Page 104 of Riot Act
39
PAX
Wren: Jonah Witton, confirmed boarding flight AAL1 to Los Angeles from New York. He went home early.
It’s all I needed to hear. Clearly, Chase didn’t want me in her room. Her body did; she wanted me to fuck her, but she didn’t want to pick up any of the other shit I was putting down, and that fucking sucked.
So I bailed.
The moment I arrive at Riot House, I storm into the kitchen, snatch the bottle of whiskey Dash is holding right out of his fucking hand, and then I charge upstairs and lock myself away in my room.
I do not come out for twenty-four hours.
Occasionally, I hear knocking over the ear-splittingly loud death metal I’m playing, but I ignore whoever has the nerve to stand on the other side of my bedroom door.
I run by myself on Sunday. All fucking day. I take a pack with plenty of water and ton of protein bars, and I run a total of forty-three miles in the blistering heat, tearing up and down mountains until I make myself sick. Only when I slip on a patch of scree and slide a hundred feet down a steep slope, scraping open my right side, do I lope back home, nursing my foul mood.
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, Chase and I fire chapters back and forth at each other, but we do not talk. The story is taking decent shape. It’s turning into an epic saga that would have made the Greeks proud. My character is still competing with Chase’s character. They bicker and squabble, constantly at odds, but the bones of the book, the challenges and the physical trials they face to accomplish their goals, are solid. I’m increasingly more and more impressed with Chase’s writing, as well as her ability to match me in tone, and to carry the story forward in a logical way every time she sends me back the next part of the story. I hate her for it.
Thursday, I purposefully bolt out of Econ as soon as the bell goes to avoid interacting with Chase.
Friday, she texts and flat out asks me what the fuck is wrong with me, and I ignore her message like a child.
Saturday, I develop film in my closet, and I almost drive my fist through the drywall when the image of Chase, curled up and fast asleep in my bed, develops on the photo paper. Her hair is a streak of fire across my pillow. She is the most beautiful, peaceful thing I have ever seen, and I fucking hate myself for not climbing onto the bed behind her and fucking holding her. My arms ache for the weight of her. A weight I’ve never even fucking known.
On Sunday, I refuse to get out of bed. I’m perfectly happy with my decision to stew in my own misery, listening to some seriously vile scream-core while staring blankly up at the ceiling, when something absolutelyinsanehappens.
Elodie fucking Stillwater waltzes into my room like she owns the goddamn place.
I sit up in my bed, glowering at her. “What the fuck are you doing?” I snarl.
She folds her arms across her chest. “I came in here to ask you the exact same thing.”
She’s small. Like, pocket-sized. Her hair used to be blonde, but it’s brown now, nearly black, and hangs in twin braids down to her waist. She’s wearing one of Wren’s old t-shirts—a ratty, washed out grey thing that comes down to her knees, almost hiding the fact that she’s wearing shorts.
I throw myself back onto the pillows. “Get the fuck out.”
She does not get the fuck out. She sighs dramatically and crosses the room, opening up the wall of blinds, letting in a bath of brilliant sunlight.
“Agghh! What the fuck, Stillwater? Get out of my fucking room, before Iputyou out.”
She pulls a face at me, kicking at a pile of clothes I’ve left in a heap on the floor as she crosses to the other bank of windows and opens those blinds, too. Then, she snaps off the stereo, killing the music, and turns to glower at me. “This isn’t my house—”
“Fucking straight it isn’t!”
“—so I can’t tell you what to do. Wren and Dash don’t seem bothered by your bullshit, but I’ve had enough al-fucking-ready. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I throw an arm across my face, blocking out the sunlight. “How about you mind your business and go suck Jacobi’s dick or something?”
Stillwater still doesn’t leave. The pernicious little pest. She comes closer, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. “I’m not leaving until you tell me. Presley’s been completely shut down for weeks now. She won’t tell me what’s wrong, but I know that she’s toldyoufor some reason.”
“She hasn’t told me shit.”
“So, there is something wrong with her, then?” she asks sharply.
Fuck this. Seriously.Fuck this.I rip the covers back and sit up, glaring at her. “Look. If your friend doesn’t wanna fucking talk to you about something, then that’s your problem. And hers. Not mine. Now, please. I’ll ask nicely. Vacate my bedroom as quickly as humanly possible, before I lose my fucking mind.”
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “No.”
