“Are you okay eating here?” Jase asks. The legs of the chair make a scratching noise on the floor as he pulls it out for me. I stare at the chair for a moment, marveling at the kindness while questioning his intentions.
He feels bad for me. That’s all I can think. He’s being nice because I’m wounded. That’s all this is.
“I’d rather be alone,” I finally answer him, finding my voice and feeling the cords in my neck tensing as I look back at him. I have to force my words out of my dry throat and they hurt as I do. “I just need to be alone for a moment.” My breath shudders and the back of my eyes prick as I see the visions of last night again. Only three rooms down. The grand dining room is only three doors down from here.
“Please,” I say quickly in a whisper and place the wine down on the table with as much grace as I can.
With both hands on the table, he looks over his shoulder and says something to Declan, but I don’t hear what.
“You going to be okay?” he asks me as I hear Declan’s footsteps leaving the kitchen.
“How long does it take to be okay after murdering someone? Even if you feel it was justified in every way?” I ask Jase and he merely looks past me at Declan’s exit before bringing his eyes to mine.
Jase doesn’t answer me; he simply looks back at me as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
I start to think he’ll leave me like that, taking his plate with him, but instead, he asks me his own question, “You want me to grab another bottle?” to which I can only nod in response.
He’s kind enough to grant me both the loneliness and the second bottle I desire.
Chapter 8
Carter
You were supposed to be gentle with her.
Agitation leaves me in a singular deep groan. I don’t respond to Jase’s text and I don’t intend to. He doesn’t recognize the severity of the situation. He doesn’t know shit about her.
He doesn’t know what she needs.
The bitter thought stays with me as I shut down my phone and quietly enter the kitchen. I know she’s still sitting where she was an hour ago and just as I expect, she doesn’t see me come in.
She never does. She always gives me the opportunity to watch her, to see what she’s like when she doesn’t know I’m looking.
I’m hardly ever disappointed, but watching as she fills her glass again, the pleasure of being in her presence again is dulled.
It’s becoming a crutch. If she knows I’ll be gone, she drinks. It’s only happened twice, but still, I notice. Part of me recognizes her condition. Her situation. I realize it may be easy for her to give in to a vice and let herself slip somewhere where the pain is absent, and the choices are meaningless. But I don’t want it to become a habit.
With a twist of her finger, she pulls my necklace she wears up closer to her lips, letting the diamonds and pearls play there in between sips of wine and absentminded hums.
Her lips part slightly as she sways in her seat and stares at a black and white photograph that’s in the hall. She hums against the gemstones and I wish I knew what she was thinking. The sadness and tortured stare tell me she’s still there, my little songbird with clipped wings.
I don’t recognize the song that she hums. I never do. Sometimes it sounds more like a conversation than a song.
I follow her gaze as I walk closer to her; the black and white photograph is a picture of the side of our old house. The one that burned down. The one that her father had burned down, expecting the four of us to be inside and sleeping.
I feel a sudden pinch along the edge of my heart, reminding me the damn thing is there.
“What are you thinking?” I ask Aria, ignoring the pain in my chest and causing her to jump from the tone of my deep voice.
Her expression is soft, as are her eyes when she turns in her seat. There’s even the hint of happiness on her lips.
“You’re back,” she says and there’s a lightness in her statement. She can’t hide the relief that slurs with her words. And that bit of disappointment I have at her drunkenness returns.
“I said I’d be back tonight.” It’s all I offer her as I pull out the chair next to her, letting the feet drag across the floor noisily.
“What were you doing?” she asks me with a pleasantness that seems genuine.
She’s naïve to think I do anything pleasant this late at night.
I was ending the life of a thief. A drug addict who bought more and more of SL and wouldn’t answer a simple question.