He was gone the entire next night and day. Blake ended up pumping the serum into me, and so I was reduced to a lethargic mess just lying on the couch. Angel had been right, oddly. The serum worked, but at the expense of my abilities and energy. There was no motivation, no energy, nothing.
Oh, and my heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest.
Feelings. That was what August said. He had feelings for me. What did that even entail? I was too far passed the point of no return to deny I felt nothing for him, but that was exactly what I did. Blatant lies thrown in his face, less than what he deserved, and still I had done it. What was wrong with me?
And to make matters worse, Angel thought it the brilliant idea she would return to my head, at the most random of times, and send me fleeting images of her pastimes. Because my sister was cold-hearted, her pastime involved killing people. Usually innocents. And since I couldn’t do what she did, and didn’t know where she was, I couldn’t stop it. All I could do was lay on the couch in the living room of the safe house, unable to summon by own abilities, and watch the sick show of my sister massacring in my head.
It was plain torture.
Blake crept into the living room on almost noiseless feet the next night, as I lay staring up at the ceiling, stunned from Angel’s most recent killing. I hadn’t told any of my house mates about the visions, but they had enough on their hands. Especially with nobody knowing where August was.
“Hey,” Blake said, lowering down on the table in front of me. He wore an old t-shirt and jeans, caked with flour. Must have been cooking something. “How are you?”
Phenomenal. I’ve seen Angel kill about twenty people, August is still gone, and my life feels as if it’s slipping through my fingers like sand. But all I said was, “Fine.”
“Now, I definitely don’t believe that.” A small smile twitched his lips up, though it was more for my benefit, and I didn’t return the gesture.
“Okay.”
Blake sighed. “Come on, El. We’re all worried about you. What even happened between you two?”
I turned my face into the pillow, trying to hide my embarrassment and confusion. “He said he might have feelings for me.”
“That’s great!” he exclaimed, brightening up. “Isn’t it? That’s what we wanted to hear, right?”
Apparently not.
He shifted closer. “Right, Ellie?”
“I told him I didn’t.”
“What?”
“That I didn’t have feelings for him. Or anybody. I told him so.”
“But . . . but that’s a lie.”
“He doesn’t have to know that.”
“Oh, God.” Blake scrubbed a hand over his face, and then ruffled his shaggy blonde hair. “You just hate the prospect of being happy, don’t you?”
“It’s not that,” I whispered.
“Then what?”
I swallowed hard, pushing myself up to a sitting position. It was unbelievably difficult. “I’ll make him unhappy,” I said. “Don’t you see? Everybody I care about dies. Everybody. And that’s just a fact. Just a fact I’ve come to accept.”
Even as I spoke Blake was shaking his head. “You can’t really believe that, Ellie.”
“It’s true. I do.”
“No.”
“Why are you so insistent on this happening, anyway?” I questioned, hugging a pillow to my chest. “What do you care?”
“Because it means the rest of us will be okay.”
Now I was just confused. “Huh?”
“Jeez, Ellie, you really can be dense sometimes.” He chuckled softly, calming his rising emotions. “It’s so hard to find . . . companionship, in this world. The good kind. It’s hard to find people to depend on, and people you know for a fact you would die for in a heartbeat. It’s just difficult, especially considering our situations. It was just reassuring, El, that someone like you and someone as broken and messed up as August could have something.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Apology seemed wrong. No answer seemed adequate. There was just silence following his explanation, forcing me to think about everything.
“Or, that’s how we view it,” Blake added, scratching the back of his neck. He stood. “Anyway, Ryan needs me. Something about a Prophet sighting, so we’re gonna go check it out. You hungry or anything?”
“No.”
“Okay. Jessica’s out doing the December shopping, so it’ll just be you. Hang tight, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And do me a favor; think about what I said.”
I nodded. “Sure, Blake.”
He leaned in and deposited an affectionate kiss to the top of my head before disappearing out of sight. The house became quiet with me as the only occupant. And I wasn’t a generally loud person, anyway. There was just the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the rustling trees outside, and the loudness inside my head.
Take a step with Augie, they all told me to do. Take a chance. It’s worth it.
How did they know that, though? How did they know it would be worth it in the end? Everybody I dared let worm their way into my heart ended up six feet under the ground.
At times like this, I really did wish I had my mother. My biological mother. Someone who could guide me and make sense of everything. Someone who could take the load off my shoulders once in a while.
August would do that. You know he would.
“Aargh,” I growled, flopping my head back. I just needed to stop thinking about him. I needed to stop.
So much easier said than done.
I rolled off the couch and shuffled up the stairs, intent on going to my room and the comfort of my bed, but for some reason my feet stopped outside August’s. I’d been in there once, when we just arrived at the safe house and he was recovering from the bullet to the chest. Just the memory sent a shiver down my spine. I didn’t know what I would do if I had lost him. If my one true, steadfast ally hadn’t come back . . .
You brought him back.
Because you couldn’t live without him.
I pushed through the door before I could convince myself otherwise, seeing August had put some thought into redecorating the place. A couple classic rock band posters covered the wall. I recognized the names: Def Leppard, Styx, Poison. Bands he told me about when we had been on the road together. There was a TV against one wall, stacked with DVDs and VHS tapes, because he was a secret movie buff. And then his bed, perfectly made. A few shirts scattered his floor, and some mismatched socks, but that was it.
Being in his room was . . . pleasant. A strange kind of calming, like being wrapped up in his arms. This was his space, and it was so distinctly August.
Perching on the edge of his bed, I did one last scan around his room, smiling to myself. There was a small picture frame on the nightstand beside his bed, and I figured it would be a picture of Jessica.
I was wrong.
It was me.
A candid shot, taken a couple months back. Of me standing in the doorway, face split in a wide smile as I laughed. I remembered that day. He had found an old camera in the basement, one that belonged to a long-dead house occupant, and taken pictures of everything. This was the last picture.
“Smile,” he had said.
So I did, but he wasn’t happy with it. Too forced, I was pretty sure. So he did something ridiculous that was crazy funny to me, and the moment I grinned, he snapped the picture.
I couldn’t believe he kept it.
“What are you doing in here?”
The sudden voice caused me to jump, and I wasn’t sure I was put anymore at ease when I registered August standing in the doorway.
“August,” I breathed, shooting to my feet. “You . . . you’re back.”
He entered the room. Or, stumbled. A lot. And completely missed the light switch when he swiped at it. With a growl, he decided against it, moving toward his closet.
“August.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he growled.
“You’re drunk.”
“So?”
“You never get drunk.”
“What are you, my mother?” he yanked his shirt off his head, falling against the wall, and tossed it in a crumpled heap to his closet floor. I folded my hands against my chest, unmoving.
August didn’t say anything for a moment, working his jeans off his legs, leaving him in his t-shirt and boxers. All I could do was stand there, stunned, immobile.
He turned toward me, hair disheveled, eyes puffy from lack of sleep. Hands curled into fists, he stalked toward me. And though he towered above me, in presence and power and muscle, I stood my ground.
Because this was August Masterson
He wouldn’t hurt me.
“This is my room,” he hissed. “You should not be in here.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”
I winced.
“Get out.”
“No,” I denied quietly. “Not until I know you’re okay. You don’t look okay.”
He laughed. The sound was bitter and too loud. “Of course I’m not fucking okay. People don’t get drunk on a week day for shits and giggles, you know.”
Except I didn’t know. I didn’t know a lot of things. “You drove home? Drunk?” Even I possessed the knowledge to know how stupid of an idea that was.
“Made it here just fine.”
“Something could have happened to you.”
“Oh, so now she cares about what happens to me!” he cried, holding his arms out as he spoke to open air. “How fucking rich.”
Anger welled within me. I stepped closer to him, jabbing my index finger against his chest. “Never think I don’t care about what happens to you,” I quipped. “I always care.”
“Don’t lie to my face.”
“I’m not!”
“Yes you are!” and then his hands were on my shoulders, forcing me down onto the bed. He crawled on top, caging me in, not allowing me to leave. I looked up into his intense blue eyes, raging with emotions. “You already said you don’t care about me.”
There was some sense of brokenness behind the ferocity of his words. A hint of hurt. And it cut me to the core knowing I caused it. “I didn’t mean it,” I whispered.
“Yes you did. They always do.”
“No.”
He stared down into my eyes, breathing hard. His breath reeked of alcohol. But I couldn’t look away, because I owed him that much, and it wasn’t that hard for his eyes to imprison me.
“August,” I breathed.
Instead of answering, he ducked his head and kissed my neck.
My breath caught in my throat so fast and suddenly I almost choked.
It wasn’t just one kiss. It was a bunch of them, trailed down my neck, behind my ear, over my shoulder. His hair tickled my chin. My stomach clenched as my knees seemed to draw up automatically, cradling his body. My nails dug into his biceps. I just needed something to hold on to. It felt like I was falling, even though I knew for a fact I wasn’t going anywhere.
Saying his name was futile. It ended up as nothing more than a breathy exhalation, which encouraged him further, his tongue flickering against my collarbone. I tilted my head back and to the side, granting him access to anything; everything. Desire surpassed want and settled in the indefinite gray area of unadulterated need.
“Mm,” he grunted, stopping at the hemline of my long-sleeved shirt. He reversed his direction and kissed my chin, and then leaned his forehead against it. His hair smelled like citrus and musk. Shampoo.
I liked being close enough to smell his shampoo.
I liked having his heart beating against mine.
I liked feeling his breath on my skin.
But I shouldn’t like it. Liking it wasn’t allowed.
Pushing away was hard, though, when his tongue flickered out against the base of my neck and I could do little more than grab the blankets around me in a stranglehold, trying to remember how to speak. Words. When did words become so hard?
Drunk, Ellie. He’s drunk.
The recollection was a bucket of ice water dumped down my back. With all the force in me I pushed him back, wriggling out from beneath him. I hit the floor with a hard thump, and August watched me with steely eyes.
“You’re not into it,” he said. He reminded me of the guy at the bar. You’re not into it. That was true, though. I hadn’t been that into Steven.
But you’re so into August.
Shut up, brain.
“You aren’t you,” I murmured, not even daring to move. “There’s too much alcohol in your system.”
August snorted. “Please. I’m myself enough.”
“Even so.”
“Even so what, Ellie? You really feel absolutely nothing between us?”
My teeth clenched together so hard my jaw ached. “Not a thing,” I lied.
“Maybe if you weren’t so damn difficult and scared all the time, you could acknowledge it,” he bit out, and the zinger hit me all the way through, like a bullet.
I finally pushed myself off the floor, wrapping my arms around my middle. August’s eyes bore through me like knives. “You don’t mean that,” I whispered.
“Of course I do. Why would I say something I don’t mean?”
He had a point. “I’m sorry.”
“And there’s that! Quick fucking apologizing all the time! It gets old real fast.”
I bristled. August was virtually the only person who could ruffle my feathers as much as he was. Yelling and screaming and throwing things weren’t habits of mine. I usually just self-imploded. But with him everything was pushed outward; to the surface. With him, I couldn’t always help external displays of emotions.
“Well, what do you want from me?” I demanded, hands curling into fists.
August vaulted off the bed, stopping mere inches from me. “It’s clear what I want from you,” he whispered gruffly, and the sound travelled through my entire body as pleasurable warmth. Even so, when he reached out to touch me, I backed away.
“I don’t like it when you drink,” I told him.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, chuckling darkly. “Too fucking bad, sweetheart.”
Goose bumps broke out across my skin. Furious goose bumps. I was furious that August would put all this on me, furious that he disappeared for almost forty-eight hours and was evidently drinking for the majority of them, and absolutely, irrevocably furious that all I really wanted to do was fold myself into his body. To just be against him, with him; apart of him.
But not like this.
Not with his disheveled hair and beard and bloodshot eyes. Not with him half-dressed in boxers and a t-shirt. Not with him forcing things on me that I couldn’t handle. And especially not with these accusations, regardless of how true they were.
“What about you?” I fired back, approaching him on an angry step.
He snorted indelicately. “Me?”
“Yes. This is because of you. You started all of this because you couldn’t just keep everything tucked away!”
“What the hell else was I supposed to do? Let everything fester until I exploded? Newsflash; that’s what you do, and it has yet to work out!”
“But I can’t handle this right now!” I screamed—yes, screamed—right into his face. “My sister is killing everybody and my body is all screwed up, and there’s just no time for anything else!”
August’s entire body clenched, the muscles in his arms and forearms flexing with the tautness. His jaw tightened and his shoulders bunched, as if trying to restrain himself the best he could. I tried to read his eyes, but the regular blue was darker, guarded; fortified by ten-foot-tall cement walls.
He wasn’t about to let anybody in.
“This is what you want, huh?” he began, quieter.
“Yes.”
“You, Jessica, all the girls at Yale. Even my family. You just want what you expect of me, and nothing else.”
My heart cracked. Surely the sound could be heard all across America. “No,” I rushed out, chancing another step toward him, laying my hands on his arms. “No, Augie.”
“Good at sex and fighting. That’s all anybody ever needs me for, right?”
His words surely could not be true, but he said them without a trace of doubt in his voice or on his face. That was what he thought. And he was so, so wrong, because that wasn’t all he was good for. He was caring, and thoughtful, and intelligent, and so adept at keeping things together. That was one of the reasons why I feared his current state of crumbling. Everything was falling apart at the seams.
Everything was falling apart between us.
But I didn’t know how to say any of that. Already I’d screwed everything up. Trying to figure out how it happened in the first place was useless. A whole lot of screaming, and choice hurtful words, and read-between-the-lines meanings I could only partially pick up on. I wanted to understand him, but it was hard enough without the defensive walls he constructed around himself.
“You can’t believe that,” I said to him.
“So what if I do?”
Another thinker. Blake was the consoler. He was the on-the-spot advice giver. I wasn’t like that, not matter how much I wanted to be. August was looking for things from me that I just couldn’t give.
He realized this, too, because with an ugly snarl he ripped away from me.
“August, please,” I begged, exasperated. “I’m trying.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re always trying, aren’t you? Always fucking trying.” In a burst of anger he swung an arm out and cleared his entire nightstand. The lamp fell, and an alarm clock, but what my eyes strayed upon was the picture of my face. It lay limp on the floor, covered in a blanket of broken glass shards. The frame splintered; defeated wooden fragments circling my laughing face.
Things weren’t easy back then by any means, but I had August. There was always our friendship, rock-solid and impenetrable. Come whatever, we could count on each other.
How did things get messed up so fast?
Clearly we hadn’t accounted for our own ability to destroy it. Outside forces couldn’t break through, but we could. We knew all the right places to hit to hurt each other the most.
“You’re impossible to talk to sometimes,” August continued, still striking all my susceptible points. “You get virtually nothing about pop culture, you screw up a joke like no tomorrow, and having to be so literal is freaking tedious.”
My throat tightened. “I’m trying, Augie. I’m getting better.”
“Ha! Clearly!”
“Don’t be like this. Stop attacking me.”
Crash. The entire nightstand was next, toppling to the floor and crushing the already broken glass, and my picture. I winced. “Maybe I will if the whole fucking world quits having it out for me, first!”
“August, stop. Please.” He was an untouchable cloud of anger and alcohol, and I should have just let it be. But I didn’t. My mistake was reaching for him, trying to pound some sort of common sense into his foggy brain.
“Quit touching me!” he growled, and then he pushed me.
He shoved me.
I stumbled backward, slamming against the wall hard enough to make his posters quiver. Dead silence followed, broken only by August’s harsh pants. His entire body seemed to have lost the tightness, and his blue eyes widened with regret.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Ellie, I . . . I didn’t mean to push you . . .”
The first tear rolled down my cheek; unstoppable. Because he hurt me.
August Masterson hurt me.
In more ways than one.
“I am sorry I have been such an inconvenience to you,” I said, trying my hardest to maintain some sort of dignity, even when all I really wanted to do was fall apart. “You should know that I think of you as my very best friend, and I’m trying day and night to get better, for you. Because I don’t want to let you down. You should also know that I care about you very much, but I’ve never had feelings for anybody before, and this scares me. I’m sorry I’m horrible at communicating how I feel. I just am. And I guess I’m sorry I ever pulled you into any of this.”
“No, El, I . . .”
But the opening of his bedroom door cut off his words. I didn’t look back or say anything else.
I just left.