Written on My Heart Page 6

  “Oh my God.” Thoughts of what might have happened churn nauseous waves inside my stomach. “Do you think—” The words muffle against my fingers. “That he might of—”

  “I don’t know.” Lane sighs and sits back down, raking his fingers through his hair. “But I wasn’t going to take the chance.”

  My hands tremble and I drop them into my lap. “Why? You don’t even like me.”

  Lane stares at me a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Look… Ashlyn, is it?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t like a lot of people—it’s nothing personal. I’ve been screwed over a time or two, so I’ve learned to be a little more selective of the people I hang out with. Just because I don’t want to get coffee with you doesn’t mean I want to see you get hurt. Nobody deserves that.”

  I hug my chest. I couldn’t fault him for that. I’d had my own fair share of assholes come and go in my life.

  “Besides”—Lane rests his arms on the back of the loveseat—“it isn’t like I did all that much. Em was the one who busted his balls.”

  My eyes go wide. “No way. Really?”

  He nods.

  Before I can stop it, a laugh sputters through my clamped lips. The moment I set it free, it becomes its own entity, curling around me and filling the space between us.

  At first, Lane only stares at me, blinking. Soon, his lips twitch. The next thing I know, he’s doubled over and chuckling along with me until we’re both red-cheeked and panting for breath.

  After several minutes, our laughter dies down and I’m left wiping tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Your sister is amazing.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He leans back, his grin slowly fading like the sun setting on the horizon. His eyes focus on the plastic wrap still taped to my arm. “How’s the tat?”

  Reflexively, I touch the corner of the tape, which has curled away from my skin. “Fine.”

  “Good. You’re going to want to wash it with antibacterial soap soon and put more ointment on it. Still up for doing the shading today?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if it’s still cool with you.”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.” He studies me for a moment without saying anything. It takes everything in me to keep from fidgeting. “Listen,” he says, after what feels like an eternity, “I have to drive past Pete’s house on my way home—that’s where your car is, isn’t it? You should let me give you a ride. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Um… ” I reach for the coffee mug and take a sip to stall while I come up with an excuse. I immediately regret the action when the acrid liquid hits my tongue. I should have known Lane would like his coffee strong enough to remove nail polish.

  “It’s not even ten minutes away,” Lane says.

  I can’t drink the coffee, so I grip the mug tightly, hoping to find comfort in the warmth of the ceramic. Sure, Lane won’t be nominated for Mr. Congeniality anytime soon, but at least this morning he’s been bearable. What would be the harm in spending another ten minutes with him?

  “How about this?” Lane extends his bandaged hand. Tattoos decorate the length of his arm, stopping in a sharp line at his wrist. “A truce. I promise to play nice until I’m done shading your tattoo, and then we’ll both go our separate ways, never to cross paths again. Sound good?”

  I can’t help but grin. “The part about not seeing each other again sounds great, actually. So, yeah, I’m in.”

  He grins back and I slide my hand into his. His palms are rougher than I expect, with calluses that scratch my skin. I’m surprised—I should be disgusted, but instead, I find his hand comforting. Calluses like that signify working hands, strong hands. Before I can stop it, a question floats through my mind; I wonder what they’d feel like running down my—

  I yank my fingers free from Lane’s and shrink back against the couch. He’s staring at me curiously, and I only hope my flaming cheeks don’t betray my thoughts. “Sorry, I…uh…forgot your hand was hurt.” I fight the urge to grab one of the pillows and smother my own face with it.

  Lane’s still staring at me with that damn unreadable expression. “You’re worried about hurting me? I’m not exactly made of porcelain, cupcake.”

  Just when I think my cheeks couldn’t burn any hotter, I blush even more. I am certain my skin is on the verge of melting right off my face. “Can part of the truce be that you call me by my name from now on?”

  His face softens. “Fair enough.” He motions to the coffee mug. “Do you want me to get you a travel mug? We should probably get going.”

  “No!” I answer a little too quickly.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “What? You don’t like my coffee?”

  “That’s what it’s supposed to be?”

  His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “I thought we declared a truce.”

  “We did.” I push the mug away. “Sometimes the nicest thing you can do is to be honest.”

  “Careful. That’s a dangerous road to go down.”

  “Being nice?”

  “No.” He gives a soft laugh. “Being honest.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ashlyn

  After Lane drops me off at my car, I don’t bother turning on the radio as I drive back to my apartment. The thoughts swirling through my head are loud enough to drown out all other sound. I keep thinking about last night and the guy who kept inching closer to my chair until my vision blurred and the lines on his shirt melded together in a kaleidoscope of color. What would have happened if he’d been the one to take me home? Granted, he was pretty drunk himself, so the answer might be nothing. Still, there’s the possibility that— No! I won’t even think it!

  I slam my palm against the steering wheel, relishing the sting. While fear is uncertain, pain almost always brings focus. I’d told myself I wouldn’t have to be afraid once I escaped my stepdad’s grasp. But the more I’m out in the world, the more dangers I realize are out here, and the more I wonder if I’ll ever truly be unafraid again.

  That’s really all I want—all I’ve ever wanted. Unfortunately, the demons of my past, as well as the dangers of my present, not only haunt my every waking minute, but they follow me into my dreams, tormenting me through the night. And for someone who gets as little sleep as I do, a good cup of coffee is vital to existence, which is why whatever the hell it was that Lane brewed wasn’t going to cut it.

  Lane. I think about the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his knuckles and I can’t help it—I smile. My entire childhood I’d wished for someone to stand up for me, and now that it’s happened, it feels every bit as good as I’d imagined. It doesn’t even matter that Lane’s an ass—except the more I think about it, the more I realize he’s not. An asshole wouldn’t try and defend a girl he barely knows, especially when there’s no potential for sex as a reward. So I wonder what his deal is? If life’s taught me one thing, it’s that no one does something for nothing. Everyone has an angle. What’s Lane’s?

  I pull into a parking spot outside my building and turn off my car. Still, I’m in no hurry to get out. It doesn’t matter that I’ve lived here a couple months. This place feels nothing like home. But at least it’s not the bedroom prison cell that I grew up in.

  I slowly pull the keys from the ignition and stare at the building that houses the few belongings I have left in the world—some clothes, my notebooks with my poetry, and the jar full of cash, where I’ve been tucking my tip money so I can save up for a better place—a place I can preferably live in alone. So in a way, the glass jar is home.

  I walk up the sidewalk, but hesitate outside my apartment door. I know whatever I find inside won’t be good. The skin along my arms begins to itch and I shake my hands to relieve them of the tingling. It doesn’t work, so I suck in a deep breath and open the door.

  What I see plows into me like a ram, driving the air from my lungs so I’m left gasping in the doorway like a fish dangling from a hook.

  The mess from the night before has quadrupled in my
absence. The beer bottles that covered the counters now line the floors, some spilling beer into the cracks of the linoleum as well as the carpet. An ashtray has been flipped over on the sofa, leaving behind a ring of cigarette butts and soot in the microfiber.

  While the living room is devoid of people, a girl’s pink thong sits crumpled in the middle of the floor, right next to a Taco Bell wrapper. A shiny square of cellophane catches the sunlight filtering in through the dusty blinds and winks at me. There’s only one thing I can think of that would be wrapped in such a small square. I start to step forward but stop, not sure I want to know whether the package has been opened.

  Look at this mess! My stepdad’s voice screams inside my head. What kind of disgusting, worthless person could live in such conditions? And look at you, just standing there, doing nothing. How lazy can you be?

  My heart hammers and I lick my lips. Logically, I know he’s not here. Still, I can suddenly feel him behind me, breathing heavily on my neck. I’m scared to turn around. I don’t want to see the veins pulse over his temples—don’t want to watch as his fingers, one by one, curl into tight fists. My stomach lurches and I close my eyes, hoping to vanquish his presence like a bad dream.

  The words continue to echo through my head.

  Lazy.

  Worthless.

  Tears squeeze through the crevices of my eyelids. There’s only one thing to do. Opening my eyes, I hurry to the sink and turn the water on.

  I need to clean—and fast.

  Again, I know it’s completely irrational, but I feel as if the mess surrounding me has the power to summon my stepfather, like a demon to blood. The sooner I get rid of it, the sooner I can relax. With shaking hands, I fall to the floor and open the cabinets, rooting through them until I find a garbage bag. I fluff it open and start throwing the bottles, underwear, and wrappers inside. I use the edge of the bag like a glove when it comes to picking up the condom wrapper. The condom itself is nowhere to be found—I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not.

  Once I’ve taken care of the trash, I fill the sink with scalding water, plunge my hands in, and start scrubbing. The burn of the water drives fresh tears to my eyes, but I can’t stop. Fear drives me, pulse pounding, through the pain. By the time I’m rinsing the last dish, my hands are scarlet and throbbing.

  My tears have run dry, leaving tight tracks across my cheeks. Still, I can’t rest, not until everything is clean. I plug in the vacuum and go over not only the living room, but the kitchen and hallway, too. Afterward I grab a rag and bottle of cleaner, drop to my knees, and hand-scrub every stain until my knuckles are raw and seeping blood.

  Only when I’m finished does my pulse slow from a gallop to a trot. The pump of adrenaline diminishes, leaving me dizzy. Still clutching the filthy rag, I lean against the wall to keep from falling over.

  I glance down the hall at Selena’s room. Her door is cracked open—of course—and soft snoring can be heard coming from inside. I don’t know if Selena is alone—odds are no—so I walk toward her door with the intention of closing it before I get front row seats to another live-action porno.

  I make it only halfway when I see my own door and stop. Selena’s previous roommate was no more a fan of Selena’s party friends than I am, so she had a doorknob with a lock installed. Selena gave me the key when I moved in, and I always lock the door before I leave the apartment. But now it stands slightly ajar.

  Dread fills my stomach like a ball of ice. Maybe I forgot to lock it? I immediately dismiss the thought, knowing I would never do such a thing. My room is where I keep my two most prized possessions: the notebooks filled with my writing, and the jar of tip money.

  I tentatively grab the handle as a jagged lump wedges inside my throat. Maybe I would be lucky—maybe one of Selena’s drunk friends broke in thinking it was the bathroom.

  Someone whimpers from inside and I jerk back. “What the—?”

  A small pink nose appears near the bottom of the door.

  I push the door open and a small, tan puppy with white feet and a white blaze down its nose charges out at me. It jumps and spins circles around my feet, making me dizzy, until I’m forced to bend over and pick it up. I hold the wiggling mass inches away from my face, studying it in the hope that I’ve fallen into another one of my nightmares.

  One sloppy wet swipe of the puppy’s tongue across the tip of my nose proves no, I’m very much awake. So where did he come from?

  I tuck the puppy under my arm and push my door open all the way. An odor so foul it burns my nose permeates my room. I flick on the lights and discover the puppy has left me several presents on the carpet. Because my bed consists of two stacked mattresses on the floor, there even appears to be a pile on top of my blankets.

  Anxiety tightens my muscles, and I breathe deeply through my mouth to keep the panic attack at bay. Whoever decided to leave him in my room hadn’t cared enough to even give him a dish of food or water. This puppy has nothing—not even a collar.

  Still holding the puppy, I carefully step over the piles until I get to my dresser—the only other piece of furniture in the room. I slide open the first drawer and use my free hand to count the notebooks inside—seven, they’re all there. The tight band around my chest loosens a fraction.

  I slide the drawer shut and open the one below it. The few shirts and jeans I own are still neatly stacked beside a mound of balled socks. I reach through the socks and my finger touches the lip of a small glass jar. I almost breathe out a sigh of relief—almost. But if life has taught me anything, it’s to never assume things are what they appear on the surface. Digging deeper, I grab the jar and pull it out.

  It’s empty.

  Shock slams into me like a fist. I stagger back, unable to breathe. My grip loosens on the puppy and I quickly place him on the ground before I drop him. He must sense something’s up because he’s stopped dancing. His tail droops to the floor and he stares up at me with his large, dark eyes.

  Five hundred dollars gone. Every single penny of tip money I’ve earned as a waitress and barista over the last six months has disappeared, leaving me with nothing. Every hope I’ve had of moving to another city and starting over is dashed in a few seconds.

  I set the jar on my dresser and whirl around, pressing my trembling hands to my face. “What am I going to do?” I whisper.

  The puppy cocks its head.

  My insides feel as if they’ve turned to jelly. I grip the edge of my dresser for support. I know I’m seconds from collapsing onto the floor among the piles of shit. I can’t continue living in this disgusting apartment among the dog crap, beer stains, and cigarette butts, but without my money, there’s nowhere else I can go.

  I rake my fingers through my hair, over and over again, as if I can somehow rip the nightmare out of my head. This can’t be happening.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I march out my door to the end of the hall, with the puppy dancing at my feet. When I get to Selena’s door, I slam it open so it hits the wall with a sharp crack.

  Selena is lying alone on top of her covers, and the noise makes her jolt upright. She’s wearing a pair of lacy, hot pink underwear and nothing else. Normally, I’d be too embarrassed to talk to her while she’s topless, but my anger keeps me rooted in place. She rolls onto her side, blinking puffy eyes. “What the fuck, Ash?”

  “Someone broke into my room!” Hysteria squeezes my voice a pitch too high.

  Selena rolls her eyes. “Relax. Nobody broke into your room. I asked Michael to open your door so we could put Diesel inside.”

  She’s not making sense. “Who’s Diesel?”

  Selena smiles. “My new pit bull puppy. I bought him yesterday. He has shots, papers, everything.” She motions to the puppy. “Come here, baby. Come to mama.”

  Diesel doesn’t move.

  “What about food?” I ask. “Bowls? A leash? Toys? Did you get any of that?”

  She yawns. “I was going to ask if you could do all that for me. Pretty please? Micha
el promised to take me shopping before work.”

  I knew it. This puppy was just another one of her impulse buys and now that it’s been over twenty-four hours, she’s already bored. “Selena! We’re not allowed to have dogs at this apartment!”

  She makes a face. “The landlord doesn’t care. Everyone else in this building has a dog.”

  I’ve never seen anyone in our building with a dog. But lying comes as naturally to Selena as breathing. “Look, the dog isn’t the point. I keep my room locked for a reason. You can’t have someone break into it whenever you want. Especially not to put a puppy inside—who shit all over my carpet, by the way. Because of you, someone went through my drawers and stole five hundred dollars!” My voice catches, and I struggle to swallow the sob that’s risen inside my throat.

  Selena groans and flings an arm over her face. “Look, I’m sorry about your room. I promise I won’t have anyone open your precious locked door again, okay? As far as your money, are you sure you didn’t lose it? I know my friends, Ash. And none of them are thieves.”

  A wave of fury burns through me. “No. I didn’t lose five hundred dollars. I had it safe in my room before I went to work. And now it’s gone. Somebody must have taken it.”

  Selena pulls her arm off her face. “Jesus, Ash. It’s just money. You know, if you’d come work at the club with me, you could make that in a night.”

  “I don’t want to work at your club!” I scream, causing the puppy to duck down and back out of the room. “I just want to come home to a not-trashed apartment, no shit on the carpet, and my money not stolen!”

  Selena sighs. “Listen, if someone did take your money, they were probably just borrowing it. I’ll find out who did and make them pay you back. Happy?”

  “No!” I shake my head. “I want my money back now, and I want the parties to end.”

  Selena’s eyes narrow into slits, and she slowly pushes herself up in bed. “You know the rent you pay is only a quarter of what is due, right? You’re only renting the room, Ash. You have no say what goes on outside it. If you don’t like that, you can find another place to live.”