Page 9 of Deck of Scarlets

“Yes, I also said…” She paused, her eyes bulging from their sockets. “Remi, what happened to your arm?”

She reached for the wound, and a hiss escaped my mouth from her touch. “I tripped, that’s all.” Leaning away, I felt the sting again.

“That looks too bruised for a trip.” She tried to get another closer look, but I blocked her with a pillow.

“Linda,” said my father sternly. He leaned casually against the entrance of my bedroom, his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Robert, have you seen her bruise? It’s huge.”

He looked at me over his reading glasses. “Jesus, Remi. What happened?”

“I told you, I tripped. It’s fine,” I huffed.

“On what? Where did you land?” Mom questioned.

“You never gave Aiden this much flack for going out.” I rubbed away the exhaustion from my eyes.

“Aiden got over it once we picked him up from the hospital after his stomach was pumped,” Dad reminded me.

“Robert,” muttered Linda.

I remembered that night all too well. I thought my brother was dead for the first twenty-four hours until my parents wheeled him out of the elevator. The bruises covering his arms and the deep gash across his left eyebrow, almost touching his eyeball, scarred me for life.

My fingers found the flask hidden underneath my pillow, guilt rising in my throat. “I’m a little bit more responsible than him.”

Dad pushed off the doorframe. “Yes, Remi, you seem to surpass the hospital visits. Now, clean yourself up and join your mother and me for breakfast.”

My parents retreated to the dining room while I was left cleaning up last night’s mess.

Finding the water bottle I knocked over just before bed with the lid still screwed on tight was a bonus. My heels were flung across the room, and I had no recollection of tossing them in that direction. Excessive makeup wipes were scattered across the little rug near my bed. Black eyeliner smudged in bold swipes and bent fake eyelashes stuck to one wipe like glue. Red lipstick was smeared down my arm; I wasn’t surprised I didn’t use the makeup wipe to get it off. My mini Gucci cross-body purse was wide open, with its contents dumped on one side of the bed. Either I searched for my stupid phone again, or I got the urge to shop online drunk and couldn’t find my platinum card. It wouldn’t be the first time I did that.

It occurred to me that my parents cared very little about the mess when visiting me. They must be in a perfect mood today. Which could only mean one thing; they scored a massive sale in their company.

Having both parents work in real estate and owning their own company meant less time seeing them at home, but it also meant double the losses if something fell through the cracks.

And I would hear their silent anger throughout the whole penthouse.

I found the strength to get my stiff body out of bed and head to the bathroom. I was pretty damn lucky to have my parents, especially for them giving me a free pass this summer to do what I wanted before the first semester of college started. You’re talking to the incoming freshman of Columbia University, class of blah blah blah; this was my Grams’ idea. Her will stated I would attend, everything paid for with her money, including room and board. Aiden received her convertible; I got a free ride to fucking college.

I won’t lie, the satisfaction of watching my mother hear the will read to her when she was banking on her daughter attending Yale or Harvard was priceless, but that didn’t ease my frustration with my deceased grams.

It explained her sudden interest in having me apply to all those colleges. I loved her, but she did me dirty.

With the last makeup wipe tossed in the wastebasket, I ditched my clothing, which required a copious amount of effort to unzip, including the black handkerchief around my arm, and took a shower, getting last night’s sweat and club smell off my body. I began to wash my hair, wincing when I lifted my arm to find the tender wound in shades of purple and red.

“Shit,” I hissed.

Trying to avoid the water hitting it, I cleaned myself, getting lost in my head again. I could enjoy college, join a club, or become part of a sorority. The possibilities were endless. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Because the very last thing I wanted to do was join the mundane life society had to offer.

I stepped out of the shower, dripping from head to toe, grabbed a towel, windshield wiped the mirror, and saw my reflection. My summer tan was glowing; you would never know I turned into Casper during the winter. Bloodshot eyes and a swollen bottom lip reminded me of last night’s events.

Kal. God, he was so handsome and mysterious, and who the hell was texting him, interrupting our make-out session? Regardless, his last words left me a little disappointed. I’ll see you around. Yeah, right; the chances of me seeing that pretty face again were slim to none, especially in New York City. All I had left to remind me were sore lips and faded memories.

Replacing the welcome thoughts of Kal pressed against me in the alley, horrifying images of the terrifying creature lurking in the shadows left me chilled and wondering what the flask had been spiked with. Then my dream suddenly flashed in snippets, like a broken memory, and I had to use the sink for support to get my wits about me. There was no scientific explanation, no concrete proof that what I saw last night existed. I got caught up in the high of the drugs and the feral emotions of Kal. There’s no way in hell what I saw was real.

I dashed from the bathroom, retrieved the flask from under my pillow, and took a sip. The whiskey took everything bad away, and I refused to let whatever lurked in the shadows haunt me forever. Breathing evenly through my nose, counting backward from ten, I took one more sip. Eventually, my unsettled nerves calmed, and I was able to put the flask away in exchange for a hairbrush.

I untangled the blonde mess I called hair, dried off, and put on some sweats and an old T-shirt. I went commando because I tended to forget to wash my undies and our housekeeper was on vacation for the week.

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