Page 36 of Broken Chords

Chapter Fourteen

Tritone:an interval consisting of three whole steps, can also be called a diminished fifth or augmented fourth, the most dissonant interval in Western music, nicknames include the devil’s interval, chord of evil, and the devil in music.

Charlie

I startle awake, blinking at the gloomy light managing to filter around the edges of the thick curtains. An arm is draped across my torso, warm and heavy, and warm puffs of breath fan over the skin of my neck.

Damian.

I’m in Damian’s room.

His erection nudges against my low back, and I nestle back against him, reliving the memories of last night. Mmm. I’d be happy to have a repeat of that as often as he likes.

Beyond the physical pleasure, the emotional connection we forged and solidified last night is something I’ve never experienced before.

The sound of my phone buzzing on vibrate somewhere makes me realize what must’ve woken me. Carefully, I slip out from under Damian’s arm. When I sit up, he adjusts, rolling almost onto his stomach, curling the arm that was around me under the pillow.

I reach for my purse first, digging my phone out. Clothes can wait till I see why someone is calling me over and over. The buzzing stops before I dig it out and starts again as my hand closes around the boring plastic cover. I used to have hot pink with rhinestones, but in my image overhaul as part of coming to Marycliff, I traded it for a slim black case. It’s boring and blends right in with everyone else. But I think it might be too boring. I miss color and sparkle. Maybe I don’t need pink and glittery, but red or purple or something would be nice.

My mom’s name shows on the screen when I finally extract my phone, and I sit and stare at it for a second before sending the call to voicemail.

After yesterday’s high, seeing her name on my phone is a painful return to reality. I don’t want to deal with her right now. But with five missed calls and three voicemails, all before seven in the morning, I don’t think I have a choice.

Glancing at Damian’s sleeping face, his hair mussed, his glasses carefully folded and sitting next to mine on the nightstand, I decide not to wake him. I’ll get dressed first, if he wakes up from me moving around, I’ll say goodbye before leaving to deal with my mother. If not, I’ll send him a text and apologize for bailing like this and promise to call later.

My phone pretty much never stops ringing while I find my clothes and pull them back on, running my hands through my hair to straighten it as best I can without a mirror. I need to pee, but I’ll wait till I get home. I don’t know the situation with Damian’s roommates. If they’re here. If they’re up. If one of them’s in the shower. Yeah, home is best.

Damn. My car’s at my house.

With another look at Damian, I decide to call an Uber and let him sleep. He doesn’t have eight o’clock classes. I do. Speaking of which, I won’t have much time for a shower or anything by the time I get home. I might just have to change clothes and brush my teeth, if I even have time for that after dealing with my mom.

Grabbing my purse and stepping into my shoes, I slip out the door. The living room is empty, but I hear the sound of a shower running. Which confirms my choice to wait, even if I have to cross my legs on the ride home. Good thing my house isn’t all that far away. I’d consider walking if I had more time. The exercise would be a good way to burn off the anger already simmering from the nonstop calls from my mom.

Once outside I shiver in the cool September air. I didn’t wear a jacket yesterday because it was warm by the time Damian and I went to his parents’ for dinner. But at seven o’clock in the morning, it’s chilly in late September.

Stuffing the fingers of one hand into my opposite armpit, I hunch my shoulders against the chill and walk slowly in the direction of my house. I don’t want to stand in front of Damian’s house like a weirdo waiting for my ride.

After thumbing in a quick text to Damian—interrupted by my mother calling again, which I send to voicemail, again—I decide to start with the voicemails. I want to know what I’m getting myself into before calling her back. Her incessant calls make it clear she won’t stop until I actually talk to her. But I want to have a battle plan before I make contact.

The first voicemail is calm and would sound sweet and normal to anyone else. Or from anyone else. “Hi, honey. It’s Mom. Call me back when you get this.” The time coincides with the first phone call, and gives me no indication about whatever bug’s gotten up her ass to make her call me nonstop all morning. Or maybe she’s just tired of me not returning her calls.

Because the next one is about five minutes later. “I know you have class at eight o’clock every morning. So you should be up by now. Call me. I only need five minutes.”

Ha. Right. Nothing with her ever only takes five minutes.

I move to the next voicemail, which is another five minutes after the second. Though there were at least two calls in between. “Charlotte Daphne Baxter.” Uh-oh, she’s pulled out the middle name. I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness. “You’re sending my calls to voicemail, which means you’re awake. You answer me this instant. I’m just going to keep calling until you answer. And if you decide to be a little snot and turn off your phone, I’ll fly out there tonight. You have until noon to either answer the phone or call me back.”

And then she just called over and over and over.

She can keep calling. I have class at eight. And I’m not talking to her in the middle of a neighborhood.

Checking the Uber app, I update my location and see that my ride will be here in a few minutes. I stop, a shiver running through me. This one only partly from the cold. Of course she doesn’t give me any idea what she’s calling about. That would be too easy.

My thoughts churn the whole way back to my house. My phone vibrating in my hand for what feels like the thousandth time as I walk through my front door decides me on whether or not to deal with this before class. I don’t have another break until ten. So unless I want to turn my phone off and talk to my mom on campus when she shows up, I need to take care of this now.

Having her show up here is out of the question.

I swipe my thumb across the screen to finally take her call, the action far too tame to express my pent up anxiety and anger. “What is wrong with you?”

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