Page 11 of Daring the Defender

How hard can it be?

5

Shelby

Like Axel said,the guys left the house early. Their heavy footsteps and barely concealed whispers echoing down the stairs didn’t wake me. I’d already been up for hours.

It started like it always did, caught in the thick of a dream where I was running–no–I was being chased through the dark cold night. The street was unfamiliar, but the feeling of gasping for breath, of running, wasn’t. That happened every time. In front of me was a set of steps. I threw myself up them, glancing over my shoulder, looking for the person coming for me. I tripped, stumbling forward, falling into something hard.Someonewarm.

That’s when I woke, scared and confused, my cotton pajamas drenched in a cold sweat. Under the tight, suffocating feeling in my chest, my heart pounded, thrumming like it was on the verge of escape.

I lie there until daybreak, waiting for the panic to subside. By the time the boys are moving, and the front door snaps shut, I’m able to breathe again. When I’m sure I’m alone, I get out ofbed and peel off the clothes I sweated through the night before. I didn’t pack much, needing to make a quick getaway. Grabbing a fresh set of clothes, I carry them, and my toiletry bag, to the bathroom. The bathroom is small, but cleaner than it was the night before, making me think that Axel must have told Reid to tidy up. Reese has his own bathroom attached to his room and as far as I know, the fourth roommate, Jefferson, never came home. There’s the distinct scent of something male in the room and a collection of products lining the window sill. I make the water scalding, hot enough to burn off the grime of travel and the sweat from my nightmare, and wonder if I’ve ruined my life.

Like Axel said, I’m a twenty-year-old who ran away from her parents, her home, and her fiance.

But it actually may be worse. I think I may be a coward.

Case in point; I haven’t turned on my phone since I left home. I wanted to make sure no one could find me on the family tracking app, or cave if I got a text or phone call. And now in the light of day, it seems like too much to manage. Reality. Reality seems like too much to manage.

With my hair still wet, I head downstairs. It looks like a bomb has gone off. The pizza, cans and beer bottles are still on the coffee table from last night. The kitchen wasn’t clean when I got here, but has accumulated another layer of mess from the guys eating breakfast. I take in the cereal bowls, the empty jug of milk, the dirty dishes in the sink, and the left-out food and a shudder runs up my spine.

I’d always heard the rumor, but I know now that it’s a fact: boys are pigs.

I do a quick tour of the downstairs. The main floor has an open kitchen, dining area, and living room. Near the flatscreen and gaming system, are a set of double French doors. The windows are painted over. I try the knob and it opens, leading to a small enclosed porch. It’s cool out here, obviously not asinsulated from the winter air. There’s a ratty but comfortable-looking couch and two mountain bikes hanging on the wall. I step back into the living room and close the door.

My life may be complete chaos right now, but one thing has always made me feel better; getting organized. And clearly, there’s no better place to start than this house. If anything, I see it as a gift–something to keep me distracted from the fact I’m avoiding my phone, my fiance, and my family.

“Where do I even start?” I mutter, assessing the room. I spot the laundry room off the kitchen and head in. Sure enough, there are actual cleaning supplies on the shelves over the washer and dryer. I grab them and notice the speaker over the sink, I press play on the current song list, and a loud, upbeat, pop song fills the room. It’s unfamiliar, but with David’s father being the music minister and our shared upbringing, we don’t listen to a lot of secular music.

Whatever this girl is singing about, she’s got a lot of energy and that’s exactly what I need right now. Pushing up my sleeves, I fill the sink with hot, soapy water, and get to work.

“You can take my boots,my car, and my heart, but you can’t take my words and you sure as fuck won’t get my cat…”

The words come out full-throttle as I peer into the oven at the cheese bubbling on top of the casserole. I’ve had the song on repeat for at least an hour, the lyrics unfurling something tight and hard in my chest.

“Because you–”

“Shelby?”

I jump and spin around, seeing my brother and his three amused roommates behind him.

“Jeez,” I take a deep breath, “you scared me.”

“We could hear you two houses away.” He tosses his bag on the floor, then squints at me. “Wait. Are you crying?”

“No.” I brush a fat, hot tear off my cheek. “Yes. It’s just… this music. It speaks to me.”

“Ah.” A guy I’ve never met but recognize from some of Axel’s ChattySnap photos grins as he shuts the door. He’s huge. Taller than the other guys, with broad shoulders and shaggy blond hair that feathers away from his defined, chiseled features. “You got flocked.”

“What?” I ask, alarmed, cheeks burning. Is this some kind of college euphemism I don’t understand? To be fair, I feel like anything this guy says would make me feel like it’s sexual.

“Flocked,” the guy says. “That’s what people call fans of Ingrid Flockton.”

Reid rolls his eyes and mutters, “Here we go.”

“I'm Jefferson by the way.” He smiles again, and the cutest dimple punctures his cheek, and wow. It’s like being hit with a thousand watt lightbulb.

“She’s just so raw. Her songs say exactly what I feel.” Heartbreak. Anger. Desperation. But most of all empowerment.

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