Jemima syrup bottle.
“So, did we tell Jason to kindly fuck off and stay out of my business?” I ask suspiciously.
“C’mon, Tess, he seems nice. Give the poor guy a chance.”
“No.”
“You could use a little fun, doesn’t have to be anything serious,” he encourages.
“I have fun with you.” I shrug nonchalantly, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“You work long hours then drink till you pass out,” he states.
“Which is fun,” I insist.
“Just thi—”
“No. End of fucking story.” I slam down my fork and give him a withering look that stops him short. I’m getting sick of him trying to play matchmaker. I don’t want friends or party invites. I don’t want to go on a fucking date, and I certainly don’t need to get laid.
Whenever I get lonely, I dig around in my underwear drawer and bring out Littlefinger for playtime. Ironically, the battery-operated dildo is anything but little. However, I was binge watching Game of Thrones at the time. . . I couldn’t not give him that name.
After breakfast, Chase goes for his usual morning run and workout, and I’m more than appreciative for the silence. Occasionally, I join him, but I hate running with a fiery passion. Plus, he’s been pushing my buttons lately. If he tries to set up one more “playdate” for me, I’m going to scream bloody murder.
Today, like most days, I’ll throw myself into one of my favorite distractions; read, write, work, or drink. After doing the dishes, I trudge to my room, grab the book I’m reading from my nightstand, and curl up in my favorite plush chair by the window. If my liver could talk, he would be thanking me for my choice.
I stare out the window for a moment. My chest constricts when I see a man bustling along the sidewalk. Blond hair peeks out from beneath a black beanie—I automatically think of him. Only when the stranger disappears behind a building, does my frantic heartbeat begin to slow.
Redirecting my gaze back to the open book in my hands, I lose myself in a story of magic and wizards. I push away thoughts of who I’ve left behind and do my best to ignore the aching space in my chest that holds the crumbling remnants of a heart.