I shake my head. “That’d be Tucker. I’m Ethan, his best friend. This is the only place where I can live.”
Zeke doesn’t need to know the rest. That my mother has been trying to kill me, my best friend… I let out a loud sigh. Nope, I don’t need to tell him the reasons why I have to emancipate and live like an orphan.
I’m fine, I’m safe, and I can live here for as long as it’s needed.
“Well, you get comfortable,” he says. “In a few months, I’m ditching this apartment and going solo.”
I bob my head, pretending to understand what he’s saying. This guy gives me a weird vibe. He reminds me of the assholes at school who spent half of their time fucking with me because I’m me. I can hear this guy mocking the fuck out of me daily. I’m used to dealing with bullies like him.
Can my life get any worse? What circle of hell is this? I skipped to the seventh. Jesus, they dropped me with a bully. A good-looking asshole who’s going to make my life miserable because I’m a nerd, among other things. Yet, another reason why I shouldn’t be here.
I should’ve listened to Tucker. He said he could talk to his parents about having me stay at their house. Well, he said he could try, but can he really when he’s barely speaking to them?
Fuck, this is a mess.
When I look up, I realize the guy is gone. I smile. The tightness in my chest eases up. Maybe things won’t be as bad as I’m imagining. A couple of minutes later, I hear noise coming from the music room. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s not noise but Zeke playing the drums. The sound is soft, like a piece of jazz. He doubles the time, then slows it. The tempo changes, but he doesn’t miss a beat.
The music enthralls me. I enter the room, sit on the couch, and watch him.
I can study his fine features. His curly dark brown hair, his sculpted cheeks, and those lips…I want to touch them with mine. Fortunately, his eyes are closed. He can’t see that I’m staring at him inappropriately. That I’m fascinated by the way he moves his hands around the drum set. He plays with such precision that it seems as if each percussion is an extension of his body. A part of his soul. He knows where everything goes, how it sounds, and how to hit them just right.
At some point, he halts, opens his eyes, and stares at me. His stare is intense, fascinating, and frightening. I want to get lost inside it.
“What do you play?” he asks.
“Umm,” I move my gaze toward the floor.
He’s going to laugh at me if I tell him that I’m an orchestra geek.
“I take it they told you why I’m here, and you’d rather stay away from me,” he assumes. “I’m not thrilled about being here either. If I had a choice, I’d go back to the family that fostered me for the past couple of months. I’m sure if I ask, they might be willing to do it, but I don’t want to overextend my stay.”
The way he says it startles me. I understand him on a deep level. We don’t want to upset anyone. We try to take up as little space and air as possible because we’re not worth it. One of Tucker’s grandfathers explained that to me the other day. He’s a counselor and suggested I go to therapy.
“Are you almost eighteen?” I ask, wondering if that’s why he can leave in just a few months.
“No, but I can support myself. I’m here because I need a place to stay while I wait for my emancipation,” he informs. “Let’s make a deal. You stay in your lane, and I’ll do the same. I don’t want any trouble.”
What is he talking about? Is he warning me about what will happen to me if I cross him? I knew he’s an asshole. At least he forewarned me before he beats the shit out of me.
Welcome to hell, Ethan Dane Killion. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Chapter Eight
Zeke
I wish the stuck-up guy had told me more about himself. Not because I care. I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. But I’d know why he’s screaming, thrashing his arms, and crying in the middle of the night. I said I’d stay in my lane, but I can’t just do that. I’m not heartless. Pushing myself out of bed, I walk to his side and shake him gently.
“Ethan, dude,” I whisper.
“I hate you,” he screams.
“Ethan,” I repeat, shaking him harder. “Wake up, man. It’s just a dream.”
I turn on the lamp that’s on top of his nightstand. I notice the droplets of sweat on his forehead. Fuck, is he sick?
I shake him harder. If he doesn’t react with this last attempt, I will bring a bucket of cold water.
“Ethan, wake up!”
His eyes open wide. He looks at me as if he doesn’t know me.
“Are you okay?” I ask the most stupid question in the history of the world. It’s evident that he’s not, but what else can I say?
“Yes,” he mumbles, sitting up.
I nod and head downstairs for a glass of water. When I come back to the loft, he’s pacing.
“Here, drink this. Are you sick?”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t want to imply, but did someone…umm, did your foster parents abuse you?”
He finishes the glass of water, sets it on top of one of the desks, and lets out a loud breath. “Thank you for waking me up.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
He shakes his head.
I bet my therapist would agree with me when I say, “You should talk to someone about your dreams.”
“I’m fine,” he insists. His annoyed tone irritates me.
I raise my hands as if surrendering. “Well, have a good night then.”
Fucking snob. Next time I’m going to smother him with a pillow.
I get in my bed and cover my head with the covers. It’s hard to fall asleep when someone is pacing around the room. I hate to be an asshole, but I do it. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
The lights are finally off. I’m drifting asleep when I hear the sobs. For fuck’s sake, is he for real?
I turn on the lamp, get out of the bed, and sit next to him. He’s trembling. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s fucked up.
“Do you want me to call them?”
“Them?” He finally speaks as he wipes his face with the back of his hand.
“Matt or any of them,” I clarify.
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“You’re not fine, dude,” I say. “I’m not an expert, but someone fucked you up.”
He snorts and sobs. I wonder if he lost his parents, and this is the first time he is on his own.
“It’s going to be okay,” I mumble, wanting to hug him. I don’t move.
Instead, I tell him what my counselor said last week, “Nothing is forever. One day this will be over. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day you’ll wake up, and the loss won’t hurt as much.”
“Why are you being so nice?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, confused.
He shrugs. “Guys like you are never nice to me.”
That’s it. Next time he has a nightmare, I’m just going to ignore him. I head to the music room, shut the door, and start banging the drums. I don’t have time for this guy.