Page 21 of Best Man on Campus

Some things about college haven’t changed since my Dad’s day. Pulling all-nighters to study for tests is one of those things. Tomorrow’s test is my last warmup before the midterm exam, a chance to bring up my grade from the C- I got on the first test.

Right after the Monday morning skate at seven fucking thirty a.m.

Chapter 4

Jazzy

He’s gone, but the dizzying smell of sex lingers in the room, my sex. Me and my fucking orgasmic sex. I want to smile and vomit at the same time. Clutching my stomach, I go to the kitchen and pour a cup of cold stale coffee then put it in the microwave. That should make it taste despicable. I’m burnt and tired and my mind is almost numb with buzzing and the weary battle about whether Ben is a good idea or the quickest path to my total destruction.

“If it doesn’t destroy you, it makes you stronger,” I say to the empty room. Except it doesn’t feel as empty as usual. Wisps of his presence linger, even beyond that strangely intoxicating cinnamon-mint scent he wears. His essence pervades the space. Or maybe it pervades me in spite of the fact that I didn’t let him inside me, as if that’s one last barrier I can’t withstand.

But even beyond whether I can survive the onslaught, the full-out attack of my sex demons and all the things that unleash the anger, I can’t get past how horrible and disgusting I am to him. I’m unworthy of him. How do I even get to a place where I’m not trampling all over his soul? He doesn’t deserve the torture.

He made it all night and all day, didn’t he? He said he wants to see me again. Ha. I snort out loud as the microwave bings in agreement. Taking the hot coffee, I give it a cursory puff to cool it off, though my breath feels fiery like the dragon that I am. That I’ve become.

I wasn’t always like this, so mean, so prickly, so defiant of all people but a few. And even those people put up with more than they should. No, my life can be divided into two. It’s like fate sliced an ax down the core of me, splitting my life in two and changing me from a normal if wary and sassy girl to an evil, nasty bitch who hates people for what they can do, for the horrendous crimes they can commit against fellow humans.

And there’s no way I can let that happen to me ever again. Never. The need to avenge Killian’s death to somehow right the wrong he did and the wrong his murderer did fuels the anger, keeps me going. Allows me to function.

The only problem with that is living with myself in the meantime because I loathe who I’ve become. The only way to keep from hating myself more is to keep away from people, keep to myself like I’m some kind of vampire not fit for the mortal world. Fanciful. Stupid.

And lonely.

Add loneliness to the misery of my life and yet I can do little about it. Look what happens when I let someone in—I fight them, taunt them, abuse them, mistreat them the way I did Ben. And yet, we had some time, some moments, and that glorious release from the prison of orgasmic void.

He’s exceptional and I know it. There’s not another living soul who would have put up with my shit the way he did, no matter what sob story I might tell them—and I have no intentions of sharing my sob story. Period. Ever. I shudder and drink another long sip of scalding coffee.

The microwave clock tells me it’s almost eight p.m., almost time for me to show at Wildbeast Pizza for my regular Sunday night singing gig. I could use the cash. My gas tank and fridge are almost empty and no way am I asking Majik for food or money. But tonight I don’t have the ability to walk outside and into public, not even to sing my songs, to perform.

Aside from vengeance, the music and my songs, my poetry, keep me going, keep me human. The music is the best in me coming out. I feel safe and calm when I sing, like the music is a shield keeping the evil in people at bay. I can let out the dark things, the vulnerable things in a bubble of performance that’s not part of the real world, more like an alternate universe I create as I play the guitar and sing the words.

I need to call Leon. There’s nothing in my soul to give tonight. Not to an audience. I’ll sing for myself tonight, alone, for a boy I can’t have. Taking my phone off the charger, I lean against the refrigerator, where I stood with Ben earlier, and press one of the two names I have on my speed dial. Leon is mostly my employer, but over the past two years I’ve grudgingly admitted to myself he’s become a friend. Of sorts. The kind I keep at arm’s length. I press his name and listen to the ringing. It takes him a while to answer, no doubt because the crowd’s building at the campus’s favorite bar and pizza place.

“Jazzy, where the—?”

“I’m not coming in, Leon. Don’t give me shit.” There’s a pause and I can hear the noise in the background and then the sound of a door closing to create quiet.

“You okay? What’s going on?” The concern in his voice gets to me, stabbing me with a shard of painful guilt. I deserve it. But fuck. I only have so much in me and he’ll just have to deal.

“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.” I hate that the only way I’ll get a good sleep is with the pills Dr. Dani gave me and I haven’t decided whether I’m taking one. It’s a crap shoot. Sometimes I’ll sleep soundly. But sometimes the nightmare comes anyway, sending me into a fever of anxiety, making me sweat and shake like I’m sick and ready to die. He grunts.

“The crowd’s waiting for you tonight. Drink some coffee and get your ass in here.”

“Coffee’s not—”

“Then pull up your big girl panties and get moving. You need to learn how to be reliable. The world doesn’t care about your fucking misery.”

His words anger me, not because I want him to leave me alone to wallow in self-pity, but because he’s right. But damn it, I don’t have the strength tonight. He should be used to my sporadic absenteeism problem by now, not that I want to be a problem.

“We had a deal, Leon. If you don’t fucking like it, then fire me.” I hold my breath, wanting to bite off my tongue, squeezing my eyes shut as I listen to his silence. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“I was counting on you tonight. You know the Sunday night crowd.”

I hang onto my resentment, not giving in to the vulnerability. “They’ll live.”

He says, “It’s about that hockey guy you left with, isn’t it?”

“What if it is?” I can feel the resentment grow, take root, and I’m feeding it, needing it.