Very Wicked Beginnings

Yeah.

And the only thing I could think in my head was that she was back, she was back, she was back.

But she wasn’t.

“Money hides a world of pain.”

–Cuba

JANUARY MEANT A new semester at BA. It also meant a change in classes since we were on the block schedule.

So after the holiday break, I walked into my new World History class, checking out the other students, wondering who I would be getting to know for the next few months.

I came to an abrupt halt when I saw Dovey in the front row.

Sure, I’d seen her around the school some. I’d catch glimpses of her in the cafeteria or the library, but I never allowed myself to look too long or linger over her attributes.

I don’t even know how to explain my natural avoidance of her except to say that I sensed she was different. From the way she’d danced, I’d gotten the vibe of someone driven and strong and perhaps pure. Crazy to get all that from watching her, but the emotion in her had been beautiful.

Hell, I’d taken a hit because of it.

I didn’t want to mess with that quality about her. Because I would screw her up like I do everything else. The bottom line was she wasn’t like any of the girls here, and my heart told me to stay away. I only wanted to fuck, not get close to someone. And never in a million years did I want to fall in love with anyone, and I sensed—based on my ridiculous dreams—she might make me fall.

So yeah, I told myself to keep walking by her desk. And with Herculean effort, I did. I went and sat next to Zero, who also had his eyes on Dovey.

“Who is that?” he asked me, leaning over and whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

“No one,” I said. “Some chick from the projects. I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you.”

He scoffed, pushing auburn hair off his face. “Fucking body to die for. And did you see her ass in those yoga pants? It might be worth it to slum with her.”

I glared at him, my heart pounding loud and for no apparent reason. I sucked in a sharp breath, trying to get it under control.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Why did the thought of Zero with Dovey make me want to punch his lights out?

I pointed over at Emma Easton. “Now that’s the girl you need. And she just broke up with Matt.”

He rolled his eyes at me. Ha. We both knew they’d be back together by the end of the week.

And then class started.

I opened my book as the teacher started in with a lecture on the Roman Empire, but my eyes took in Dovey, assessing what it was about her that got to me. Finally after a few minutes, I decided she was plain and not my type at all.

Then it happened.

She turned around to pick up a piece of paper the teacher was sending around for us to sign. My world … my fucking life … altered when her eyes connected with mine for what seemed like a long time, but it only had to be a few seconds. They were blue. A peacock blue with hints of green.

She would never be plain.

She smiled, just a tiny one, kinda like the smile you’d give to any human who you happened to make eye contact with by accident.

I blushed. I have no idea why. Maybe because I’d imagined fucking her in every position that was anatomically feasible.

Flustered, I looked down at my desk, fiddling with my notebook, feeling confused and self-conscious. Me. The guy who could have any girl he wanted was freaking out over some girl who didn’t even register on the who’s who of BA.

When I glanced back up, she’d already turned back around.

I didn’t hear a thing the professor said that day, my eyes on Dovey, picturing me and her together. Falling in love.

So stupid.

Because falling for a girl like her was a terrible idea.

As soon as the bell rang, I bolted from my seat for my next class.

When the following day rolled around, I took a seat far, far away from her. No reason. Just thought maybe I needed a change of scenery is all.

LATER THAT WEEK, I walked in our house after a post-season workout at the gym. Mom had texted earlier, checking to make sure I was on schedule to arrive on time. She’d specifically asked if I’d be home by four o’clock, and her reaching out sent alarm bells off in my head. It was odd. Why did she care what time I came home? Unless …

She was fine, I kept telling myself.

Yet, I’d made sure to be home.

I didn’t see her in the den or the kitchen or outside by the pool, where she liked to hang out sometimes and read. With queasy flutters in my stomach, I made my way upstairs. I knocked on her locked door, but got nothing. I pulled my phone out and called her. Sure enough I could hear it ringing in the background inside her bedroom.

“Mother, are you in there?” I yelled into the wood.

Nothing but silence.

“Open the door, please,” I begged her, my ear pressed tight against the door, aching to hear at least a sniffle or something from her. Nada.

My stress level skyrocketed. She always answered me when I knocked.

I banged again and got nothing but an empty silence.

“Dammit, I’m coming in there,” I called out, ramming my shoulder into the door. It thudded, loosening a little but not opening. I grabbed a credit card from my wallet, my gut screaming at me to get to her, get to her, get to her.

Finally, after some jiggling, the credit card popped the lock, and I rushed in.

She wasn’t in bed, so I ran to the bathroom, coming to an abrupt halt, a dawning sense of horror growing in me at what I saw.

My mother, her honey-colored skin pale, lay nude in a bathtub full of water, blood oozing from her slit wrists.