Ecstasy

Alex

I’ve got approximately a dozen missed texts from a dozen different numbers asking me what I’m doing for break. I put my phone on silent, open my music app, and then flip it over.

MANTRA by Saint Slumber plays alongside the sounds of frying bacon on the back burner as I scramble some eggs on Zara’s stove.

I could’ve taken her to my house for the week. Eli was supposed to be away, for a wrestling tournament. But we haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately and I’m moving out at the end of the semester.

So, Zara’s apartment it is.

It’s nice anyway. Cozy, and shockingly, there were eggs and bacon in the fridge. Probably Kylie’s, who seems to have her head on straight. I’ll have to restock their food before I go back home.

I glance down the hall. The door to Zara’s room is wide open, but I’ve got to step back into the living room to actually see her, the pan of eggs in my hand, spatula in the other. She’s huddled up under her green comforter, a tendril of her white-blonde hair splayed against the grey pillow.

Relief washes over me, and I recognize the feeling as stupid. She’s not better yet. Not even close.

I already confiscated all her shit. She even had a bag in the vent in her bathroom, but that’s gone now, too.

After I got that call from Jax, of all fucking people last night.

My chest tightens.

I step back to the stove, slam the pan down a little harder than I meant to.

I don’t want to think about last night. About what a fucking moron I am for doing this. For being here with her.

She’s not my mother.

She’s not my responsibility.

I turn off the burners on the stove, the bacon completely fried, which is exactly how I like it.

I run my hand through my hair and lean against the counter. The smell of bacon and eggs is second only to the scent of flowers and coffee that seems to permeate the air in this little apartment.

I try to think about how all of this happened, but it’s like her scent is embedded in my brain and for some reason, she makes me fucking stupid. She makes it impossible to think.

God, I’m an idiot.

I should just call her mom. I should call the damn police. I should send Jax to prison. I should… I should do so many things besides what I’m doing right now. I’m in over my head, and I have no idea the extent of Zara’s addiction, besides knowing she clearly has one. I’ve tried to be blind to it all these months, but I saw it.

I saw it, and I never did shit about it until it pissed me off.

I turn to the stove, grab a piece of bacon from the pan and pop it in my mouth. I go to reach for another one, but I hear Zara’s footsteps, and turn to see her coming to a halt at the end of the hall, staring at me.

Seeing her messy waves like a lion’s mane around her face, her bleary eyes and those long, pale legs beneath my t-shirt, all thoughts of calling the cops or her mother or anyone at all vanish. I don’t know why I’m so fucking weak for this girl but I am.

No. I do fucking know. It was right around the first time she was drunk out of her fucking mind. It was at my house, a party, and she was sitting on the couch, her eyes fluttering closed. Some of my teammates were sitting around her, and I just thought, God, if they fucking touch her, I’ll kill them. There was something about her vulnerability in that moment…yeah. That shit softened me.

And her heart is so big. She pretends it isn’t, but God, it is.

Her heart is big, and she cares about me, and her mind is sharp and when she isn’t on drugs I fucking like her even more. Her quiet contemplation. Her obsession with fucking philosophy, of all goddamn things.

I like her more in the quiet. Not at the parties, but in the night, when she’s against me. In the mornings, when it’s just us.

I like that version of Zara so much more.

She needs me.

“Good morning, princess.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the doorway, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. She does not look like she thinks it’s a ‘good morning’ at all. Behind me, my phone is still playing music and I reach my hand out and turn it down, pocketing my phone.

“You’re still here,” she finally says, her voice groggy with sleep.

I try not to take offense to that. “Yep.”

She sighs, runs a hand over her face. I see her wince and I don’t know why at first, but then I realize she hit her nose ring.

“You do that a lot,” I tell her, tapping the side of my own nose.

Her pale cheeks bloom pink and she rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her pretty mouth.

I jerk my chin toward the stove. “Come eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” She looks down at her bare feet, flexing her toes. They’re painted pink but the polish is chipped.

I drum my fingers on the counter at my back. “It’s only Saturday, princess. You’ve got a full week of me living here.” I look around the little living room, knowing I’ve got my work cut out for me. Knowing I won’t be able to keep her in here the full seven days. “Might as well start by having breakfast, don’t you think?”

She chews on her lip, still flexing her toes. Even her goddamn toes are pretty. Which gives me an idea.

“Let’s go get a pedicure.”

She lifts her head to stare at me as if I’ve asked her to shoot up heroin.

I shrug. “Get dressed. I’ll take you.”

“You want to get a pedicure?” she asks me, skepticism laced in her tone.

“Aw, don’t be sexist, princess. I keep my toes groomed, too. It’s my favorite part of the off season,” I admit. “Working out all those blisters.”

“Did you paint your nails pink, too? Because if I’d have known…”

I cock my head and shrug. “Would that be a problem?”

She laughs a little, ru

All right, this has gone too far. “No, for your information, I did not.” I grab another piece of bacon and throw it in my mouth, chewing and swallowing it down as I walk over to her.

She eyes me with suspicion, but when I throw an arm around her shoulders, she doesn’t scream or shove me off or back away. It seems as if she’s already resigned to this shit.

I tug her close to me, loving her scent.

“You can get all the work done without the polish, you know? The nail people love it, too, even though my legs get cramped as hell in those massage chairs. They weren’t built for pro athletes, apparently.”

I pull her down the hall, toward her room. Reluctantly, she walks with me.

“You’re not a pro athlete.”

“Nope. I’ll be something less flashy and more deviant. A lawyer.”

She looks up at me, twisting under my arm. “Lawyers shouldn’t hang out with addicts.”

“It’s why I’m here to cure you, so when we’re married and shit, I can go to work without worrying about you.”

She tenses under my arm and my heart clenches, wondering why the fuck I said that. And what she’s going to say to it.

She ducks under my arm and stands in front of me, eyes meeting mine. Even lined with red and smeared with her stupid eyeliner, the aqua blue and green of her eyes is mesmerizing.

“Alex.” Her brow furrows as she stares up at me, sun streaming in through the window at her back. We’re standing at the foot of her bed, the green comforter halfway on the floor from when she rolled out of bed a few minutes ago. “You don’t have to do this.”

I glance at the messy sheets, imagine they’re still warm from her body. I think of how she felt against me all night.