Page 20 of No, You Hang Up

Too bad I didn’t get to enjoy it.

“No, bad Kai,” I admonish myself before I can continue with that thought. “That is not what we think of in this situation.” I should be glad I was asleep instead of conscious. I should be thrilled I didn’t feel him come inside me, or on me, or…anything.

I shouldn’t be disappointed that I passed out halfway through.

A terrible curiosity floods my brain as I turn the knob, the water pressure lessening before finally the stream stops altogether. Did he enjoy me being asleep? Was it better, or worse that way?

Did I do anything embarrassing?

Once again, I remind myself, that’s not the issue at hand. Nearly slipping on the bathroom floor, I make it back to my room unscathed, wrapped in a towel so I can dry off while looking for clothes. Not that I do much more than grab the first comfortable thing I find, and I end up in a pair of loose PJ pants and a t-shirt that’s faded to hell but I’m pretty sure is for a band I never even listened to.

Finally, I feel comfortable enough to glare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I swipe my hand over it to clear some of the fog from the shower steam, and when I look at myself, I just…sigh.

It’s just me.

Still just plain old Kai. I look the same, with dark circles under my eyes that might as well be tattooed there. My auburn hair is soaked and plastered to my head, making me look like some kind of half-drowned animal. The ache in my abdomen is still there, still prevalent, but I’m pretty sure Tylenol, a heating pad, and last night’s nachos will absolutely cure that.

If not, then three cans of Dr. Pepper will probably do the trick.

The doorbell ringing barely surprises me, and I roll my eyes up at the ceiling as if hoping for an act of God to strike Patrice dead. I’m surprised she waited longer than it took the sun to rise to be over here, so I grab my phone from the nightstand where it was oh-so-kindly put to charge and shove it in my pocket before walking down the hallway toward the living room.

Everything really looks exactly the same. Even with the chase, we hadn’t really made a mess, and the place isn’t trashed. Nothing is missing, and nothing seems to be broken. Maybe Huxley really is the world’s most considerate home-invader.

Or serial killer.

Another ring of my doorbell makes me wonder how hard it would be to short circuit the thing, and I groan before opening it with a sharp, inward motion. “Good morning, Patrice,” I greet with a sigh, folding my arms and leaning against my doorway. “How may I help you this fine morning?” God, I don’t want anything to do with her, and I’m so tempted to tell her to fuck off that it’s unreal.

But I’d rather order food than deal with some made up HOA fine, so I plaster a smile on my face that I’m sure looks just as fake as it feels. Especially judging by her unamused, pinched expression.

“We need to talk,” my least favorite person in the world now that my uncle’s dead informs me. She looks tired, like she hadn’t slept, and I wonder just how long she spent peering out her window, trying to catch me in the act of something fine-able.

“Do we?” I murmur, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Do wehave to?” But judging by the set of her lips and the glare in her eyes, the answer is yes.

Already I wish I was still in bed, still unconscious, and deaf to the Patrice-problems of the world.

ten

Before I call her, I have to remember that if I start out by being aggressive, Mads’ll get defensive quickly. I try to tell myself that it’s not her fault. It’s not her responsibility to screen her prank call numbers or make sure we’re actually calling with the app.

Especially when it’s my phone.

Andespeciallywhen it ends up being a serial killer on the other end of the line. I suck in a breath, then another, before hitting her name in my contact list and hitting it again so I’m calling her. “Be nice,” I whisper. “Beniceor she won’t speak to you for a month.”

I remind myself that’s not a good thing. That I’m not mad enough at her to really want this to stick.

Mads picks up on the third ring, and I can hear the clink of glasses that tells me she’s at her mom’s bar, probably setting up for her next shift.

“Hey Kai,”she greets, sounding worn out already. “Everything okay?”

I bite my lip so I don’t tell her that everything is barely okay. That I’m covered in bruises and woke up with a sticky note pressed to my nose.

Or that I’m a little bit terrified I’m going to see him again.

“Uh, yeah. Hey, don’t judge me for asking, but I’m going to, anyway.” I wait, phone in my hand and speaker on, trying to gauge her mood apart from tired. “That list you pulled up. The one from last night?” My words are slow and I fight to keep my question casual. “Don’t ask me why my brain cares, but I’m just curious. Where’d you get the phone numbers?”

“Hmm?” She’s distracted. I can tell from the noncommittal hum and the overly loud sound of glasses being shuffled and moved into place. Glass clinks in my ear, but I wait for her to digest the question. She does that sometimes with bigger questions, and when she’s really not paying attention.

She really does suck at multitasking.

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