Page 72 of Addicted
I get bored right around the second season of Vampire Diaries, a girl can only take the poor decisions of Elena for so long. Like, why the fuck choose one brother when she definitely could have had both?! It’s all about the brother sandwich, as I know now all too well.
Huffing, I decide to go exploring. The guys shouldn’t have left me alone if they didn’t want me to poke through their stuff. Swiping a bottle of what I always see Aeron drinking—a whiskey that I know is fucking extortionate—I pull the lid off and take a swig.
The burn hits my solar plexus like a punch, and I cough a little. It’s been a while since I drank anything near this strong, mostly I used to steal the Soldiers’ moonshine which tasted like shit but did the job of allowing me to escape my fucked up life for a little while.
Shaking those morbid thoughts away, I head up the stairs to the bedrooms. I’ve not been in Tarl’s yet and color me curious. Pushing open the door, I’m instantly hit with the scent of him;all exotic spices and it makes me think of nights spent in carnal pleasure in forbidden lands with the heat of the breeze caressing your skin.
Taking a deep inhale, I draw the smell inside me as I step over the threshold and just stare around. It’s beautiful and matches his fragrance perfectly. The walls are a deep gold color and the huge carved, four-poster bed is draped in sumptuous jewel tones, scatter cushions, and sheets that are all silk, if the sheen is any indication. The floor is covered in beautifully woven rugs piled atop each other so no glimpse of the original carpet can be seen. Lamps made from colorful glass are fitted around the room and cast patterned shadows on the walls as the light shines through them.
One corner catches my eye, and I walk towards it to inspect the array of interesting-looking instruments arranged carefully in the space. There are drums, of all shapes and sizes, as well as beautiful, wooden stringed instruments, a little like lutes, but with only two or four strings. I also catch a glimpse of what looks like wooden recorders, light-colored with intricate designs running all over them.
I remember Tarl telling me about where he came from, about his family before they all were killed. Iran used to be Persia, I think, and those rugs definitely look like what you’d call Persian carpets. The entire room has that wholeArabian Nightsfeel, with the silks and soft lighting. Tarl is still a bit of a mystery to me, as is Knox and where his family is. I shouldn’t want to know more about them, but I want to know everything about them all, my heart at war with my head.
I spend some more time poking around his room, finding old, leather-bound books that are written in what looks like a Sanskrit of some kind. Seems Tarl is a bit of a history buff as well as a musician.
Deciding that I want to bring his scent with me, I head over to a beautifully carved, wooden chest of drawers, setting the bottle of whiskey on the top and rummaging around until I find a deep red T-shirt of his. Pulling it out, a bundle of battered envelopes comes with it, and I frown when I see all of the foreign postage marks on them. Biting my lower lip, I turn the package over in my hands. It’s unusual to see letters in this day and age, and these don’t look that old.
Being the nosy bitch I am, I open one to find a single sheet of paper, and what looks like a letter written in that same flowing language, Persian maybe? Placing the paper back in the envelope, I take another from the bundle to find the same thing; a single sheet of paper with the same cursive script on it. Curious, I open all the others to discover that they are all like that, nothing letting me know what the contents are.
Shrugging—for all I fucking know they’re from some other family back in Iran that he’s never mentioned—I put them all back in the drawer, in their bundle because only a fucking idiot doesn’t cover their tracks. Then I take another sip of the alcohol before placing the bottle back down and stripping out of my long-sleeved top, bralette, and black jeans. Lifting the red stupidly soft T-shirt off the top of the drawers, I slip it over my head, Tarl’s cardamom scent washing over me and making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. All the guys are bigger than I am, so it falls to my mid-thighs and covers my lace underwear.
Grabbing my clothes and the bottle, I head out of his room, dropping the garments in the laundry basket in Jude’s bathroom, before taking out some pink, fluffy socks that he bought me because I was always moaning about my cold feet. Now that it’s getting colder, I must see about some other woolens, this bitch has poor circulation and I’m not about to turn into the only Smurfette once winter hits.
Putting the socks on, and heading back downstairs, I huff another sigh, looking around to see what I can interfere with. My eyes alight on another door off the living space that I’ve never ventured through, and an evil chuckle falls from my lips as I make my way over to it and turn the door handle.
“Fucking bastards,” I grumble when it doesn’t open, clearly having been locked. I pause, wondering if there is anything around here I can use to pick the lock. Unfortunately for me, my lock-picking kit is back at home.
Deciding that I’m a strong, independent woman who can be resourceful and won’t be kept out of locked rooms, I walk over to the kitchen and start rifling through the drawers to see if there’s anything I can use to break into that door.
“Motherfucking yes!” I grab the two paper clips out of the stuff drawer—every kitchen has one right?—and do a shimmy dance over to the locked door. “You’re mine, bitch.”
I mold them to my liking, bending them into the right shapes so that I can insert them into the lock and start jimmying. It takes a little while, but I squeal and do another dance when the click of the lock sounds and I can turn the handle.
The door swings smoothly open, and from the desk and bookcases, it looks to be an office. I go to bring the whiskey bottle back up to my lips, frowning when I realize I’m no longer holding it. Searching the space, I see it sitting on the kitchen island and grumble as I walk slightly unsteadily over to it.
“Come to mama, big boy,” I croon as I grab it, stalking back to the now open door and taking another drink. There’s hardly any burn at all now, just that warm, fuzzy glow that comes from really good alcohol. Like a hug, a whiskey hug. I giggle at the thought of being cuddled by a giant bottle of alcohol, leisurely strolling around the office space once I’ve flipped the lights on.
There’s a huge TV mounted on one wall, the wall itself painted a dark, forest green.
“Fucking always with the green in study spaces, eh?” I mumble to myself, running my fingers along the bookshelves. “Huh, boys know how to clean too do they?” They must do, I’ve never seen a cleaner around here, and this space is spotless. Unless someone has come when we’ve been out or I’ve been asleep.
Or when you’ve been held in a coffin, dumbass.
Yeah, well, whatever. The classics are all here, as well as some modern novels includingFifty Shadesand theTwilight Saga. Fucking lols, I must ask what their opinion is of them. I’ve never read the books, the films were enough for me and I don’t care how much of a heathen that makes me.
Leaving the books, making a mental note to come and grab a few later, I saunter over to the sleek, wooden desk and plop down heavily in the huge leather chair behind it. There’s a silver iMac sitting on the surface, and I tut.
“Out of seven colors to choose from, you get the boring silver one. Typical.”
Of course, it’s password protected and I grunt in annoyance. The drawers are locked, and I can’t seem to locate my handy dandy paper clips to open them.
“Motherfucking, cuntish fucktards,” I murmur, getting up from the chair. The room sways, and I plant my hands on the table, waiting for it to right itself before grabbing the now, much emptier bottle and stalking from the room.
Frustrated and bored, I bring up the bottle to my lips as I stomp over to the TV.
“Alexa! Bitch, I know you can hear me!” I shout, her robotic voice pissing me off. “Play ‘growing up can go to hell’ by Marisa Maino.” I command her to turn the volume up until the song fills my eardrums, and leaping onto the couch, I use the bottle as my microphone as I belt out a performance worthy of the Super Bowl.
I’m just finishing the second chorus when the front door flies open, crashing against the wall, and I spin around and there stands an amused-looking Tailor boy.
