Page 18 of Royal Havoc

I lean over the vanity, swiping away the steam coating the mirror. Smoke slithers over my reflection as I stand, observing the mess my life has become. Exhaling slowly, I release another cloud from my lungs, watching as my fingertips gently graze over my chest.

After tapping out the end of the joint, I locate the empty tampon, hiding the leftover. I mean, I don’t envision Mr. RespectMe to go rooting through my box of plugs, which makes it a stellar hiding place for my stash.

Facts: showers are supposed to be for relaxing. Not steamy confessionals spent admitting to yourself that youdidn’thate the jackass’s DNA on your skin. If I’m being honest, it was kind of hot. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely cringed once I calmed down and Zoey pointed out her stupid observation.

She called it a curse, but something deep down makes me think it was more of a claiming.

Do I want to be claimed?

I think the more appropriate question is…do I want to be claimed by him?

Let’s come back to that puzzle later. Instead, I’d like to circle back to the spitting. I’m not a prude. My cookie’s been licked and nibbled on a time or two. I know how to push my own button. I’ve just not found a stick that I’m ready to test drive. Playing with them is different from taking them on a joy ride because you have to worry about feelings and attachments. Which is shit Idon’twant. I can’t deal with a clinger.

Because Mom would have never allowed it.

On my way to grab a water to alleviate the cottonmouth in my near future. A knock at the door startles me, gaining what little bit of focus I have.

“Who are you?” I question the guy outside my door.

“I’m Scott with The Moving Company, I’ve got a delivery for Onyx,” he says, glancing down at his iPad.

“Right.” Stepping aside, letting him enter.

“It’s a small delivery – just some boxes,” he explains.

I remember Nolan mentioning movers while we were packing, which is why he made me label all the boxes. “Can you just put them in the correct rooms? They should all be labeled,” I explain.

“Of course, I just need a signature, and we’ll get out of your way.”

Quickly, I scribble my name on the screen before hiding out in the kitchen until they’re done. Which barely takes them thirty minutes.

I lock up after they leave on my way to start putting things away. I can’t be crawling over boxes. My anxiety will freak out from the clutter.

By mid-afternoon, I’m a bitch on a mission. If I don’t get some coffee in me soon, I can’t be held responsible for the things I may do to people.

The cottage turned into a cage, taming the feral lioness I’d become as the day wore on.

The GPS calls out the directions because why would the backward town have a coffee shop? That would be too convenient. Instead, I’m forced to drive across the bridge into West Virginia —where the town appears to be smaller than River’s Edge.

The drive hardly takes fifteen minutes before I pull into a small gravel lot, smiling at the sign on the building across the street. Nix that, I’d say it more resembles a two-story white house.

The Purple Cup is a clever play on words, drawing you in to find theperfectcup of whatever you’re craving.

A cluster of tiny bells hangs from the top of the door, tinkling when I enter. Before I’ve even taken a step, I’m surprised to find the plain exterior is a poor representation of the eclectic inside.

The place reminds me of Mad Hatter's den, with its mismatched, colorfully painted wooden chairs and tables littering the small space. In the center rests a glossy purple counter with a glistening display case of goodies underneath.

Waiting for the blonde behind the counter to notice me, I read over the glowing chalkboard menu hung high on the wall above her.

“Just give a shout when you’re ready,” she tells me over her shoulder while she continues to transfer cookies onto a display tray.

“Whenever you’re finished,” I answer, leaning over to get a better look at the yummy treats.

“What’s your poison?” she asks cheerfully after slipping the tray into the case.

“I’ll have a large black river, two pumps of butterscotch, milk, and two shots of espresso,” I tell her, noticing she pauses as she starts to turn pale.

“That’s —” she stops suddenly, confusion filling her blue eyes as she stands in front of me like a statue.

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