Thin White Line Page 7

  Ryder rolls his eyes. “I do have a tendency of getting myself into trouble with my mouth.”

  The door opens and closes as Brooke storms out, Curtis on her heels.

  “Brooke!” he yells.

  A girl steps out on the porch behind them. She lights a cigarette, lifts her chin, and lets out a stream of smoke, all the while watching Brooke’s retreating back with a smug expression on her face. Oh my God, it’s blondie. Her peroxide blonde hair is pulled back into a sloppy bun.

  “Get in the car,” Brooke orders, passing by me.

  Before I can move, Curtis has Brooke by the arm. “Seriously, I didn’t do anything.”

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” Brooke says to Curtis, who shakes his head and refuses to drop her hand.

  “Not until you listen to me. I am wearing the same clothes I was wearing last night. I did not sleep with her. Will you tell her that?” Curtis looks at the blonde.

  “I didn’t sleep with your boyfriend,” blondie replies in a monotone voice that is far from convincing.

  “She was in your bed...with you.”

  “She crashed out, Brooke. Her friends left her.”

  Blondie offers nothing else. She just stands there, smoking her cigarette while watching the drama ensue.

  Ryder pulls me away from Brooke and Curtis. “Let’s get out of the line of fire.”

  The blonde continues to watch in amusement as she approaches Ryder and me. “Could I get that ride home you offered?”

  Ryder is giving her a ride home? My heart sinks a little.

  “She lives down the road from me,” Ryder explains and I feel only slightly better about him giving her a ride.

  I don’t say a word, though. I really don’t have any right to protest anyway.

  “I’ll text you later.” Ryder gives me a kiss on the cheek and, without another word, walks towards his car; the blonde on his heels.

  Last night, I remember her having fishnet stockings on. The stockings have mysteriously disappeared and there is a mark on her knee.

  All sorts of bad images enter my brain.

  I watch them get into the car and pull away.

  “You want something to drink?” Deklan asks, sliding his shirt back on.

  Brooke and Curtis are still talking. Brooke has her arms crossed over her chest, her back against the car. She’s furious.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You should probably rehydrate. Plus, trust me, they’ll be awhile.” His lips curve. “I know the drill.”

  “Brooke, I’m going to go inside for a minute,” I tell her and I think her slight chin lift is an acknowledgement. I’m sure she’ll let me know if she needs me.

  I follow into the house behind Deklan. Staring at his back, I realize just how broad his shoulders are and how narrow his waist is, not to mention how high and tight his butt is.

  I pull my gaze away and, thankfully, it’s just before he glances over his shoulder at me.

  The compact kitchen holds a small, chrome dinette with modern, red vinyl, padded stools in the far corner. “Have a seat,” Deklan tells me, opening up the fridge. “Water, soda or fruit juice?”

  Although the nausea is better, my stomach rebels at the thought of putting anything in it, but I know Deklan won’t take no for an answer. “Water.”

  He sets the bottled water in front of me and sits down beside me.

  “I had fun last night,” I say, sitting up straighter. “You must have the world’s nicest neighbors to put up with all the noise.”

  “They put up with us because they have to.” He smiles, but the grin fades as he looks at me. “How can you and Brooke be related?” he asks, lifting the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. He makes even drinking water sexy.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I know, right? Believe it or not, we used to have a lot in common.”

  He sets the water down and picks at the label. “I know you’re going through a rough time right now. I just don’t want to see you get swallowed up in a lifestyle that can be kind of brutal.”

  The humor has completely left his gaze and I’m reminded of last night when everyone had gone into panic mode when he came knocking at Curtis’s door. I shrug. “Life is brutal.”

  His dark brows lift. “True. I know what it’s like to go through a divorce. My mom left me and my dad for a guy she worked with. I was ten-years-old and one day she was just...gone with a note to my father saying she was sorry and that she couldn’t do it anymore. She said that she knew he could take care of me.” He shakes his head. “He could barely take care of himself. I ended up moving in with Ryder and his family when I was fourteen.”

  I didn’t realize he’d had it so tough. He flashes a smile and chews on his lip ring. For the first time, I’m seeing Deklan look vulnerable and uncomfortable.

  “When did you start tattooing?”

  “Believe it or not, I did my first tattoo at thirteen. My dad had this friend who was a tattoo artist—mostly prison tattoos, but still—he was really talented and taught me a lot about the art form. My dad did a few tattoos in his time, too.”

  “Where is your dad now?”

  “Gone.” He sits back against the chair and takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I just don’t want to see you go down the wrong road, you know?”

  I guess that was his signal that we are officially finished talking about his personal life.

  “I appreciate that.” I really did appreciate the concern, but I am having fun and just because I did drugs once, doesn’t mean I’m going to do them again.

  The door opens. “Kenzie, let’s go!” Brooke sounds impatient and pissed off. Apparently, she isn’t buying Curtis’s story about blondie.

  “That’s my cue,” I say, coming to my feet.

  Deklan stands and hands me the water.

  We walk out to the car in silence. Curtis sits in a chair on the porch, elbows on his knees and face in hands.

  Deklan joins him, puts a hand on Curtis’s shoulder and squeezes.

  “Brooke…” Curtis says, his frustration evident as he looks up at her.

  “Don’t fucking talk to me.” She walks right past him.

  Curtis casts her a pleading glance.

  In the car, I buckle my seatbelt and don’t dare look back at the house.

  Brooke starts the car, puts it in drive, and burns the tires as she pulls out onto the road; her hands gripping the steering wheel. “What an asshole. He’s such a douchebag.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think?” she asks, lighting a smoke. “Fucking men, why can’t they keep their dicks in their pants?”

  “Maybe he’s innocent…”

  Cracking the window, she inhales deeply on the cigarette and blows out the smoke. “I walked into his bedroom and he was in bed with that slut, Laura.”

  “Actually in bed, in bed.”

  She scowls at me. “What other in bed is there?” she snaps.

  Whoa! I settle back against the seat and decide that maybe silence might be better than dealing with her anger right now.

  “Sorry, Kenz. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just so pissed. I mean of all the people he could fuck around with...he picks her. The typical blonde, gorgeous, smoking hot…”

  “You’re prettier than her,” I say, meaning it. Brooke has a unique look and the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. Laura doesn’t hold a candle to her.

  The sides of her mouth twitch a little. “You think so?”

  “Um, definitely. What if he didn’t do anything, though?” I ask, treading lightly. “I mean, what if she just fell asleep on his bed? We were all pretty hammered last night.”

  She presses her lips together. “Her fishnets were off and did you see that rug burn on her knee? That’s pretty telling.”

  I lift a brow. I won’t say I hadn’t, but maybe she is jumping to conclusions. “Who says it’s a rug burn? Plus, Curtis likes you...a lot. I can tell and I really don’t think he did anything last night. Maybe Laura found her way int
o his bedroom and crashed there. It happens. Hell, that could have been me. I was toast last night. It’s a good thing you were looking after me or I could have been the one in bed with him.”

  She completely blows off the compliment about taking care of me. “Trust me, it’s not the first time girls have stayed over, but at least before they weren’t sleeping in his bed. If it were me and he walked in to find a guy in my bed, he would lose his shit.”

  “I thought you said that you just had something going with him.” I force a sincere expression. “So, you’re actually going out, like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  There is the scowl again. “Curtis and I are friends, Kenz.”

  “Friends? As in friends with benefits?”

  She nods and smiles. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  I lean against the car door, putting as much distance between us as I can, just in case she doesn’t like what I have to say. “But if you’re getting this mad with just the idea that he’s with someone else, then maybe you need to be more exclusive or maybe even actually be official boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “And what about you and Ryder, or should I say, you and Deklan, because I don’t know which one likes you more.”

  What is she talking about? “Deklan doesn’t like me.”

  “Really?” she says with a grin that calls bullshit. “I know Deklan and, although he can be a tough guy to read, I can tell he’s in to you. I see it in his eyes.”

  My heart picks up speed. Does Deklan like me? No, I tell myself. It’s one thing to have one hot rocker interested in me, but two is...ridiculous. I think she’s just trying to make me feel better.

  “Watch out because Ryder and Deklan have never fought over the same chick. They just don’t let girls get in the way of their friendship.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I get to the point where I love art class. It’s the time I look most forward to each day, where I can look across the room and see Ryder. I see him at lunch, too, but during the twenty-five minutes that we actually have to sit down and eat, he’s usually too busy talking with friends and I’m just as busy talking with Brooke; so we don’t end up getting to spend any time with each other.

  Not so in art class. I feel his smoldering gaze on me every once in a while. He said he would text me, but he hasn’t and, I have to admit, I’m disappointed. Really, is it that tough to send a text? I’m not asking for an actual phone call or anything.

  Maybe he is busy with Laura. I mentally shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. Ryder isn’t my boyfriend.

  I take the coffee mug that I’ve been working on for days and walk into the back room to put it in the kiln. Davis, Miss Loray’s aide, a cute boy-next-door kid with freckles and glasses who I have English with, glances up at me and smiles. “Hey, you done?”

  I look at the sorry excuse for a coffee cup. “Yeah, I’m done. What do you think?”

  Miss Loray has a habit of referring to Davis’s amazing artistic flare. He is obviously the teacher’s pet.

  “It’s all about the glazing,” he tells me, carefully taking the mug from me and setting it on the tray to dry. “If you ever need any help, I’m…” His words fade as his gaze skips to the doorway.

  “Hiding in the storage room, huh?”

  Ryder.

  I turn and look at him. “I’m not hiding.”

  Davis sighs and walks back to the table.

  “You didn’t respond to my text last night,” he says. “I’m wounded.”

  I frown. “I didn’t get a text from you last night.”

  His brows furrow. “I sent it to the number you gave me Sunday.”

  “Maybe you typed in the wrong number.”

  “Maybe…”

  He slides his phone out of his pocket and reads the number. It’s off by one digit. I’m strangely relieved by that.

  I give him the correct number and he repeats it before sliding the cell into his pocket. “It’s fixed now.”

  “Check your phone when you get a chance.”

  My phone’s in my locker, so I’ll be checking it right after class.

  Taking a step closer, he glances over to Davis, then leans in and whispers, “When are we going to take up where we left off on Saturday?”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I don’t know. When are we?”

  “Are you coming to our gig on Saturday?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. My confusion must show because he cocks his head the slightest bit. “I would have thought Brooke would have mentioned it. Maybe she doesn’t want you at a college party. She is a little overprotective when it comes to you.”

  A college party? “Actually, she had mentioned it.” It’s a good thing because I desperately want to go.

  “Joshua.”

  I jump and am surprised to see Miss Loray has stepped into the room. “If I’m not mistaken, you are still working on your project, which means you have no reason to be back here right now.” Her voice is serious.

  He rolls his eyes. “Talk to you at lunch,” Ryder whispers and walks towards Miss Loray who flashes me a look that speaks volumes. Be careful, that look says.

  The bell rings shortly after and Ryder is out the door before I can get to him. I race to my locker to check my phone.

  Invite wicked Kenzie to the party on Saturday. Have her wear sexy lingerie.

  Excitement rushes along my spine. I text back a smiley face.

  I walk into the cafeteria and am surprised to see Cicely sitting at a different table. Laura is with her and they both mean-mug me.

  I wonder if Cicely knows Ryder gave her buddy a ride home and that she had stayed under the same roof as him.

  Seeing me, Laura quickly looks away. Gone is the pleased expression that was there on Sunday. Instead, she looks...guilty. Her normal slutty attire has been replaced by a blouse that’s nearly buttoned to the neck and she wears very little makeup. Every time I try to make eye contact, she quickly looks away.

  Maybe she’s terrified of Brooke.

  “I hate that bitch,” Brooke says, stabbing a peach with her fork.

  I laugh under my breath. “Um, that’s pretty obvious.”

  “I just hope she doesn’t show up Saturday.”

  My stomach tightens. “What’s Saturday?”

  “A party we’re playing at. Don’t you remember? I mentioned it before. You’re so coming with. After all, you’re the go-fer.”

  Yes, I am the go-fer. I grin, relieved she’s asked. “I’d love to.”

  “You’ll have to help me find something to wear. I want to look amazing.”

  No doubt to make Curtis regret Saturday night.

  “You will.” I will also be sure to wear something amazing and I’ll be adding a special touch of something spicy in the underwear department.

  ***

  Brooke lives in a gated community on the river. I feel a flash of envy as we pull up to an enormous, craftsman home that looks like it could grace the covers of a high-end magazine. Sitting on at least one, manicured acre, the estate is surrounded by a six foot, wrought iron fence and, on either side, tall fir trees keep the home hidden from neighbors.

  I never realized my uncle and aunt have done so well. In fact, I don’t know what my uncle does for a living. I guess I never asked.

  I ignore the twinge of envy I feel because this is the life I’d been living before, but no longer…

  “Is that a camera?” I ask, pointing to what looks to be a camera at the gate.

  “No, they’re for show. About six years ago the neighborhood association freaked out because there was a rock thrown through their front window. Stories about gangs from Portland started circulating. Come to find out the “gangbanger” ended up being the son of an investment banker who lived a block away. The family sold their house and moved out a couple of months later.”

  The interior of the house is as gorgeous as the exterior and the lodge theme continues throughout.

  We walk past a balcony that overlooks a great room wi
th a three-story high, river rock fireplace.

  She pulls a key from her pocket and slides it into a door.

  “You lock your bedroom?”

  “My parents respect my privacy. We made a deal. As long as I clean my own room and keep it clean to my mom’s standards,” she says this last with an eye roll, “then I’m free to lock the door and keep it that way. So...I’ve had a lock for the past few years.”

  I am a bit stunned that any parent would allow their kid to lock their door and to have a parent actually respect those rules. There’s not a chance in hell that my mom would have ever gone for that. I can’t believe our mothers are sisters. How has Brooke managed to get the mother who lets her have a lock on her door? I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom is going through my drawers as we speak.

  Brooke pushes open the door.

  Given her alternative lifestyle, I’m a bit shocked by all the pink and purple in her room.

  “Don’t judge me,” she says in an amused tone. “My mom hired a decorator when I was fourteen and I just agreed with the majority of her ideas so I could get her the hell out of here.”

  “Or maybe you secretly really do like pink and purple,” I reply, picking an angel figurine off a shelf. There are definite glimpses of the girl Brooke used to be. Above us, hanging from a large wooden beam, is a white, whimsical chandelier.

  “I used to like pastels when I was younger.” She sounds a bit defensive.

  A bookshelf is crammed full of novels. I lean down, searching the titles. “Horror, huh?” Now that doesn’t surprise me.

  “There are a few thrillers in there, too.”

  “I wouldn’t take you as the reading type.”

  “I don’t read as much as I’d like to, or I used to. Instead, I spend my days listening to music and becoming inspired to write my own lyrics.”

  I wish I had paid more attention to the lyrics the other day while The Frozen had practiced.

  “Are you the only one who writes?” I ask.

  “We all help out, but Deklan’s kind of the brains of the group. The Frozen is sort of his baby.”

  “If it’s his baby, then why didn’t he make himself lead singer?”

  “He was for a while. Then he heard me in choir practice my freshman year and asked if I wanted to join his band.”