I sit in the back row and watch her take notes the entire length of class and it’s pure torture. Finally, I decide that I need to get the hell out of here, so instead of heading to my next class, I leave the campus. I think about calling my best friend, Kayden Owens, and seeing what he’s up to, but I don’t really feel like having company. I feel like doing something that will distract me. Something reckless. Dangerous. Something that comes with risks, chances for trouble, fighting.
I go back to my apartment and grab my stash of cash, which I keep in my sock drawer. I’m up to three thousand bucks and start counting out half of it, but then take the whole damn thing with me. I stuff the stash into my pocket and then head out the door, but pause when I see that I forgot to put the copy of Amy’s journal away. It’s opened up to the page I was reading, before I had to put it down; the one where she starts to get depressed, right after Caleb raped her. If only we would have found this sooner, then maybe she could have gotten some help.
I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t feel this way. I just want to feel like a normal person again, not so sick and wrong on the inside. I want to feel like Amy again.
I shut the notebook and tuck it under the pillow, the thought haunting my mind as I stagger drunkenly out of the apartment and toward the condos on 5th and Grove, knowing that despite the warm and welcoming appearance of the area, I’m going to a very dangerous place. I’ve heard stories about where I’m going, the things the guys are involved in, the consequences that come with screwing them over. But I don’t have the will to give a shit.
As I’m heading for the entrance door, my phone starts ringing inside my pocket and Kayden’s name flashes across the screen. I know if I answer it, he’s going to ask me why I missed class and if I’m coming to workout. When I say no, he’s going to start questioning me and I had enough questions from Seth this morning. So I send him to voicemail and finish the journey to the door. Before I enter into the lobby, I give Toverson—my connection—the guy who invited me to a game here a couple of weeks ago, a shout on the phone,
He answers after four rings. “What’s up?”
“Hey, it’s Luke.” I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand as I lean against the glass entrance door. “I think I want to take you up on your offer and sit in on a game.”
“Where you at?” he asks. I can hear voices in the background, sounds of poker chips clinking together, loud music. I crave to be there, crave the solitude it’ll give me like f**king women used to do before I met Violet.
“I’m actually downstairs, just outside the lobby.” I glance through the door at the security person sitting behind the desk, watching me like a hawk.
“You know about the high buy in, right?” he asks, the noise in the background fading. “It’s more than just the hundred like it is at Denny’s.”
“Yeah, I know. I brought three thousand with me.”
He pauses and seconds later I hear a door shut. The background noises go completely quiet. “No offense, but where’d you get that sort of cash?”
“I’ve been saving up.” I don’t bother telling him it’s all I have, since it’s none of his business.
“All right then, I’ll buzz you up,” he says but then pauses. “But just a little bit of warning. These guys up here don’t mess around like they do at Denny’s so be careful. You get caught doing anything they don’t like and they won’t just let you off with a slap on the hand.”
“I got it,” I say. He’s subtly warning me—don’t cheat or else you’re f**ked.
I always cheat though and I have no plans of stopping now. It takes the thrill out of it and I need the thrill. Still, I pause for a moment, the alcohol in my system settling just enough for me to see through the haze and I almost chicken out, deciding that I might be getting in over my head when I see a guy three times my size open the door and greet me. But then the booze starts scorching through my veins again and I follow him inside and up to the second floor. When he opens the door and lets me in, I feel so much better. Tables, black, red, white, and blue chips. The smoke. The booze. Women everywhere. Danger. Risks. Suddenly I feel very content inside. All of my distractions—my addictions— are right in front of me and I want them all.
Violet
School drags by slower than usual. Maybe that’s because of my encounter with Luke. Or maybe it’s just because I know I’m going fishing when it’s over; fishing for a guy, who knows a lot of guys, who like to get high. I’d been upset at first when Preston asked me to do this on a Monday, but I decided after my spazz out with Luke, that maybe I needed a break from the reality of being stuck in my own head. Maybe I needed to be that girl again who dressed up, played the part, and didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything.
After my last class, I find the bathroom and slip into the outfit I keep in my bag for occasions like these. A short black dress that shows off my legs and top it off with red lipstick and glittery high heels. I look like a prostitute but that’s kind of the point. Seduction. I’m going to go through with it. I’m going to be that girl again.
I can do this,” I mutter to my reflection as I look in the mirror. But the girl in the mirror looks unconvinced. Taking a quick break, I turn away and lean against the sink to make a phone call I try to make at least once a week.
“Hello, Detective Stephner speaking,” he answers after two rings.
“This is Violet,” I say, shutting my eyes and crossing my fingers that maybe this will be the time he gives me good news. “Violet Hayes. I was just… checking in.”
As soon as he sighs, I know nothing has changed. “Violet, I know you want to know—and trust me we do to—but these things take time.”
“It’s been almost two months.”
“I know. We’re still working on getting the search warrant approved.”
“Can’t you move any faster?” I say more harshly than I planned. “Sorry, it’s just that it’s driving me crazy.”
“I know,” he replies. “And trust me, I’m not resting until it’s solved either. But I also need you to let me call you when something happens, instead of checking in.”
“Sorry for bugging you,” I mutter, opening my eyes.
“You’re not bugging me at all. I just want you to stop stressing about this and try to live a normal life,” he says. “And while we’re on the phone. How’s the texting from that reporter? Did he stop?”