Erase and Rewind (Full Book)

Chapter Six: Freshman

"You should've let me read your cup," Malik's mother said over the phone.

His mother excelled at reading Turkish coffee cups. Unlike tea leaves, coffee readings demanded the drinker finish the drink then flip the small cup on its saucer. The person doing the reading would infer the future from the pattern created by the grounds. They were often accurate to a terrifying degree, whether the readings were good or bad. Malik had sworn off what was once a fun childhood ritual. He didn't enjoy looking over his shoulder for a crow with white wings because of what resided in his cup.

"I'm okay, Mama," Malik said.

"Do you have food in the fridge? You can't go without breakfast."

There were some energy bars and coffee. He'd shop later. "Yeah. I'm alright."

His mother then rattled off all the dangers he should avoid tomorrow, along with orders of dos and don'ts. He should set his alarm. Take his clothes to the laundromat, and he needed to unpack. Boxes flanked the door.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah, but I gotta go. Cool?"

She sighed. "I love you."

"Same."

If she could see the apartment, Malik doubted he would've been able to get her off the phone this easily. And he prayed she didn't intend to call every day.

Malik could smell the grease wafting from the fish and chips shop on the ground floor. The man who owned it was delighted to know Malik was not of the opinion that the store was as foul as the other tenants claimed. He even offered a discount on Malik's first order.

Malik reached for one of the top boxes marked "Channel". The labels were his mother's idea. He took out the tripod wrapped in brown paper and duct tape, the twin poles of lighting units, and the Canon camera.

The camera burst into life at the press of the right top button. The battery registered as full, and the settings were in order. Malik took it on a mock tour of the place. He started with the living room, sweeping over the TV, the coffee table, and the lone couch smothering the black and ruby red carpet.

"It makes farting noises whenever you sit, too," Malik said to the camera.

The bedroom wasn't too bad, but the bed creaked whenever Malik tossed and turned. The bathroom was compact, with a narrow sink and a small tub that Malik never found comfortable enough to lounge in. The open kitchen, where no one cooked, was the last on the tour.

On the table sat a set of faux china plates, various sleek black mugs, and some gleaming pots and pans. They were probably courtesy of his parents— or rather his mother. He couldn't see his father going through the trouble.

Ha. His father.

Malik stopped the video. He would make up his mind later if he'd edit and share it. The snarky voiceover comments had been Mena's thing.

Malik's phone buzzed in his pocket. He set the camera on the coffee table next to the laptop. For a second, his chest swelled then sank as Liz's name brightened the screen. For a brief moment, he'd hoped it would be an unknown number. He wanted Jude to have been the person calling.

He jumped in the shower. The water from the showerhead pelted against his back, drowning out the ringing of his phone. His body hardened at the thought of Jude, how his slim body had struggled against his. The power he exuded as he struggled beneath Malik...

Malik turned the water to cold. It was wrong on so many levels. When he'd remembered the sight of Jude's body writhing, his chest tightened, and his heartbeat did curious skips. He thought he'd chat him up and leave it at that. Then things got out of hand.