They Both Love Me, But One is a Devil

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: PLEASE read the Auxilliary chapter "Note to Readers" about the content of this story to ensure you are not disappointed about investing in it! Although the story is complete, Volume 3 is unique and you may not wish to commit the time without being aware of it!

*****

In front of my car, my new schoolmates surge out of the main building and onto this parking lot that smells like hot cement and cut grass.

I white-knuckle the steering wheel to stop my hands trembling because the urge for narcotics has hounded me mercilessly today—from the moment I walked out the door for the first day at school. I'm a walking powder-keg, shoulders back and chin high to disguise abject terror, and the dry-mouthed cravings dogging every step.

I thought the yearning would ease off when I walked out of the school, first day done. But here I am, watching everyone else leave, swallowing too often because I can taste the urge for an Oxy.

I blow out a breath and run a clammy hand through my hair.

The clunk of my passenger door announces the arrival of my sister, Amy—a welcome distraction from this mental high-wire.

"How was your day?" I ask without looking away from the passing people. "Did you get nice teachers?"

Amy drops into the car, her red-gold hair shimmering. There's enough heat in the sun to burn my shoulders, but my black waves will never fracture light like her bronze ones.

Amy keeps her face tipped down while she digs through her bag, her lower lip pushed out. This is not a good sign.

"What happened?" I ask bluntly.

"Nothing."

Cravings make me irritable. I resist the urge to punch her, instead  I plug the key into the ignition and glare at the people wandering past the car.

After Los Angeles—all golds and greys—this suburban hinterland looks like it erupted out of Middle Earth. There's green everywhere—grassy verges on the sidewalk, low hedges, leaves and branches everywhere. It's weird.

Amy shoves out a heavy sigh. I know she wants me to ask what's wrong again, to soothe her wounded feelings, or whatever. But I'm done with this place for today. I don't even want to talk about it. And since my sister is prone to the dramatic, she'd rather sulk than ask for help, anyway.

I turn to look behind the car before I reverse, biting my lip against the urge to tell her to grow up.

As I inch the car back, cursing when people blithely walk behind me, the black denim on my thighs burns in the sun and my feet sweat. Mom was right, I shouldn't have worn my boots. It's not cold enough yet. But I like it when they clomp on the floor. People hear me coming and move.

One of the one thousand fiberglass girls here darts across the blacktop behind me, laughing. I slam on the brakes and swear.

"Kate!" Amy complains.

"It's like fu-frigging Grand Central Station!" I snap.

The space behind me clears and I whip the car out before anyone else runs across. But as I shift to first, another group crosses in front of me, led by a massive guy whose shoulders would almost fill a doorway. I take a second to appreciate his cut jaw, muscles, and nearly-shaved head. But snort when I realize his hair is in a flat-top, but he wears a polo shirt (tucked in) and pants with the crease ironed in.

It's like putting a Rottweiler in a tutu.

"What a waste of what God gave him," I mutter, then blink when his eyes cut to me, like he heard. Which is impossible with my window closed.

He doesn't look away, his startling gold-green eyes challenging as he ambles past. He's big enough that my black denim and heavy make-up don't intimidate him. But judgmental enough to break the look with a shake of his head.

I almost open my window and swear at him. Live up to the expectations sliding into place behind his eyes.

Slut.

Junkie.

He's only half right. Not that it matters.

Embrace your labels, I always say. It sucks the power out of your critics.

But that would embarrass Amy, and much as I hate to admit it, hurting my sister is like carving into my own skin. She matters more than anyone. Most of the time, anyway.

"Stop glaring like that. It bugs people." Amy snaps, her eyes darting to him, then away.

I grin.  "He looks like he can handle himself. I doubt he's worried by me."

Amy doesn't agree, but won't say so out of fear I'll tease her.

The fact that Amy and I emerged from the same loins is one of God's favorite jokes. Amy's only concession to our feral past is the white streak dyed into the front of her auburn hair. The rest of her is as saccharine as those kids walking past with my green-eyed American Idol.

Today must have gone badly if she's nagging at me.

I pull forward slowly. Apparently everyone at this school wants to cross the parking lot in front of me right now. It'll take forever to get out of here at this rate. I might as well let Amy vent so I'll get some peace when we get home. "You sounded upset when you got in the car—"

A deep voice shouts. I slam on the brakes in case I missed someone cutting across. Amy and I both pitch forward. I throw a hand across her chest to make sure she doesn't smack the dashboard.

"Are you okay?" I ask quickly.

Amy nods, but doesn't look at me. She's staring at something.

I follow her gaze to the corner of the parking lot where an eight foot stone wall separates the school from the road. A guy, lean as a whip, the lines of his muscles carved from marble, leans back in the shadows cast by the looming stone, the pale skin of his bare arms almost glowing under a half-sleeve of twisting tattoos displayed to magnificent effect by a black muscle-shirt tucked into shredded jeans.

It's like God made the perfect guy for me, then carved him out of ivory and steel.

Like he heard the thought, he looks right at me. For a half-second his eyes appear to glow, flashing through the dark hair falling from his forehead like bars over windows. There's heat and curiosity, an edge in that gaze that I recognize. It makes my breath come faster. 

This guy is trouble. The best kind.

He isn't alone. His three friends—all dressed in equally shredded dark jeans and t-shirts—stand around while he's confronted by one of the pretty people.

"Aiden, please!" From the back she's another Barbie in an A-line skirt with her hair tumbling down her back in ringlets. She doesn't fit with these guys, but it isn't hard to see that no one's tying her down.

She reaches for his hands, plasters herself against him in a way that makes promises, like she's trying to butter him with her own sweat.

He's got his hands up to show he's not touching her, but the shit-eating grin on his face speaks volumes.

I'm about to drive on when that Rottweiler dude storms back across the tarmac—in front of my car again—towards them, roaring.

"Aiden! Let her go!" His voice, deep and rich, echoes across the parking lot, drawing heads in every direction.

"Use your eyes, shitface. I'm not touching her."

As the big guy reaches them, his massive shoulders twitching beneath that stupid polo shirt, Aiden points at the top of her head, nails lacquered a deep black. But his smile never loses the knife-edge. He sneers. "Go ahead, Chase. Take her. If she'll go."

Asshole.

The big dude—Chase—reaches them, but hesitates. "Britt?" he says quietly. Is she his girlfriend? Cheating on him?

She doesn't respond, just fists Aiden's shirt and begs, "Come on. You promised!"

"Brittany—" Chase says her name more firmly and she finally looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes disquietingly bright.

With a surge of cravings that hit so hard they steal my breath, it all becomes clear: She's high as a kite. Her pupils are so dilated that from here her eyes look black and her gaze is blank and distant. I curse myself for not paying attention to the looseness of her limbs, the desperation in her pleading. For a split second she's me. I'm her. That's how I know she'd never act like this sober. I ache for her.

And, swallowing the lump in my throat, I wish I was her. Or at least, that had a little of whatever she's on.

Enough.

I drop the car into neutral, yank up on the parking brake, and shove the door open.

She's turns back to Aiden, whispering things I know she'll regret—because Aiden's trying not to laugh. Chase plucks at her sleeve and I grit my teeth. These people know nothing.

"Britt," Chase says again as I stomp onto the sidewalk. "Come on. You need to sleep this off—"

"You can't reason with her, idiot," I snap, pushing past him to grab her arms by the elbows.

"Hey!" she struggles, but as I suspected, she has no strength. I pull both arms behind her back, ignore her curses, and tug her away.

She stumbles so heavily I almost drop her, but recovers quickly, pulling out of my grip. I let her go, but keep myself between her and Aiden. Chase leaps forward and pulls her into his side. He looks pained when she starts asking him if he'll give it to her instead.

Behind me, Aiden's friends laugh, but I've gone cold. There was nothing sexual about what she was asking for. She's trying to get a hit.

I meet eyes with Chase, his forehead lined with grief. If she's his girlfriend, I pity him. This chick is gone.

But she's not why I whip around, stomp up to Aiden, and shove my face in his.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

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