Page 84 of Endless Anger
My heart beats so loud that it drowns out the low patter of rain against the window. Biting down on my tongue, I swallow and let my arm drop, then reach for a T-shirt.
“Stay,” I tell her as I tug the fabric on, then shrug into a black corduroy jacket.
Her hand finds the doorknob. “Stop telling me what to do.”
She sounds so fuckingdefeated, but more than that, there’s a stiffness to her that I recognize. She can’t focus on any one thing, her eyes darting around aimlessly, and her hand grips the doorknob so tight, her knuckles bleach.
This has all been too much. Her mind is revolting—shutting down.
“I’ll go.”
Lucy freezes. Looks over her shoulder at me. Narrows her eyes into little slits. “Don’t be stupid, pretty boy. This is your room.”
“And you slept where last night?” She doesn’t answer, and I nod in affirmation. “That’s what I thought. So stay here and do whatever you need to. I know you don’t have another class until later this afternoon.”
“You’re so fucking creepy.”
“Hear, hear.” Foxe gets up, stretching and cracking his neck. He slings one arm over my shoulder, leaning against me. His breath smells like alcohol, but I don’t say so. “Want some company, Lulu?”
“That depends,” she says, releasing the knob. “Do you want to be murdered today?”
He touches a hand to his bare chest. “You’re somean, Lulu. What happened to you?”
Shoving him off me, I move toward the door, pulling it open and tossing a hoodie in his direction. “Get dressed and let’s go.”
“Where to?”
I glare at him silently, and he snorts, putting on the jacket. Lucy stares at her feet, unmoving when the door bumps into her.
Even when Foxe strides out and Keats slinks over, rubbing his slightly overweight self against her legs, she doesn’t move.
Maybe I should be more concerned about how traumatized she seems and how locked within her body all her emotions are when she used to wear them on her sleeve.
But right now, all I care about is that she’s here, in my room,staying.
26
LUCY
Getting overstimulated is embarrassing.Even when it happens in front of someone who’s seen it a million times and never made you feel weird about it.
The sensation comes on suddenly—one second, you’re existing normally, coasting along in a secluded comfortability. The next, your sweater is a little too long or too tight, or the tag is brushing against your neck because you forgot to rip it out. It’s too hot and too loud—justtoo much.
There’s no other way to describe it except as an onslaught ofeverything. You absorb the minutiae, and it never gets expelled. It builds and builds and builds until you explode.
And the explosion is always accompanied by fiery shame, the flames of which only seem to fan the blaze. Which is why I’m glad Asher doesn’t bother trying to stick around and keep talking to me or trying to reason.
Especially now with that half confession tossed between us.
He didn’t even apologize, though I’m not sure why I was expecting him to.
Asher Anderson’s never been sorry in his life.
Definitely not for hurting me.
Still, he used to be the angry one.Didn’t he?
Or was I just not paying enough attention?
