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“I’m not, I just don’t think the guy is all that fucking fantastic. Is that a crime?” he mutters. He holds his hands up defensively and I point at the wheel.
“You might want to hold onto that,” I say.
He laughs, but places both hands back on the wheel.
I decide to change my tactic. “I’m sorry if I’m defensive, but I really want this and I feel like you’re just trying to wind me up.” Like you always do.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m just in a mood. I know you’ll be great, and if they don’t give it to you, they’re a bunch of idiots.” He pulls up out the front of my house. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Sure. Twelve o’clock, right?”
“Yep. I’ll pick you both up. Tell Ariel if she’s not ready, this time I’m not waiting.”
I roll my eyes and get out of the car. I wave Lucas off and wait until the car has disappeared around the corner before I head inside. Ariel is lounging on the sofa as I walk in, her long, jet-black hair spilling out from over the armrest. She gives me a half-hearted wave, but doesn’t look up from the TV.
“Hey,” I say, plopping down on the end of the sofa. I lift her feet and rest them in my lap. “Do you have to watch this shit?” I ask, motioning towards the television. Love in Motion is possibly the worst show ever made, and one Ariel insists on watching every episode of.
“Last time I checked I live here too,” she says, poking her tongue out at me. “You don’t hear me whining about how much news and crap you watch, do you?”
“It’s hardly the same,” I laugh. Pushing her legs off me, I rummage through my bag for my laptop and set it on my legs, open to my email. I get started on my application right away.
“What are you doing?” Ariel asks, straining to see.
“An application for an internship for over the summer break,” I respond, distracted.
“Why would you want to waste your vacation time by working more?” she snorts, her eyes wide. “Who am I going to go to the beach and shopping with?”
“Go with Lucas,” I retort. “Some of us actually want to get somewhere in life. If I get this internship, I can pretty much guarantee myself a position at any forensic psych facility in the country.”
“I still don’t understand why you’d want to spend so much time around creepy criminals,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Aren’t you scared of ending up dead or the object of some creeper’s obsession?”
I laugh and close my laptop. “I’m going to my room,” I say. I kiss her on the forehead, my laptop tucked under my arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ’kay?”
There is no point trying to explain it to someone who doesn’t understand. I’ve always been interested in the psychology of crime. My interest in it bordered on creepy when I was young. I’d spend my spare time reading up on old crimes and trying to figure out the motives, and my obsession deepened after my cousin disappeared. When I began to plan my future, there was never any question what I was going to study. Even without the financial support of my father, I was still making it happen.
Nothing was going to get in the way of my dream.
Chapter Three
Lucas
I slam the door to my apartment and toss the keys on the kitchen counter. A note from Harry sits on the counter, reading “get some more food, dickwad.” I pick it up and screw it into a ball, tossing it in the bin. I don’t give a damn if it’s my turn to shop. Food is the last thing on my mind. Besides, I know if I leave it long enough, he’ll do it like he always does. Sucker.
My adrenaline still pumping, I pace the living room, raking my hands through my hair. Lazy Sunday, my arse. I thought the only thing I had to think about today was my shitty grades. But Lacey had to ruin that by telling me about this fucking internship. Hearing her say his name today stunned me. Hearing her say it with such admiration fucking killed me. I can’t blame her, though—she has no idea who he is to me, or what he did to my family.
Shit, this is bad.
The last time I saw my father was three years ago, after my grandmother’s funeral. If I never saw him again it would be too soon. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but if it is, then it’s a pretty big one. It has to be a coincidence. There’s no way in hell he’d even interview Lacey for the position if he knew she was my best friend. He was the one who made it clear that we had no relationship. All I’ve done is make sure of it.
Stalking over to the balcony, I yank the door open and walk outside. The cool, fresh air hits me like a punch in the face. I didn’t notice it was this cold when I was outside five minutes ago, but I’m on the twenty-fourth floor. It’s the end of October in Sydney: almost summer, but you wouldn’t know it. That’s Sydney weather for you. Yesterday was forty degrees and tomorrow it’s supposed to hail.
I reach up above the air conditioning unit and move my fingers along until I find what I’m looking for. Bringing down the half-full packet of Dunhills, I pull one out, along with the small blue plastic lighter. Shoving the cigarette between my lips, I bring the flame of the lighter to the tip and breathe in.
As soon as the smoke hits my lungs, I feel better. I lean against the brick exterior of my apartment, my heart racing as I kick the top of the railing that surrounds the small outside space. I haven’t smoked in years, and I can taste it in this decade-old pack. Each stale breath I draw in burns my lungs in an oddly satisfying manner.
I can’t stop thinking about my father, and Lacey. About the way her face lit up when she said his name. Sighing, I think about her meeting him. Is her heart going to race? Is her eyebrow going to twitch the way it does when she gets nervous? Will he say something funny that will make her blush? A surge of anger pulsates through me. She blushes so easily. It’s one of the things I’m forever making fun of her about, and one of the many little things about her that I love.
The worst thing is, I can’t say or do anything about this whole fucked-up situation. I can’t tell her not to go to this interview or she'll demand to know why—and I’m not ready to feel the pity I know that conversation will bring. No matter how much I convince myself that I’m over what happened, I know I’m not. That’s not something you ever get over—especially when you could’ve done something to avoid it.
