Like You Care: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Devilbend Dynasty Book 1) Read online

  I smiled and relaxed my shoulders. “Well . . . fucking great then.” I rolled my eyes at myself.

  “Must’ve been something important.”

  “What?” I frowned, inching closer to the bamboo screen.

  “The thing you dropped?”

  “Oh!” I’d almost forgotten about the foundation. “Yeah, it was . . . expensive and . . . er . . . never mind.”

  I suddenly felt shy. I didn’t want this random stranger with the beautiful voice to know I’d been that upset over makeup. I didn’t want him to think I was conceited.

  “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice. It made me smile too, but I ironed out my expression so he wouldn’t hear it. “Why would I trust you with my secrets? You’re a stranger. You could be an axe murderer.”

  His laughter trickled through the tiny gaps in the bamboo and wrapped itself around my shoulders, sending a little shiver down my spine.

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m your neighbor. You can trust me,” he said.

  I realized I was just standing motionless in the middle of my balcony, staring at the bamboo partition. I reached for the roll of paper towels on the table and started cleaning up the mess. “Never trust someone who says trust me,” I quipped.

  “Touché.” He chuckled again. “I’ll just have to earn your trust the old-fashioned way.”

  “A cavity search?” I paused mid-wipe. Had I really just said that to a random?

  But he didn’t even pause before answering. “I was gonna say drug screening, and you jump straight to finger in the ass? Brutal!”

  “I don’t fuck around.” A laugh escaped at the end, part of it slight hysteria from the rush of relief that he hadn’t taken offence.

  “No, you do not, neighbor.”

  I couldn’t get enough of his smooth voice; his relaxed, casual tone was putting me at ease in a way I never had been with a person I’d never met. Was it the screen between us that allowed me to talk to him without feeling self-conscious about my face? Or was it him?

  I couldn’t tell how old he was just from his voice. Not elderly, that much was clear, but was he my age? A college guy? Maybe he was in his thirties and married with three kids. I really hoped I wasn’t flirting with an old dude.

  Was that what I was doing? Flirting?

  I cleared my throat and deposited the last of the dirty paper towels into a handbasket, then wiped my hands with micellar water to get the foundation off. “So, you just moved in?”

  The apartment had been empty for months. Their balcony was right next to ours, but that didn’t make us neighbors exactly. Our apartment was the last one at the end of the hallway on the eighth floor. Theirs was the last one at the end of their hallway, but we had to use separate entrances to the building. There were five entrances total—twelve floors of cramped apartments, thousands of people literally living on top of one another.

  “Yeah, yesterday. Although I’m questioning the decision.”

  “New neighbor scaring you off? Am I the one giving off axe murderer vibes now?”

  “Hah! Nah. It’s the smell.”

  I frowned and silently sniffed at my underarms. I’d just showered. I smelled like strawberries. “The smell?”

  “Yeah. The whole apartment smells like feet.”

  “Ugh, gross!”

  “You have no idea! Every single room. Even the kitchen! If it hadn’t rained last night, I would’ve slept out here.”

  I laughed. “Have you tried, uh, cleaning it?”

  “Yes, thank you, smart-ass. We only got the keys yesterday. My dad had to work all day, so I did what I could on my own. Shampooing the carpets seems to have helped.”

  He hadn’t mentioned a wife and kids! I did a little fist pump. He lived with his dad, but that didn’t mean he was my age. Oh god! What if he was, like, twelve, and he was just one of those kids whose voice had dropped early?

  “Well,” I said, “I hope you get the feet smell out. It’s a shame we didn’t meet sooner. I could’ve told you this was a shitty place to live.”

  “We’ve had worse. Trust me. Plus, if we hadn’t moved in here, I never would’ve gotten to talk to you.”

  I bit my bottom lip to hold in the grin and leaned back in the chair. I had no idea what to say to that.

  The sun had set; with my window of natural light for makeup application gone, I started to pack everything into my case. After the zip made an obnoxiously loud sound, he cleared his throat and spoke again.

  “I’m sorry. Was that . . . weird?” Gone was the casual confidence.

  “No!” I rushed out, then took a breath to calm my tone. “Not at all. Sorry. I just . . . got distracted. I like talking to you too.” I cringed.

  “Good.” I could hear the smile in his voice again.

  “So, you move around a lot?” I blurted to fill the silence.

  “Yeah. We . . . my dad’s . . . yes, we move around a lot.”

  Maybe he was as nervous and flustered as me. Why did that make my chest feel all warm and fuzzy?

  The kitchen light flicked on inside. Mom or Dad would be checking on me any minute now. I didn’t want them to know I was talking to . . . whoever this was.

  “Shit. I gotta go.”

  “Oh, OK. Nice talking to you!”

  “You too!”

  I ducked inside and closed the sliding door behind me just in time.

  “I was just about to come check on you, Sweet Chilly.” Dad leaned on the kitchen counter and chugged a glass of water. My full name was Philomena Ann Willis. At some point, before I had a say in it, my parents had started calling me Sweet Chilly Philly, and it stuck. The girls called me Mena. The assholes at school called me . . . Ugh! I pushed the thought out of my head. I still had a few days before I had to deal with them.

  I smiled and poured myself a glass too. Mom was snoring lightly on the couch.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  “This early?” We both glanced at the time on the microwave: 9:38 p.m.

  “I’ve got work tomorrow.” It wasn’t a lie. One of the waitresses had called in sick, and I was more than happy to take the double shift. It would help me replace the foundation I’d just lost.

  “Early one?”

  “Yeah. Can I get a lift?” I’d get there half an hour early if Dad dropped me off before heading to work, but it would be better than walking and taking the bus in this heat.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Good night.”

  “Night.” He waved me off, heading to wake up Mom.

  The next day, I got home from my double shift around ten. Mom was already drifting off on the couch, but she startled awake when I came in and offered to heat up the casserole they’d had for dinner.

  “No thanks. I ate at the diner.” The pay was shitty, but at least Leah—the owner of the aptly named Leah’s Diner—fed us when we worked long shifts. Leah had been friends with my mom in high school, and they’d reconnected when we’d moved back to Devilbend just before I started high school. Just before my life turned into hell on earth.

  Actually, high school wasn’t hell—it was more like limbo. It wasn’t constant daily torture, although there was some of that too. No, it was punishment through alienation. Unless I was being sneered at, laughed at, or having something thrown at me, I didn’t exist.

  Most of the time I preferred it that way—preferred that people didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at the hideous birthmark on my face. But fuck, it was lonely sometimes.

  The purple birthmark started at the inner corner of my right eye, pooling out down the side of my nose and the top of my cheek like spilled wine—which was probably why they were called “port-wine stains.”

  It wasn’t raised or bumpy; it wasn’t a rash or an infectious disease. It was just something I was born with. Something I couldn’t escape. Something I hated. Most people stared. Some clearly thought it was contagious, shrinking away from me. The kids at school just used it as fuel for their rid
icule.

  I took a quick shower, then brought my lotion out to the balcony. As soon as the sliding door was closed and I’d settled myself on the little chair, I heard movement on the other side of the bamboo.

  “Neighbor?” There was that ocean voice, immediately making me smile.

  “Hey, stranger,” I called back, propping one foot on the railing so I could rub lotion into my leg.

  “I was just about to head to bed. Glad I caught you. Long day?”

  “Yeah. I pulled a double shift.” I didn’t say where I worked—there was still a chance he was an axe murderer.

  “That’s rough.” He sounded unsure; some of the ease of our banter from the previous night was gone.

  “It’s OK.” I fought to keep my tone casual. “I only work part time, so I’m happy to take the extra shifts when I can.” I moved on to my other leg.

  He sighed. “I gotta get a job.”

  “Yeah? What do you do?” This was the part where he told me he was a professional whatever and way too old for me.

  He laughed. “Whatever I can. Although it would be nothing if it were up to my dad.”

  “Really?” Hope blossomed. Most adults didn’t let their parents dictate what they did for work, right?

  “Yeah. He’d prefer I focus on . . . other things.”

  I frowned. Neither of us spoke. That was vague and weird.

  “It’s getting late. I better go.” As he moved, his balcony light threw his shadow over the bamboo screen. He was tall, broad shouldered.

  When I didn’t speak, he did. “Cute toes.”

  And then he was gone. The sound of his sliding door closing made me shake my head at my idiocy. Why hadn’t I told him good night or something? But hey, I sure was glad I’d let my mom paint my toes that deep red on the weekend. They did look cute.

  The next day, I got home just after lunch. Mom and Dad were both at work, and there was nothing to stop me from racing through the apartment like a maniac, changing out of my work uniform and into a T-shirt dress, and launching myself onto the balcony. He wasn’t there. I waited all afternoon, going inside only for snacks. The sun was setting and I was packing up after my second makeup look when the slide of a balcony door made me pause.

  Someone settled in on the other side of the bamboo screen. My heart leapt into my throat, and my hand froze over my makeup bag, several brushes clutched in my fist.

  Then I rolled my eyes at myself and let the brushes drop with a clatter.

  “Hey, stranger.” This time, I let the smile show in my voice.

  “Oh, hey!” He sounded a little surprised. “You’re early tonight.”

  “Didn’t work this afternoon. Been sitting out here for hours.” Shit! I cringed. Now I sounded like a creepy moron who’d been waiting for him all day.

  But he didn’t skip a beat. “I would’ve come out sooner, but the smell of feet has finally vacated the premises, and I got dragged into a particularly frustrating campaign on Halo.”

  “Well, I’m glad to know the stink is gone, but, er, what’s a Halo?”

  “Oh!” His laugh this time was a little nervous. “It’s a video game. But not, like, a kid’s game or whatever. It’s got a parental advisory and everything. It’s super violent, actually. Not that I like it for the violence! It actually requires strong problem-solving skills and . . . I’m rambling.”

  “Yeah, a bit.” I laughed.

  “Sorry. I just didn’t want you to think I was a kid or anything.”

  Fuck. How old was he? I was so damn confused.

  “I still watch SpongeBob SquarePants on Saturday mornings,” I blurted, “if I’m not working. There’s just something comforting about cartoons and cereal, ya know?”

  “Yeah. Takes me back to a time when everything felt right with the world and I didn’t have so much to worry about.”

  “Yeah . . .” I was a little surprised he understood so immediately. What heavy shit was he dealing with? Was it as bad as the reason I was dreading going back to school? Was it worse?

  The following day I had the late shift and was kicking myself for not telling the boy next door I wouldn’t be home in the evening. Then I was rolling my eyes for assuming he cared enough to notice I wouldn’t be around.

  Work was busy—the Saturday night dinner crowd keeping us on our toes, especially considering it was the last weekend before school started. I didn’t get home until almost eleven. The apartment was dark and quiet, and my dad went straight to bed after picking me up.

  I didn’t even bother changing—I just went straight out to the balcony.

  “Neighbor?” His voice came as soon as I closed the door. It was softer than usual.

  “Hey.” I smiled, matching his quiet tone. I guessed we were both aware of the thousands of sleeping people in close proximity. “You’re still up.”

  “Yeah . . .” He didn’t sound as happy as he usually did. Maybe it wasn’t the late hour keeping his voice muted. “I’ve been sitting out here for hours. I’m kind of avoiding my dad—he’s in a mood. I wanted to hear your voice.”

  That warm feeling in my chest intensified even as my brows drew together. His ocean-deep voice had dropped even further, hinting at tumultuous currents underneath.

  I pushed aside the chair I usually sat in and lowered myself to the ground, leaning back against the wall. This was where he usually sat—they’d only just moved in, and I had a feeling there was no patio furniture on their balcony.

  We were practically shoulder to shoulder, only the flimsy bamboo between us.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  Silence.

  I pressed my hand against the bamboo.

  After another beat of silence, I felt pressure against my palm, then, slowly, heat spread through the thin screen. He was pressing his hand against mine.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  He’d ignored my question, but that was OK. Some questions were too hard to answer.

  I chewed on my lip but didn’t want to keep him waiting too long. Even though I hardly knew him, the urge not to disappoint this boy was strong.

  “Mena,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell him my full name. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, but I was more myself with him than I’d ever been with a new person. The only people I could remotely consider friends called me Mena, and they were the only ones I could truly be myself with. I wanted to be myself with him.

  “Mena,” he repeated.

  “What’s yours?”

  He didn’t hesitate for a second. “Turner.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him we weren’t strangers anymore, but the sound of his sliding door cut me off.

  His hand disappeared, and I curled mine into a loose fist, as if trying to hold on to the warmth.

  “Turner?” an older, gruffer voice said. “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one.” He shuffled away.

  I tried not to feel hurt.

  “I heard something,” the older man—probably his dad—said.

  “Maybe it was the neighbors.”

  The door opened, then closed, and he was gone.

  I wrapped my arms around my legs and leaned my head back against the wall. Goose bumps rose on my arms in the chilly night air, but I couldn’t seem to make myself move.

  My feet sped up, trying to match the hammering rhythm of my heart. I had to take a deep breath and force myself to slow down. It was only a fifteen-minute walk to school, but at the rate I was going, I’d make it there in five. I wanted to spend less time there, not more. But my legs hadn’t gotten the memo and kept trying to break into a sprint.

  I didn’t want to feel like this.

  I growled and made myself stop, closed my eyes tight, and forced a long breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, gripping the straps of my backpack until my knuckles were as white as the stars swimming in my vision. After a few moments, I steeled my resolve and moved forward at a steady pace, trying to distract myself by c
ounting the steps in my head.

  The tail end of summer meant another perfectly sunny California morning, but I wished it was cloudy and cold so I could have an excuse to hide inside a hoodie all day. I hoped I would go unnoticed regardless, that it would be the silent treatment. Being ignored was much better than how the first day of junior year had gone down.

  I tried to push the memory away, but it forced its way into my mind, as insistent as the hot sun on the back of my head.

  First day of school had been hot last year as well. I’d fought to slow my steps then too, but there had been a hint of excitement, a tiny sliver of hope, driving the nervous energy that day.

  I’d spent all summer—every moment I wasn’t working or hanging out with the girls—learning how to do makeup. I’d watched countless hours of YouTube videos and spent half my pay on new products, brushes, pallets, and all kinds of things I hoped would make me more normal in the eyes of my peers. By the end of the summer, I’d gotten pretty good at it, even practicing on Donna, Harlow, and Amaya.

  That day, I’d applied an understated look. My birthmark was covered, my lashes accentuated, my lips natural. I thought I looked pretty good.

  I was a fool.

  I should’ve known—in high school, the only thing worse than being different is making an active effort to change the thing that makes you different.

  I’d walked into school with my head up, smiled, made eye contact; I even gave Jessica Miller a little wave as I stopped at my locker. Most people shot me surprised looks, not really knowing what to make of the new me. A few even reflexively smiled back.

  By lunch, word had spread. No one had said anything to me, of course, but they’d all been talking behind my back. Oblivious, I went into the girls’ bathroom off the science wing corridor.

  I came out of the stall to find four girls leaning against walls and sinks, watching me with amused smiles. Madison and her friends.

  I froze, like a gazelle that had just wandered into a circle of leopards.

  “Been holding that all morning?” Steph chuckled, tilting her head. “Sounded like an elephant pissing in there.”