The Midnight Boys

Chapter 2

I glanced at my alarm clock: 6:49 a.m.

"Jesus Christ, this is ridiculous," I grumbled and threw off the covers.

Six forty-nine was well before my standard summer rise and shine, but I'd been laying awake for hours and the glowing numbers on the clock were taunting me.

I wouldn't call myself an early morning person. Heck, I wouldn't even call myself a late morning person, so I certainly didn't plan on being up anytime before seven. But the thing about a stranger crawling through your window in the dead of the night is that it's impossible to fall asleep afterward. Between fearing for my life, the pounding of my heart, and the rude way Fletcher treated me, my mind wouldn't slow down.

Who was that horrible boy? He was obviously close friends with Briella if she let him sleep over. And the fact that Ruby didn't know about his home invasion hobby made me wonder if the two were dating, or at the very least, hooking up. But if that were the case, then why did Fletcher use the spare bedroom? Things just didn't add up.

Why the heck do I even care? I suddenly wondered and shook my head. Clearly my lack of sleep was affecting me...

Since it was too early for any normal teenager to function, I only had one priority—coffee ASAP. When my feet hit the ground, I recoiled and let out what I'm sure was a very unattractive squawk. The floor felt like Antarctica in the middle of a freaking ice age! I was accustomed to the fluffy carpet of my bedroom back home, not the icy chill of hardwood floors.

Bracing myself for the glacier feeling again, I stood back up and the floorboards groaned beneath me. God, this creepy house was going to take some getting use to. Even in the daylight, my room wrapped in the burning gold of the rising sun, the place still looked like the set of a horror movie. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if some poor family had been murdered here, their bodies concealed in the walls or trapped under a layer of concrete in the basement.

After pulling my robe out of my duffle bag and shrugging it on, I opened my bedroom door. The house was silent. Sunlight poured out of my room, flooding the hallway with a river of golden warmth, and as I made my way toward the kitchen, I felt like Dorothy following the yellow brick road. When I reached my destination, the coffee maker was easy enough to locate. The actual grounds, however, were much harder to find. I spent a few minutes muttering to myself as I opened and closed every cabinet in the room before remembering the pantry. Inside was a container of flavored Folgers, and a few minutes later the aroma of french vanilla filled the room.

I wasn't one of those people who took their coffee with five pounds of sugar and an ocean of creamer. All I needed was a dash of milk, but when I opened the fridge in search of some skim, I was hit with a blast of something that smelled like death. Gagging, I slammed the door shut. If I had to identify the odor, I would say it smelled like roadkill that had been scraped off the pavement and stuffed in the produce drawer after roasting in the sun for days.

When was the last time anyone cleaned out this fridge?

Taking a deep breath, I opened it again. The shelves were barren for the most part: there was a casserole dish containing a lumpy green substance, a Claussen jar with a lone pickle, and a carton of eggs. The only item in the side door was the jug of milk I was searching for. Unfortunately, the expiration date stamped on the plastic was from nearly two weeks ago. If this was any indication of what living with the Brooks was like, I had a feeling I was in for a long summer.

Sighing, I took my coffee and sat down in the window seat. I'd left my mother's book on the table the night before, so I decided to read as I nursed my milkless caffeine. I'd nearly finished an entire chapter when Ruby appeared. As she pranced into the kitchen like it was freaking Christmas morning, I did a double take—she looked like a different person in comparison to yesterday. She'd showered, and her messy blond hair was combed into a single braid that hung down her back. Her stained, wrinkled clothes had been swapped out for a bohemian style dress, and the pattern was so neon that I had to blink a few times before my brain could fully process the bright color.