Page 33 of Knight

Panting.

Groans.

Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzz.

A moan, “Damien …”

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

A vibration stirs me awake. The sunlight hardly breaks through black curtains when I open my eyes. It takes me a second to piece my surroundings together.

Black abstract chandelier.

Dark walls.

The smell of scotch and weed.

Hockey jersey on the wall.

Right.

I’m in the devil’s domain.

Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

My phone vibrates off the side table, dropping to the dark hardwood floor with a clatter. Groaning, I reach over, grabbing it. I’m greeted by twenty missed calls, even more texts. Willow, Christian, Allie and Nate.

Taking a deep breath, I’m finally ready to face the music. To see the results of my bad decision making. “Hey …” Expecting to see the devil himself when I roll over, the bed is empty. The side where I expect to see him is cold like I didn’t just spend the night with the enemy.

Texting the most important person first, Willow, I let her know I’m okay and I’ll be at school a little late. Glancing at the time it’s already eight-thirty. Fuck, I don’t even have my uniform. As I press send on the text, anger replaces the confusion in my heart.

He couldn’t even wake me?

I walk to Damien’s closet, looking for something that won’t get me kicked out of the Academy. I could rush back to the Archibalds’, but there’s no way I’m making it to homeroom on time. Every class I miss, every class I’m tardy for, that scholarship slips further away.

Mr. Hill already has his impressions of me, and I know they’re not good. Not after the antics the Supreme Squad pulled on me. So today I’m going to have to bend the rules a little. It’s fine. I’m good at that.

Finding a pair of ERA approved pants, I pull them on. They’re big on my waist, Damien’s body much wider than my boxy, boyish frame. I find one of his shirts, taking a tie as well. I haven’t read the ERA Welcome Guide but I’m sure it doesn’t say anything about girls wearing the boys’ uniform.

Once I’m dressed, I pile my curls on top of my head, taking a look around the room. With the light on, his closet isn’t that different from his bedroom. Decorated in black with speckles of white. Some gold here and there. There’s a shelf for everything. Ties. Shoes. Hats. There’s even a little rotisserie thing with a selection of watches. Walking over to it, my boots thudding against the dark wood, I run my finger along the cold metal of a gold Cartier. My eyes drop to the drawer underneath, one that looks like it’s filled with his boxers.

Pulling it out, I snort at the ones with robots on it before my eyes land on something else. A photo. A polaroid. Pulling it out there’s a photo of a beautiful woman in a large white hat, her dress almost as white as her complexion. She looks like a pin-up doll. A classic Marilyn Monore, dark hair in exchange for blonde. And like the famous starlet, there’s distance in her eyes. Eyes that are narrow and striking, like Damien’s. Blue.

My phone buzzes again from the room, pulling me out of my trance before I tuck the polaroid where I found it. I don’t check it before I move to the bathroom beside his closet. Once inside, I splash some water on my face from the white pedestal sink. The walls are dark blue, the wood floor a dark brown, the only other white things are the shower and large square tub.

Zoning in on the dark circles under my eyes, I pat my cold fingers against them. They’re getting worse and there’s more than one reason Damien’s clothes are hanging off me. My body looks thinner like I’m withering away in this town. Little by little. Lie by lie. Prank by prank.

Opening the large mirrored cabinet above the sink, I’m looking for something to help me out. My skin’s starting to look as washed out as Damien’s. He’s rich, his face smooth, soft and supple. There’s gotta be something in here that helps with that modelesque mug.

My eyes land on a piece of plastic that stops my hands in their rummaging paths. “Is that …” I mumble to myself, pulling it out off the glass shelf. It’s a hospital band, “Joelle Rowland” typed on the side. “He kept it.” The memories of that evening come flooding back.

I took a fucking bullet for him. An actual, real-life bullet. And he’s done nothing but treat me like shit. He can’t say he forgot because he kept the proof.

Shutting the cabinet, I brace the sink, racking my brain as I take a deep breath. I’m trying to figure him out. He’s sentimental, keeping a token from our time together, yet he constantly pushes me away. My phone buzzes again and I realize I need to get the fuck out of here.

Opening the cabinet, I grab the hospital band, tossing it in the trash on the way out of his room. I’m stopped in my tracks when I see who’s scurrying down the hall, out of Sebastien’s old doors.

My nose wrinkles, “Isaac?”

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