After DC told me I fit the qualifications of someone he'd murder, I never wanted to speak to him again. So I probably shouldn't have blamed him for something he didn't do, against someone he couldn't stand. It sort of cheesed him off...
Okay, this i...
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"I answered."
It was actually an almost decent hour, just past midnight, so I hadn't quite been ready to fall asleep when Dorian called me. Although, I admit, I debated ignoring him just from sheer stubbornness. Until it occurred to me that I could take control of this situation.
"But we're not talking about me. Not tonight. It's your turn." It was long past his turn, actually. I had told him the banal and mundane things about my life for a long time, it seemed. He probably knew mine and my mother's routine inside out—even more so now that he'd actually spent the night in my house. In my bed. How crazy was that?
And yet I hadn't even known that his father was the band's manager. Or that he had a little sister who was two years old. I probably would never have known he'd dated Savannah if Madison and Lindsay hadn't told me. And I definitely wouldn't have known that he'd already talked to her about that Black List if he hadn't busted in on Lindsay's angered escape earlier.
He hadn't even told me the band's name until Elyse brought it up. So I could only imagine what else I didn't know about Dorian Christopher Birch's life. And suddenly that felt all wrong, crazy to me. That I could feel so much for someone I didn't even know outside of his guitar, his passion for music, and his lyrics. And, oh yeah, okay, his kisses. Those definitely counted as something I knew very well. I'd replayed each often enough in my own mind to be quite familiar with them.
But that didn't make DC any less of a mystery to me. After all these weeks sometimes he still felt like that strange boy who sat too close to me on the bus ride to school one day and then threatened my life. It wasn't a pleasant realization.
"My turn?" He sounded surprised and maybe even a little bit amused by the prospect. Like he hadn't commandeered our every conversation and steered it more towards things about me and my life every single chance he got. Whenever I'd attempted to bring him into conversation about himself, he always managed to derail me somehow.
Okay, it wasn't hard. I knew that. He just had to mention me singing or something else that horrified me, and my mind was gone down the slippery slope of terror. But I was also beginning to realize that he knew that. And maybe that he'd done it on purpose. Often.
"Yes," I confirmed, emboldened by my thoughts. "Your turn. We're only talking about you, or I'm going to sleep." I was determined to stay on topic. "And I've moved the spare key. So no more sneaking in for you."
I hadn't, actually, but I made a note to do that first thing in the morning.
"Care," he sounded even more amused. "I'm sorry about last night. Really." Amusement didn't sound contrite at all. "But you've been ignoring me for days. Would you have preferred balloons?"
"Funny. You're funny." He was not funny. "But we're not talking about me." And no, I absolutely would not have preferred the apology balloon tactic. Cruel and unusual punishment. "Tell me about your conversation with Savannah Reed. Tell me why you can never sleep at night. Tell me about your little sister and your dad and his wife, and why you don't live with them, and why you wanted to kill me on the bus that day. Tell me about how you started the band and why you can't sing the old songs anymore, and why every song you wrote was about Savannah. Tell me, why me? Why do you want me to sing in your band?" I had too many questions. I should have written them all down. "Tell me why Paisley hates me. Tell me Perry's name."
