Page 28 of Deafened By Silence
“I’m telling you this because there is no quick fix,” Huxley continues. “Only small steps that start to nudge us in the right direction.” Reaching into his other pocket, he pulls a few hundred-dollar bills and pushes them towards me. I rear back, lurching away as if his offer is an insult that has physically burned me. Heat pulses through my cheeks, pride setting my jaw on edge.
“I don’t accept charity,” I growl harshly. Huxley is unaffected, most likely expecting my reaction.
“And I don’t accept someone punishing themselves to the point of starvation for the past. I don’t need to know your story. Everyone makes mistakes. I can tell you’ve paid for yours, it’s time to start forgiving yourself.” He pushes the money my way again and I cross my arms like a child.
“I’ve not nearly suffered enough,” I grumble, pity lacing my tone. Shrugging, Huxley places the bills under a rock between us and returns to stare at the horizon.
“Suit yourself.”
In the next second, Huxley’s hands are on me, shoving me off the ledge by my hoodie. I gasp, twisting in shock as my body slips off the ledge. My hands catch the wall just in time, the brick cutting into my palms and panic floods my vision. The handfuls of cotton Huxley still has in his grip strain as he yanks me back up. As soon as my forearms brace the ledge, I scramble onto the rooftop, rolling in the pigeon shit with my chest heaving and eyes wide.
“What the fuck is your problem?!” I yell, disturbing a nearby nest. I kick away from the ledge, putting a distance between myself and the psychopath who coolly turns to face me. Huxley lifts the rock, adds a folded piece of paper to the pile of cash and slides it towards me once more.
“This isn’t charity, it’s a loan, and it comes with a condition. You have to take part in the life coaching sessions from my friend, he needs them for his coursework.” When I don’t immediately move, Huxley reaches over and tucks the money into my hoodie pocket. “Top up your restaurant card, replace those god-awful sneakers. My number is there, message me when you’re ready to pay me back.”
Rising, Huxley walks to the rusty fire escape. I lie still, trying to still the pounding beat of my heart, watching him descend. Just before he disappears from view, Huxley stops and lifts a brow,
“Oh, and Clayton? Hold onto whatever reason that just made you cling onto that ledge.” He disappears then and my hand sinks into my pocket. I crease the money in my fist and fall flat onto my back, focusing on shallowing my breathing. My limbs tingle with aftershocks, my brain catching up with the possibility that it was nearly cracked open on the sidewalk. That my mom was almost left childless.
No longer lulled into a false sense of security, clarity breaks free. Huxley is a fucking lunatic. In fact, I’m certain there are no sane people left in the world, the disjointed reality provided in video games and movies distorting people’s rationality. But, crazy as he is, Huxley is right. Something forced me to latch onto the ledge, and now I have the burning need to find out what it was.
Chapter Eighteen
Slouched in one of the many oversized armchairs tucked away in the silent zone of the library, I give up pretending to read and shut my book with a defeated sigh. Things must really be spiraling if even a pitch black, twisted romance can’t pull me into another world. I let my head loll to the side, the patch behind my ear free from my receivers. My chest sinks beneath my cream-colored sweatshirt that declares,There’s not enough coffee in the world for me to talk to you today.It’s one of my favorites, soft and fluffy on the inside, with sleeves long enough to hide my hands completely.
The week is crawling by with the sluggish determination of a depressed sloth, each day dragging me through the same cycle of gray skies, dull conversations, and a sense of unease that never quite fades. Classes have been intense, but I’ve forced myself to carve out at least one solid hour of revision every day. Whatever it takes to not be caught off guard again. To not be left at the mercy of a wolf in human form again. I guess that makes me Little Red Riding Hood, except this time, getting eaten—in any sense of the word—will have to stay a fantasy.
With each passing day, Friday looms closer. I don’t even want to think about what Rhys has been planning for this ridiculous party of his whilst skipping out on classes all week. At first, the arrangement had seemed simple enough, even if the thought of being paraded around made my skin crawl. I’ll probably flounder in a cramped room filled with strangers, harsh music, and the kind of loud energy I spend most of my life avoiding, but at least I’ll be living. I’ll be a fully-fledged student with the regret and shame to match.
The faint buzz of my phone vibrating between my crossed legs barely registers until I glance down and see a certain username light up the screen. The man attached to said username has been giving me the cold shoulder all week, and I’m bored of it. Especially as the message he’s sent has come out of left field, once again.
Beanie26: Where’s your spark gone, Beautiful?
I jolt upright and immediately glance around the library, hating that my heart skips a beat. Every chair is occupied, students buried in books or silently mouthing words as they study. The towering shelves create blind spots where shadows flicker in the periphery, and for a moment, I feel eyes on me from every direction. Leaning cautiously over the armrest, I peer down the central aisle and spot Clay sitting at one of the main tables, papers and textbooks spread out in front of him as he works.
First thought, fuck that guy. Second thought, are we sending compliments now?
Sinking back into the chair, I stare at the message for a long moment, weighing up my options. I could humor him, or I can admit I’m tired of this game. I guess we will see what I decidein the moment. Pushing myself up, I storm through the library, defiance driving me forward. I reach his table and slam my book down hard enough to make his pen pause mid-sentence. The heat of attention floods in from all angles, but I keep my focus narrowed on Clay.
“Do you want me or not?”
From beneath his blond swoop of hair, Clayton’s dark eyes meet mine with infuriating calm. Nothing flickers in his features. Around us, I sense the whispers spreading like wildfire, but I don’t care. All that matters is putting an end to this loop of wanting and waiting while he keeps his cards pressed to his chest. “I don’t care which it is, but at least be man enough to own how you feel.”
I only wait for a few seconds, but that’s enough to realize he isn’t going answer. Clay doesn’t speak openly in public, whether being confronted or not. I snatch my book off the table and turn on my heel, my hips swaying in oversized sweatpants as I walk away. Indecisive asshole.
Winding through the stacks, I head toward aisle thirteen, intent on putting my book back and leaving. The overhead bulbs dangle on cords that sway slightly, casting patches of soft light that stretch and shift as I pass beneath them. A fitting atmosphere for the kind of romance that should be read in the dark by flashlight. Reaching the gap I left earlier, I slide the book back into place . Until next time my fictional lover. Letting my hand linger for a moment, I stroke the edge of the spine, debating whether I check it out and give it a second chance in the comfort of my bed. No, I don’t have the focus tonight.
Broad shoulders and a wide chest in white cotton closes in on me, the sudden nearness making me jolt as if caught doing something illicit. Clay’s face is half-shadowed by his gray beanie, the tic jumping in his jawline making it appear sharper. I’ve been close to Clay before, but he’s standing over me now, the sheerheight of him makes me feel simultaneously cornered and oddly safe. His hand clamps around my arm with a grip that is neither careless nor gentle, and in that single touch there is an entire conversation I cannot quite translate.
“Am I not man enough?” Clay’s lips say and I don’t have to hear him to feel the guttural frustration in his tone. I force myself to keep my gaze level with his, although my breath feels caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. There’s a heated fury in his black eyes, the quiet simmer of a man wrestling with something he does not want to admit.
My hand slips into the pocket of my sweatshirt, finding the small microphone clip I pushed in there earlier. Without breaking his stare, I attach it to the rounded neckline of his T-shirt. My knuckles brush against his throat, sliding for a fraction of a second over the powerful beat of his pulse. It thrums against me, impossibly fast, as though my touch has unbalanced him.
His hand knocks mine aside, and in the next instant, my back hits the bookcase. I gasp at the spread of fingers slipping beneath my thighs as Clay effortlessly lifts me to match his height. My legs wrap around his waist, instinct taking over in a way that makes my cheeks burn. The solid pressure of him pins me in place and the wooden shelf digs into my spine, but the discomfort only sharpens my awareness of where his body meets mine. The hard press of his jeans against my center has my skin flushing hot enough to chase away every coherent thought.
“Clay,” I breathe, not able to form an end to that sentence. Managing to free my phone, I open the app over his shoulder to activate the Bluetooth between the mic and my implants. As if waiting for that precise moment, Clay growls against the mic.
“Is it not man enough that the urge to protect you keeps me awake at night?” His chest heaves. Oh, he’s pissed. “Or that when I eventually fall asleep, your green eyes haunt me there? Maybe I’m not man enough,” Clay pushes his jeans harderagainst my core, which carves through me deliciously, “because I push you away, knowing I’m not worthy of your attention.”
