What if she’d been hit harder on the head and it had caused a brain bleed?
“Sweetie.” Mom’s voice drags me out of my thoughts as her fingers tighten on my wrist and she pulls my hand away from the lamp. “Take a breath.” I do, but the air doesn’t seem to reach my lungs. So, I take another. “That’s it,” she encourages me. “Just like that—in and out.”
I blink hard as I stare down at her. “You’re really okay?” The question is a quiet one, but she hears it.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m perfectly fine. These things happen. I should know—I see it every time I go into work.”
This time, when I inhale, it fills my chest cavity. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. She smiles at me. “Better?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Better.”
Mom pats my hand. “Good. Now, you go out there and tell the boys I’m fine. With all of this excitement, I’m tired and I want to rest.”
“Tired?” I frown at her. “Do you think?—”
She waves her fingers at me. “No, I don’t think it’s a concussion,” she says. “I think it’s all of those shifts I’ve been pulling and the adrenaline crash. Wake me up later if you’re worried, but I truly am fine.”
“I’ll wake you up before I go to bed,” I still insist.
Her only response is a grunt as she reaches over and clicks the lamp off. I back out of the room and close the door behind me, resting my head on the wood that separates us for a single moment before standing up straight and turning in the direction of the living room—where Juliet waits.
32
JULIET
There is nothing worse than self-awareness. Philosophers would probably agree. To become self-aware is to be doomed to a life of utter desolation. Because once you know how fucked you are, once you understand that nothing in this world can change your end, fighting it becomes pointless. No wonder the greatest thinkers, the artists and creatives, the geniuses of history so often went insane or killed themselves.
Self-awareness is a goddamn tragedy.
Don’t you dare fucking cry, Juliet.If they see me cry, if they know the truth, then they won’t let go. They’ll fight. They’ll always fucking fight, and I can’t let them. He’s too powerful. He has too much money and they have… people they love.
I wish I could’ve been one of them.
I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I never worried about where my next meal would come from, if the roof over my head would disappear, or if I would ever struggle to perform anything that was asked of me. For all intents and purposes, I had the perfect life until half a year ago.
Yet, even with all of the money in the world—with everyone thinking I was a spoiled, rich princess wearing the best clothesmoney could buy, driving a brand-new car, and a path set for greatness—I suffered.
Why?
Because I was aware that I couldn’t control any of it. It was nevermymoney, but my parents’, and the continuation of my life was reliant on not upsetting the status quo. That was partially why I remained silent when Morpheus… Well, no, that’s not entirely true. I’d try to tell my mom in my own way. That was how I’d gotten the pills for my dreams.
I’d shoved all of my emotions and shame down, deep inside, bottled it up and left it to rot. Except, it didn’t decompose like I expected it to. It festered and grew mold and fungus and all manner of other horrible things. Anger. Pain. Hurt. Distrust. Fear.
Now, just as I’m finally excising that old wound, the bestower of it returns and he wants more than a pound of flesh. He wants all of me.
I reach back for my cell—the one that Lex bought me. It’s almost cruel that I still remember Morpheus’ phone number. Of all of the ones that I was told to memorize in case of an emergency, his comes back to me before either of my parents’. Not because I’ve ever called him due to some emergency, but because now that I’m no longer on those meds Mom said would help me sleep, I’m remembering everything about him.
I fucking hate that. The one man I want to forget more than anyone else is the one man my memory latches on to. His phone number is only part of it. I’m starting to remember the way he swirled his whiskey in those fat glasses at the dinner table when he came over to our house. He’d sip it and then hum in the back of his throat. The way he smelled when he pressed me down into that hotel mattress—it’d been half sweat, half cologne.
Some women might have found it arousing. All it makes me want to do is puke. I quickly type out the single line of text,letting him know I’m accepting his deal and he should pick me up in the next thirty minutes. My fate is sealed and I slowly slip my phone back into my pocket.
It buzzes against my ass and my eyes burn. I don’t look at whatever the response is. He’ll come or he’ll send someone to pick me up. Whatever the case, the end result will be the same. I’ll be there and I’ll be trapped all over again.
Sitting on Nolan’s front porch as he puts his mom in bed and makes sure she has everything she needs, I contemplate how I’m going to do what needs to be done. I can’t tell them the truth. If they knew, they’d say they don’t care. They’d say ‘bring it on’. They have no idea how Morpheus Calloway can fuck up all of their lives.
“Baby?” I flinch as Lex crouches down near me, rocking on his heels as he tilts his head in my direction. “Are you feeling okay?”
I pull my knees closer to me as I wrap my arms around them. “I want to wait for Nolan to come out,” I say, my voice raspy enough that I have to clear it a few times to get the words out.
