The Coincidence 05 The Certainty of Violet & Luke (3 page)

‘You tell me,’ I say, irritated, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I glance around, looking for something out of the ordinary. ‘You’re the ones who are supposed to be watching the place.’

He gives me a stern look as he reaches for his coffee in the console. ‘Don’t give me crap about how to do my job kid.’

‘I wouldn’t have to if you were doing your job.’ My gaze travels over to the house on the other side of the car. ‘It looks like it could have been taken from there.’ I point down at the sleepy looking restaurant. ‘Or there, which means it was close.’ I pause, my eyes narrowing at the policeman. ‘Which means
he
was close.’

The cop gives me a dirty look. ‘There’s no proof who left it yet.’

‘It’s kind of a given,’ I say. ‘Considering she has only one stalker.’

He tosses the box and photo to his partner. ‘Thanks for the input,’ he says. ‘But leave the police work to the professionals.’

He starts to roll up his window as I mutter, ‘Fucking douche’, before walking away. I should have just waited until morning and taken it to Detective Stephner. He’s more a professional and he cares more about solving this case’ cares more about Violet’s wellbeing.

I go back to the apartment and lock the door behind me. Violet is still sleeping on the sofa, sprawled out on her back, her arm draped over her head, her breathing soft. It’s the most peaceful I’ve seen her look in a long time, which is sad since she’s passed out drunk.

Deciding that it’s best to take her back to our room instead of trying to squish on the sofa beside her, I pick her up and carry her to the bed. I lay her down, slip off her shoes, then shuck out of my shirt and jeans and climb into bed with her, pulling the blanket over us. She instantly slides closer to me until her face is nuzzled against my chest. I slip an arm around her and kiss her forehead, pretending that everything’s okay. That in the morning we’ll wake up like a normal couple, with the sunlight peeking through the window in the silence of our home. But deep down I know that I’ll wake up probably before the sun even makes it in. And the house will be anything but silent. It’ll be filled with Violet’s screams.

I feel so small, hiding in the dark in the basement, listening to the sounds of voices that I’m sure belong to monsters. I know if I dare look, I won’t see faces and bodies but strange shapes covered in thorns or needles or something else sharp, the kind of skin monsters are supposed to have. I’ll see pointy fangs instead of teeth, claws instead of fingers, soulless eyes that will reflect my horror back to me.

So I try to stay concealed in my hiding spot behind boxes and toys. I try to remain as still as possible, holding my breath. I tell myself that eventually they’ll leave and when it’s all over I’ll go upstairs and climb into bed with my mom and dad who will tell me it was just a nightmare. Because that’s what they do. They’re good parents who know how to comfort me when the world is grey, covered in shadows, when sunlight doesn’t seem like it exists anymore and every bad thing in the world has come out.

I try to tell myself that the monsters didn’t hurt them.

There’s a lady singing like crazy. I think she actually might be crazy. And the man, his voice is so low, so calm, so very un-monster like. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t a monster. Maybe I’m just making things up.

Then the lady stops singing and I tell myself that it’s okay to look, just a peek. Turning around, I peer around the boxes. Light flows in from the windows and makes me able to see just a bit. At first the room looks empty, but then my eyes adjust and I see them. Two figures, perfectly still. In fact, the world seems still at that moment.

But then just as still as everything was, it starts moving again, faster, faster, faster, as the man steps from the shadows and shows himself to me. Tall, with brown hair, familiar facial features, wearing a plaid coat and holey jeans.

‘I-I know you,’ I stammer as I rise from out of my hiding spot, my bare feet shuffling across the floor.

He takes a step toward me and I freeze in my tracks as the figure in front of me shifts into a monster like I originally thought.

‘Preston,’ I breathe.

His lips curve into a pleased smile and I open my mouth and scream.

I wake up gasping for air and scream into the nearest thing I can get a hold of. When I was younger, I use to grab a pillow or turn into the mattress to muffle my cries, but nowadays it’s usually Luke’s chest, so I end up burying my face against his warm skin. I wish I could get the nightmares to stop, wish I could get rid of this helpless feeling. It’s not always the same nightmare that does this to me. Sometimes it’s of Preston, appearing that night in the basement, my worried brain placing him there that night even though I never actually saw him. Sometimes it’s painful memories of my parents that I’d thought were long-forgotten. Sometimes it’s of Luke leaving me. I’ve never been one to worry about people leaving me – they always have. And because of that, I’d made myself remain detached enough so as not to emotionally connect with anyone I’d worry about losing. But I messed up with Luke, got attached – way, way too attached – and now I fear both him letting go and me never being able to let go.

Every night after I wake up panicking and hyperventilating, Luke lies still, rubbing my back and whispering that it’s going to be okay in my ear. After I settle down I scoot away from him, wipe the sweat from my forehead and roll onto my back. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to forget the nightmare and attempting to remember what the fuck happened last night at the party. It’s still late outside, the sun not yet up. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. 5:12 in the morning. Shit. It’s too early to be awake.

After a minute or two, Luke asks tentatively, ‘What was it about this time?’

‘Falling off a cliff,’ I lie, hating that I am, but unable to tell him the truth. But it’s like I’m five years old again and too afraid to speak the truth because then I’ll have to accept it. Like when my parents died. It took me forever to say it aloud, which made it unbearably real.

‘You seem to have that dream a lot.’ There’s speculation in his voice. He doesn’t believe that my dream was about that, knows that I’m lying, but doesn’t call me out on it.

‘Guess my mind is super good at repetition.’ My eyes are fixed on the ceiling, even though I can feel him watching me, trying to figure out what’s going on in my head for real. If he really knew, he’d probably run though, like I wish I could.

‘You know I’m here.’ He rotates on his side and props up on his arm. ‘If you need to talk.’

Luke’s turned into such a great guy. I don’t even know how the hell that happened, with him being with me so much, a festering toxin, polluting his life. And he wants to help me. I really wish he could, wish there was this button inside that he could find that would shut off my insane messed-up-ness that lives inside me. But if there is, neither he nor I have found it yet.

‘You should try to get some sleep,’ he whispers. His firm arm slides across my stomach, fingers finding my side, then he urges me closer to him. ‘It’s still really early.’

‘It’s hard to fall asleep after a nightmare,’ I admit in the darkness of our room. ‘It makes me …’ I bite down on my lip, not ready to talk about my feelings either.

‘I’ll stay up until you fall asleep. Nothing will happen to you. I promise.’ His face inches closer to my cheek and he brushes his soft lips against my skin. ‘I’m always here for you.’

‘Always is a strong word,’ I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut, fighting the urge to surrender into him. ‘Things might change, you know. One day … you might not want the responsibility of taking care of me … or stuff might happen that’ll make you want to stay away from me.’

‘That’ll never happen,’ he promises. ‘There’s nothing that’d ever make me want to stay away from you.’

It feels like I should say something back to his powerful words, but I can’t find them in the darkness of my head. I open my eyes and am greeted by his intense gaze, ‘What about your mom?’ I ask.

His entire body tenses as a ripple of panic waves through him. ‘What about her?’

I want to shut my eyes but force myself to keep them open. ‘What happens when … if she gets arrested? I mean, that’s a lot to take in and it’d be my fault she’s there.’

‘She fucking put herself there.’ His tone is hash, angry, eyes burning with rage.

‘I might have to testify against her,’ I point out, something the Detective and I have talked about if they ever find her. How I have to try and remember what she looks like, to identify her from that night, which would play a part in getting her sentenced.

Luke huffs out several breaths, his face anxiety stricken. ‘Can we just stop talking about this please? You and I, we’ll be together as long as you want us to … Forever, if …’ He trails off at the end, either wanting to retract his words or fearing them and I feel my own heart slam against my chest. They’re packed with a lot of emotion, a lot of meaning, a lot of relationship stuff we haven’t talked about. Luke and I have so many challenges ahead of us that we haven’t discussed yet. Like what happens when the police finally catch his mother? What if I have to testify against her? What if they discover she was the one that actually killed my parents? Will it affect how I feel? How he feels? Will it ruin us?

So many questions, ones that I should say aloud so we can finally talk about them. But I’m not ready to let go of Luke, my security blanket, my …

There are so many words that flow through my head which I can barely process, so instead I seek a distraction. My favorite distraction.

‘Kiss me please.’ I practically sound like I’m begging, but I can’t take it back so I just roll with it.

He can see it in my eyes too, the avoidance, my attempt to get around talking about the emotional baggage I keep locked inside me. He starts to open his mouth to say who knows what, probably something that will make me feel more and cause me to panic even more, I’m guessing. But I silence him as I lean up and press my lips to his, so aggressively we knock teeth. It’s anything but sexy and hot, however I’ve never really given a shit about that stuff and there’d be no point in starting now.

Kissing him almost desperately and pulling at his hair, I lift my head up and swing my leg over his side, forcing him to lie flat on his back so I can straddle him. I keep our lips sealed as I run my fingers up and down his tattooed chest, continuing my exploration of his lean muscles until I reach the top of his boxers.

‘Violet,’ he says through groans as I slip my hand beneath his waistband. ‘Maybe we … we shouldn’t …’ His head tips back and I put a sliver of space between our lips, watching him starting to lose control.

‘You know, I’d be hurt by your protests, but,’ I slip my hand further into his boxers and rub his hard on, ‘It’s pretty clear your words don’t match what you really want.’

He grips my waist, as if securing me in place, either keeping me near, or allowing himself to have control enough over the situation that he can bail out whenever he wants. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to … I just … don’t think we should …’ He searches my eyes for something and I’m guessing doesn’t see it because in the end he seems disappointed. ‘Not when you’re upset.’

‘I’m not upset.’ I scowl at him. ‘Why do you always think that whenever I want to have sex?’

He presses his lips together to restrain whatever’s on his mind. I seize the opportunity to slant back, tug my dress off, and toss it aside so I’m only in my bra and panties.

‘I promise this has nothing to do with anything else than me wanting to get laid.’ Liar. Liar. Liar. And a bad one at that. I know it – he knows it. But he’ll give in – he always does. And part of me might love him for it and part of me hates myself for doing it to him, using sex as a temporary replacement for my adrenaline addiction.

An exhale later, he’s pulling me to him and as our lips reconnect with a blazing spark of heat, I feel a split second of inner peace, like maybe this is really what I want, that I’m not just trying to bury my feelings by having sweaty sex. The feeling dissipates however, the moment I come to the conclusion that maybe it’s more than just sex. Denial. I’m living – dying in it. But I fear the truth won’t set me free – it’ll kill me. So instead I focus on kissing Luke, basking in the sensation of his hands wandering all over every inch of my body, leaving hot trails of heat across my skin. The way he keeps moaning my name every time I touch his skin and bite his flesh drives my mind into a state of euphoria. We don’t hurry, taking our time, but eventually it feels as though I’m going to combust with need and I end up peeling the rest of my clothes off. Luke follows my lead, taking his boxers off.

Suddenly, he pauses. ‘Wait … do we need—’

I cut him off by covering his mouth with my hand. ‘I’ve been on the pill for a few weeks now, so we’re good.’

He sucks in a breath, then seconds later he’s flipping me on my back and slipping deep inside me. He takes my leg and hitches it over his hip as he thrusts in and out of me. Over and over again until I let out a soft cry, my nails digging into his shoulder blades. For a moment I’m gone. For a moment, I feel like everything is going to be okay. For a moment, I’m dropped into a blissful illusion where I’m free from everything and Luke is right there with me. But almost as quickly as the relief came, I crash back to reality. Luke has stilled inside me, his face buried in my neck, his sweaty chest pressed against mine. I can feel every heartbeat, every breath he takes. I count each one, try to match my own breathing to his. Content. I feel content and I want to ask him to never move.

Just stay still. Forever. Please.

Yet if I did dare utter those irreversible words, that’d just be me trying to live in a fairytale and I’ve lived too much to believe in such things. So I keep silent and eventually Luke pulls out of me, giving me one last deep kiss before he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling with his arm draped over his head. He doesn’t say anything, lost in his thoughts, drowning in some sort of internal agony that makes me feel guilty since I probably put it there. I want to say something to him, to take that worried expression off his face, to tell him I’m sorry I’m so broken and that I’ll try to fix myself. But I can’t find the words, not knowing where they exist, so instead I take the coward’s way out and utter, ‘Goodnight’. Then I shut my eyes and let my nightmares slowly drown me.