Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (4 page)

A tiny scream escapes my roommate before she stops, removes her headphones, then glares at me in the mirror as I walk up behind her. Spencer’s hands land on her waist and her brows rise, but she offers no commentary or praise regarding my excellent portrayal of Mr. T.

My lips press to the side before I inquire, “Not a big Rocky fan, I gather?” Her blank stare is my only answer.

Blowing a bubble while examining myself in the mirror, I finger through my dark tousled curls and adjust the straps of my cami before pulling it taut over the top my frayed jean shorts. Once satisfied with my appearance, I direct my gaze back at Spencer, who’s still staring.

“Mr. T? You know? Rocky III, ‘I pity the fool’?” My voice drops three octaves in effort to better my impersonation, but still nothing. I think I may have even snarled.

Releasing a defeated sigh with her lack of response, I decide it’s better to just start over. I launch myself on her bed, bounce twice, then ask, “Whatcha doin’?”

She turns, pausing to eye me smiling back at her like a loon, then responds, “Krav Maga.”

I nod as though I completely understand, then ask, “Krav Ma-whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?”

She giggles and enunciates slowly. “Krav. Ma. Ga.”

“Oh, well since you said it that way, I
totally
understand what the hell you’re talking about.”

Spencer rolls her eyes, then continues. “I found a flyer on my car for this type of self-defense called Krav Maga. I looked into it and it’s pretty freaking cool. So, I enrolled myself in some classes.”

The clear image of her sad excuse for a right hook races my mind. “Yeah, good idea. You punch like a girl.”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I snort-laugh because it’s true. She does.

“You do.”

Spencer’s mouth stretches into a thin line and that ever-present determination displays itself in her tightened features.

“Well, I
am
a girl,” she retorts.

“Yeah,” I answer. “But you should never punch like one. Or throw like one, for that matter. It gives us all a bad name. You need to take that shit by the balls and own it like a man.”

Her mouth remains open and I fight back laughter at the insulted expression on her face. Biting the inside of my cheek, I watch her find her words.

“Like you know how to punch.” She cocks her hip for emphasis.

Contrary to what she believes, I
do
know how to punch. I gave Brian Thompson a right cross to the jaw and it was perfection, if I do say so myself. I’ve never told her about that though.

We were in first grade, and I overheard Brian Thompson calling Spencer a “skinny scarecrow” at the place where everyone who was anyone hung out, the
jungle gym
. I heard laughter from his entourage and made my way over because I knew exactly
why
Spencer was so skinny, and honestly, that shit pissed me right the hell off. I strode up to him and when he leaned on the painted bars in his designer jeans, I smiled my really sweet smile. As soon as I saw his lips curve upward and the whites of his teeth, I grinned wider, then clocked that fucker right in the nose.

I think he fell in love with me that day, because anything with a penis just seems to be bred to be
that
stupid.

And because of that fact, I fucked him years later in the school parking lot, just because I could.

“Helloooo, Cass.” Spencer snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”

“Thinking about Booger Thompson,” I answer honestly.

Her mouth dips and her brows draw together. “The guy in the first grade that used to pick his nose until it bled?”

I smile to myself, knowing those nosebleeds were most likely the result of my fist connecting with his face. “The one and only.”

“Why?”

I laugh out loud, then segue back into the present. “So, Krav Ma-couldntthinkofabettername. That’s what you’re doing in here?”

She nods and I nod back. “Good. I took some self-defense classes when I moved away from home. You can never be too safe, so I say go for it.”

Her nose crinkles in response. “You think?”

“I do. It’s always better to be safe than sorry,” I answer immediately. The need to protect oneself is an importance often not realized until
after
the damage is done.

Sad, but true.

Spencer’s eyes light up and I know what’s coming before it even leaves her mouth. In fact, I’m already shaking my head no when she claps her hands excitedly and yells, “Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

“Nah, I have plans. Next week?” I redirect.

Spencer narrows her eyes, then relents and gives me a sad shrug. “Okay, next week then.”

I smile, then rise from her bed. “See ya in the morning?”

The sudden urge to clear the tightening of my throat tells me my good day is taking an emotional turn for the worse. I’m on a constant roller coaster of highs and lows, and I know, as a thin sheen of sweat begins to line my upper lip, I’m about to take a nosedive.

I need a night out, an alcoholic beverage in my hand, and a warm body to help me forget.

She watches me closely, then takes the two steps she needs to embrace me, whispering once her arms are around my neck, “I’m here if you need me, Cass.”

Damn it all to hell if I don’t want to break down and cry, but I don’t. I close my eyes and will the threatening sadness away.

“I’m fine,” I answer, then release her. “Just tired. Long day.”

Her jaw tightens, and I know it kills her to let me be, but that’s how Spencer has always been. She gives the room needed to breathe. And I love her for it.

After giving her my much-practiced, all-is-well smile, I walk out of her room, leaving her to get ready. I’m lying on my bed when I hear the front door open then close. As soon as the locks turn, I grab my cell from my nightstand and begin dialing. Thirty minutes later, Spencer’s gone, and I’m still looking for a way to pass the time, but no one answers.

My throat constricts at the idea of having to spend the night alone, but I know what I need to do. I drag myself off my bed and head to the kitchen where my beloved Grey Goose awaits.

Pouring a glass, I down it completely alone in the middle of the kitchen, then pour another one, impatiently longing for numbness to set in. Once my cheeks are warm and I’m laughing at my own internal monologue, I know I’m right where I want to be.

Drunk.

Taking the third glass with me, I change into some awesome
Jem and the Holograms
pajamas that I found online and somehow land myself in bed. My head is fuzzy and my body is heavy, but it’s not enough.

Taking a deep swig from my glass, I lean over and begin to jerk the pull-chain on the lamp by my bed. Over and over I pull, darkness giving way to light then back again, until my eyes begin to glaze and I have to fight to keep my lids open.

As they lower, I think about how incredibly happy I am to have this lamp because its light is so pretty. So safe. So familiar.

My safe haven.

With each yank of the chain, I find myself muttering under my breath.

Dark.

Light. Safe.

Dark.

Light. Safe.

Dark.

Light. Safe.

I continue doing this until my arm becomes too heavy and I can no longer pull the chain. The lamp remains on while my hand drops to the surface of the end table.

I inhale deeply and force my focus on that light until sleep finally finds me.

Past—Twelve years old

“GOD . . .” I CHOKE BACK
a sob. “Not again.”

The weight of absolute horror squeezes my chest, and all I see is the white of the ceiling above me as I look upward, spitting the words through gritted teeth. “Not. Again.”

I close my eyes and try to breathe in deeply, shaking my head as warm tears seep from my eyes and trail down my cheeks. My hand trembles as I reach to the side. As soon as my palm grazes the sheets underneath me, a cry is wrenched from my lungs.

They’re soaked. Again.

Tremors rake through my entire body, and I’m unsure if they’re from the terror of the nightmare that startled me awake, or the embarrassment of admitting I’m twelve years old and I just wet the bed.

My mouth pinches in disgust as I climb out of the warm dampness. Before my bare feet even hit the ground, goosebumps spring along my skin from the shock of the cool air. I strip my nightgown over my head, throwing it on top of my bed, then quickly grab the one stashed away in my dresser drawer for when this happens. Once dressed, I gather my bedding—mattress pad, sheets, and throw blanket—and hold it close to my body as I tiptoe toward the basement.

As always, I close my eyes and reach for the railing. My palm glides over the slick wood and I hurriedly make my way through the darkness, counting the steps as I go.

One.

Two.

Three.

I chant the numbers one by one, and when my feet finally land on the cool cement floor, I make a mad dash across the room, then throw the wet contents inside the washer. Selecting the quickest cycle, I pour some detergent inside before quietly shutting the lid, knowing that I have exactly fifteen minutes until they’re ready to be dried.

Repeating the same reciting ritual, I make my way up the stairs and quickly cross the house toward my bathroom, thankful my parents’ room is on the other side. Not once in the past four years have they ever been awakened by my stirrings in the night.

I don’t know how that’s possible, but I’m thankful.

They will never know. They must never know.

My jaw tightens as disgusting screams and shrieks fill my head. Their words turn my stomach, and I’m forced to swallow the bile rising in the back of my throat.

You’re dirty.

Weak.

Disgusting.

The chanting continues as I sit on the side of the bathtub and turn on the water, wishing I could run it full force to try to drown out the nasty voices.

But it doesn’t work.

Nothing ever works, really.

I run enough water to cover the bottom of the tub, then strip off my gown and climb inside. I scrub furiously. By the time I’m done, my nails ache and my skin is raw. Yet, regardless of my many attempts, I never really feel clean. After several minutes spent focusing on the washing of my body, the shouts finally dull into whispers, fading into their usual low hum, and I step out of the tub.

Ten minutes down, five to go.

I wrap a towel around my sensitive skin and pad to my room. Folding the dirty nightgown, I place it back into its usual spot in my drawer, then grab yet another change of clothing. I quickly yank on my panties and shorts, then pull a tank top over my head, before finally heading back down to the basement. The familiar smell of detergent fills the air, and I shake my head to rid it from my nostrils.

The soft fragrance once provided me a sense of security. Now, it just serves as a reminder.

Angry tears fill my eyes, but I won’t cry. I refuse to cry anymore because each tear is just a reminder of my weakness. I can’t afford the outward display. It will only lead to questions I don’t want to answer.

Once the bedding is drying and I’m back upstairs in my room, I line my mattress with clean sheets and throw an old comforter over my body pillow—just in case—then tread to the window and open it, searching for the light I know will be there.

Once I find it, my body is on autopilot.

I know exactly how many steps it takes to cross the street.

I know exactly how long I have until I need to be back.

And I know exactly where I’m going to crash for the next couple hours.

Because with her lamp always on, Spencer is the only person I know who truly understands living a nightmare . . .

Even though I will
never
tell her mine.

Three more steps . . .

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The dimly lit window unlatches and slides open with no greeting. Questions such as, “What are you doing here?” and “Do your parents know where you are?” are no longer necessary. I’ve been escaping into this very bedroom across the street for a while now. The one always lit by a desk lamp, no matter how late, or early, it may be.