Page 66 of Riot Rules
“Well, well. If it isn’t…shit. It’s…you.”
It’s Wren. It would be, wouldn’t it. He’s standing in the middle of the deserted landing with a bottle of vodka in his hand. His pupils have swallowed his irises. “If you’re looking for…the bathroom…” He appears to lose his train of thought.
“Are you high?”
He points a finger at me, squinting. “Maybe. That’d explain the weird pins and needles. And why everything tastes like hairspray. I think…I think…” He frowns, rubbing roughly at his eyes. “I think I took the ketamine. Which means…I’m about to bereallyfucked up.”
“You should go find somewhere to lie down then.”
He looks at me. Blinks. Thenhugsme. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. The contact’s brief and brusque, over as quickly as it begins, but I’m shaking like a leaf when he lets me go. He hands me his bottle of vodka. “You’re right. I’m gonna go…lie dowwwnnn.” He weaves along the hallway, bouncing from the banister railing to the wall. I should help him down the stairs. But then again…maybe aminortumble down one set of stairs might be just the thing that Wren Jacobi needs. You never know. People’s entire personalities have changed after blunt head trauma; he might fall into a coma and wake upnice.
I make sure he’s gone before I open up the door to Dash’s room, where I find Dash chewing on a thumb nail, anxiously wearing a hole in the rug at the end of a very comfortable looking king bed. The room is massive, though not quite what I was expecting. It’s way longer than it is wide. The interior walls are solid and plastered, but the two exterior walls that form the corner of the building are floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s as if we’re in a glass tank, looking right out into the night forest. I can only imagine what the view looks like during the day: the brilliant green of the trees, and so much of the sky on display as the mountain slopes down, away from the house. You can probably see for miles.
There’s a piano in the far corner—beautiful, worn and old. The varnish on the wood is cracked and worn away in places, and the upholstered bench in front of it is a little threadbare. It’s much smaller than the grand concert piano in the orchestra room. It’s the kind of piano you learn at when you’re a child, sitting on your grandfather’s knee—the same instrument he learned at when he was a child.
There are books littered everywhere. A TV mounted on the wall adjacent to the bed, by the door. A pale grey couch pushed up against the glass, a throw haphazardly discarded over the arm and a pile of sheet music next to it, like Dash bundled himself up there recently to scribble something down. On top of a small bookcase in the corner, close to the piano, three vine plants grow like weeds out of their pots, green and vibrant and healthy.
Dash looks bemused. A little awkward, too, maybe. He sits down on the edge of his bed, looking up at me from under raised eyebrows. “Gonna tell me why you’re smiling, then?”
“Nothing. I just, uh…I didn’t think you’d be a plant guy, y’know.”
He pulls a face. “Why not? Plants help with creativity. They like music.”
“I can’t really imagine you…y’know…nurturinganything.”
“I take very real offence to that,” he says gravely. “I’mgreatat nurturing. And anyway. They’re Philodendron. Almost impossible to kill.”
I laugh, taking the room in, noticing, cataloguing, saving every detail to memory. It feels calm in here. Tranquil. Really, it’s simple, and minimalistic, and beautiful. The colors are neutral and masculine—cream and sand, accented with dark greys and black. I see how hard it would have been for him to pick out all of the wild and vibrant colors for my room now, when this is his go-to palette. I’m surprised by how much I love it, given how subdued all of the hues are. It feels like…him.
Dash watches me intently from the bed as I wander around, inspecting everything. “What were you expecting? Union Jacks and red telephone boxes?” he asks quietly. “Maybe a member of the Queen’s Guard in full military regalia, standing watch by the door?”
I stifle a laugh. “Are they the ones with the red jackets and the funny hats?”
“They’re bearskins, Stella.And yes. They’re the ones with the red jackets and the funny hats.” He speaks softly, chidingly, with a familiar affection that makes my heart swell. I love when he speaks to me like this, so completely at ease.
“Leave my shit alone and come here,” he says.
I put down the wooden cross puzzle I’ve been spinning around in my hands, still biting back a smile as I cross his room and go to him. I plan on sitting down beside him, but he shakes his head, placing his hands on my hips and turning me so that I’m facing him, so that I’mstraddlinghim on the edge of the bed.
He’s so much taller than me that even sitting down, with me in his lap, hebarelyhas to angle his head back so he can look at me. He takes my arms and places them on his shoulders, so that my hands are behind his head, and then he slides his hands around my waist, so that they rest on the small of my back, almost on my ass. “Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi.”
He smiles—the most open, genuine smile I’ve ever witnessed on his face, suspiciouslyshy—and my heart summersaults. He’s so fucking handsome. Forget his room; the details ofhimfascinate me. His strong jaw. The tiny little nick on his chin. The slightest kink to his otherwise very straight nose. His beautiful hazel eyes. They look almost green tonight, with a golden, honey-colored burst around his pupil, speckled with three much darker brown spots.
“Everything to your liking?” he whispers.
I’ve been staring at him again. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. The faintest hint of a rogue smile dances at the corners of his mouth. “Are you actuallybaskingin my attention, Lord Lovett?”
“Yes,” he answers. No artifice or arrogance. “It feels good to be seen by you.”
All of a sudden,I’mthe shy one. He’s studying me back, his bright, intelligent eyes moving overmyface, and all I can think of are my flaws. My weird freckles. My unruly hair. The little mole on my cheekbone. I try to duck my head, but Dashiell catches hold of my chin, lifting it gently. “If the girls here are foolish enough to call me Sun God, then you are the goddess of the moon. Diana. Selene. Artemis. Luna. My pale and ethereal queen.” He smirks softly, acknowledging my eyeroll but not giving in to it. “Y’know, for centuries, they used to think the moon sent men mad. Like the phases of the moon affected a person’s sanity. Lunatic. That’s where the word came from. I can see how they came to that conclusion, Carrie.Youdrivemecrazy. I need you so fucking bad.”
Oh my god. He isn’t lying. The need in his voice. The rough edge to his words. The hardness of him, pressing up against me, between my legs. His reaction to me has me answering in kind, my pulse quickening in the hollow of my throat.
“But what if I don’t want to be the moon? The sun and the moon are always chasing each other across the sky, never able to catch up with one another.” There are many myths and legends about exactly this—the sun and the moon as ill-fated, star-crossed lovers, never able to be together, theirs a tale of tragedy and lost hope. I don’t want to think of my relationship with Dash in those terms.
Dash smiles, brushing his mouth against mine. “It’s okay,Stella. We’ll be a permanent eclipse. That way, we’ll always be together.”
