Chapter 10: Layla

The scent of something stronger than cigarette smoke seeps through the air. A guy much older than we are leers at Morgan and her friends. His eyes skim over me with disinterest. After cracking his tattooed knuckles, he opens the door wider. His three-quarter-length shirtsleeves showcase his tattooed arms. Some tribal ink rises from the collar of his red-and-white checkered shirt and disappears into his brown hair, which is cropped close to his head. A scar that runs along the left side of his skull is stark against his dark skin.

"Come in, ladies," As each girl passes, he checks out their rears with a smirk. As I pass by him, I quickly glance at him before looking away. I curl my shoulders in, hoping it will discourage his wandering eyes.

The hall floor is concrete except for a few threadbare rugs strewn around the place; no smiling family fills the empty, crooked picture frames that hang over the radiator. A light flickers overhead as we enter the kitchen, where most of the partygoers are. Sweat makes a path down my back. The small room is crammed. I huddle behind the others, and for the hundredth time, I wish I had stayed home. This isn’t the usual type of party Morgan brings me to.

"Morgan!" a guy shouts excitedly while jumping off his chair. He nearly topples a girl to the ground who’d been perched on his lap. The girl gets her balance and thankfully doesn’t fall. She stands out from the rest because of the pink stripes in her hair. The guy embraces Morgan, his hand groping her behind at the same time. Bea and Bonita get called over by two guys who lounge at a small yellow table. Two ashtrays filled to the brim hold burning cigarettes. Too many cans and glasses litter the table. Both guys wear black wool hats, which gives their eyes a hooded and dangerous look. As I quickly glance around the room, all the boys look the same: tattoos, baggy jeans. They all watch us now.

"Kieran, take your hands off my ass," Morgan says to the guy hugging her. His blond hair and sun-kissed skin look so out of place from all the other males. I feel like I’ve stepped into the wrong house. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy who let us in take something out of his pocket and slip the small bag into another guy’s hand. I press my arms along my side, trying to make myself appear small as the guy from the door latches his eyes onto mine. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. He looks away, moving on to the next guy and passing him another small bag of powder.

"Hi, I’m Kieran."

I blink at the hand that’s held out to me. I take it and follow the tanned fingers to their owner’s light blue eyes.

"You want a drink?" he asks. I shake my head, taking my hand back before glancing around at everyone else; they’ve all fallen into place with someone. The music is a low hum that makes all conversations unintelligible.

"Everyone here is really nice," Kieran says to me. He holds up his hands, and a grin spreads across his face. "Don’t judge until you get to know me." Kieran’s lips twitch into a full smile. I want to tell him to leave me alone, but he’s the safest bet. It isn’t his appearance that makes me think he’s the safe bet; it’s how he makes me feel. I don’t feel unsafe.

Everyone else looks like they’re from the wrong side of town, and I’m pretty sure they’re all high, whereas Kieran seems to be just slightly drunk. The girl with the pink stripes in her hair keeps watching us. I think it’s Mindy, the one the girls spoke about in the car.

Kieran talks and doesn’t seem to mind having a one-sided conversation. I nod but keep my eyes on the girls. A few times, the guy who let us in catches my eye; his stare is unsettling. I swallow, but my dry throat can’t take much more.

"Could you get me a glass of water?" I ask Kieran.

His eyes light up with surprise. "You talk?"

I force a wobbly smile. "Yeah."

He nods enthusiastically before getting me a glass of water. I force myself to loosen my death grip on my handbag by slinging it over my shoulder. I try to appear more relaxed.

Kieran returns, smiling while holding my glass of water. I examine the contents before taking a deep drink. The glass is empty when I return for air.

"Do you want another one?" Kieran’s brows knit together.

"Yeah, please. My throat is parched," I explain lamely. When he returns this time, I drink slowly, my eyes skimming over the brown kitchen and worktops that seem to only hold alcohol and mixers. There is no toaster or kettle—no signs that this house is used every day.

"You have beautiful eyes," Kieran compliments me.

He catches me off guard, and I choke, spewing some of my water on him. "Oh God. I’m so, so sorry." I start dabbing his shirt with my hand.

"It’s fine." Kieran smiles. "You don’t take compliments well?"

My cheeks heat with embarrassment, making me stop what I’m doing. "What?" I ask.

"I complimented your eyes, and you spat on me."

I drop my hands and try to calm my beating heart. I’m coming across like a nutjob. "Thank you, Kieran."

"You’re welcome… You never told me your name."

"Layla."

"What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He takes my hand and presses a soft kiss to it.

"Where is the bathroom?" I ask.

Kieran tells me the bathroom is upstairs—the first door straight ahead. He even kindly offers to accompany me, but I decline. Before I leave the kitchen, I look for Morgan. She is very… occupied.

The hallway is empty. As I go down the hall to get to the staircase, I notice a door to my right that I didn’t pay attention to when we first came in. I hear voices in the room, and one in particular tickles at my memory. I pass quickly and walk quietly but briskly up the stairs. The bathroom is old and simple but surprisingly clean. I do my business before washing my hands. I look up into the mirror and meet four sets of wide blue eyes. The crack runs in a zigzag down the whole mirror. What caused the crack? A smash of a fist? Maybe something else?

The cut-off screech of a female has me freezing. I listen, but there’s only silence. I take a tiny step toward the door, pause, and listen again. I can hear someone whisper. I stare at the door, unable to move.

Pull it together, Layla.

I open the door to a scene that has my body going still, but my mind goes straight into reverse, to a twelve-year-old Layla, who has no scars on her leg. Time can heal so much, but not that. Never that.

"What are you staring at?" The question snaps me back to the present, and my shoulders tighten. The guy who opened the door holds Bea by the throat. The red marks promise to bruise soon. Her mascara runs down her face as she looks at me with a plea for help.

Tattooed fingers snap in my face, and I stumble back.

"Are you stupid?" he barks. I hate that word. I’ve been asked that my whole life. I shake my head; my words have disappeared again. He lets Bea go, and she runs down the stairs without looking back at me. Now I have this guy’s full attention. A tremble builds violently in my hands.

"You don’t look right to me," he says as he takes a step closer, his eyes traveling up and down my body. His lips curl into a snarl. "What are you doing here anyway?" His stare is full of suspicion.

I shrug. Say something, Layla. Please. I look at the ground, hoping he’ll leave me alone. His hand curls around my face, and I whimper. Forcing my head up, he tightens his grip on my face.

"You open your mouth to anyone about me, and I will cut out your tongue."

I nod as fear from all angles builds up inside me.

"Chester." This voice is one I remember.

Chester releases me and glances down the stairs at Jay, who stares up at us with a wrath in his eyes that makes me shiver, and I have no idea if it’s directed at Chester or me.