Page 27 of Her Name in Red
“Here,” he says, fumbling his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. The screen is cracked in one corner—a spiderweb of fractures that catches the light as he holds it out to me. “Put your number in. So I can reach you.”
I look at the phone, then up at his face. There's a bruise forming on his jaw where I gripped him too hard. He looks wrecked and beautiful and so fucking hopeful it makes my teeth ache.
“No thanks, golden boy,” I say, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “I'll text you later. Maybe.”
Confusion flits across his features, followed quickly by frustration. His fingers tighten around my arm, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his point. “You don't have my number.”
I lean in close, close enough that he holds his breath in anticipation. My lips brush against his ear as I whisper, “Don't I?”
Chapter 11
Maren
My apartment is a shithole, but it's my shithole. The landlord calls it “cozy” but that's just code for “we crammed everything into one room and called it a day.” Whatever. The rent's cheap, and nobody asks questions when I come home at weird hours with dirt and other things on my clothes.
After last year, I didn’t want anything he fucking touched, so it all had to go. Uncle Matteo offered to pay for everything brand fucking new, but the old Maren can’t come to the phone right now.
Because she’s fucking dead and buried along with the pretentious ass facade I maintained all through middle and high school.
I'm sprawled across my couch, the springs digging into my thigh in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. The TV flickers with images of Love After Lockup. Some blonde crying about her convict boyfriend who's been hiding another family on the outside. So predictable. I could've told her that in episode one.
“Dumbass,” I mutter, dipping the brush back into the bottle of polish. Blood-red, like always. The color slides over my nail in a smooth, perfect line. I've always had steady hands. Even when?—
I push that thought away and focus on the polish. The smell is sharp, chemical, and oddly comforting. I apply a second coat to my thumb meticulously, making sure the edge is perfect. No mistakes. No room for error.
A half-empty container of french fries sits on the coffee table next to an open Dr. Pepper. The soda's gone flat, but I take a swig anyway, careful not to smudge the wet polish on my left hand. The carbonation is barely there, just a ghost of fizz on my tongue.
On screen, the blonde is now screaming at her ex-con boyfriend, mascara running down her face in inky rivers. She looks unhinged, desperate, like she's clinging to something that was never real in the first place.
“He's using you, girl,” I tell her, though she can't hear me. “You're just a place to crash until something better comes along.”
I flex my fingers, watching how the wet polish catches the light from my shitty lamp. The color reminds me of Riggs' mouth after I bit him—that moment when surprise and pain and want all collided on his face. I shouldn't be thinking about that or him. But here I am three days later still tasting him whenever I lick my lips.
I finish the last nail on my right hand and lean back against the couch cushions. My apartment is small enough that I can see the whole thing from here—kitchenette with its mini-fridge and small stove, the bathroom door that never quite closes right, my unmade bed shoved against the wall.
The show credits roll as I inspect my handiwork, turning my hands this way and that. Perfect. Not a single smudge or uneven edge.
“Fucking fierce as always,” I murmur, blowing lightly on my nails to speed up the drying. They'll look even better tomorrow night.
I stretch, my tank top riding up to expose my stomach. The half-healed bruise on my hip is turning a sickly yellow-green, a souvenir from last week's...adventure. I press my thumb into it, welcoming the dull throb of pain. A reminder that I'm still here. Still breathing. Still feeling something, even if it's just this.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, screen lighting up with a notification. Uncle Matteo checking in again, making sure I'm still alive, still taking my meds, still pretending to be okay. I ignore it.
Instead, I swipe the phone open and tap on JaguarHallPass, the campus social media app that's basically Instagram but with more frat parties and desperate hookup attempts. I haven't posted anything since before…well, before I went all Billy and Stu on my stepfather. My profile is a digital ghost town, but my account still works.
Perfect for a little recon.
I type Riggs’ name into the search bar, watching as his profile pops up immediately. Over ten thousand followers who worship the ground he walks on. His profile picture is irritatingly perfect—a candid shot on the ice, helmet off, hair damp with sweat as he grins at something off-camera. The kind of smile that makes freshman girls swoon in the bleachers and you can watch as the switch is flipped and they become puck bunnies.
I scroll through his recent posts. There's one from two days ago—him and a bunch of teammates at The Pit, the dive bar just off campus. His arm is slung around some redhead who's practically melting into his side. She's pretty in a generic, sorority girl way. Full of white teeth and highlighted hair.
Zooming in on his face, I can see he's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
I keep scrolling. A post from his roommate shows Riggs passed out on their couch, fully clothed with his shoes still on.
Someone had a rough night. @13rhodes maybe switch to water next time?
Poor little golden boy got wasted after our little encounter in the alcove. He can’t just drink me away but nice try.
