Dead Silence, Page 2

  She burst out laughing then, leaning closer. “I wonder what the principal would have said about that. Can you imagine the other kids brushing our ashes off the swings?” She bumped her shoulder playfully against his. “We were kinda morbid when we were little, weren’t we?”

  “Better than being zombified forever in the ground, I guess.” He grinned down at her, and Violet’s mouth went dry. Even when he was saying things like “zombified” he could make her stomach do flips with just a simple glance. He changed the subject then. “Are you excited about tomorrow?”

  Violet’s gaze narrowed, but she wasn’t really upset with him. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  He shrugged, leaning closer, and she could feel his eyes settling on her lips, making them tingle in anticipation. “Because we’ll be seniors tomorrow. Because it’s our last year of high school. Aren’t we supposed to be excited?”

  “I suppose,” she said, not really caring about the words coming from her mouth. She inhaled his breath, which was even with hers.

  “But you’re not?”

  She studied his eyes, the flecks of gold and green and brown, pieced together like intricate bits of cut glass in a mosaic. She looked at his lashes, too long and thick for a boy’s. And at his pupils, which grew larger as she drew nearer. “I didn’t say that.” Then she smiled. “But, no. Not really, I guess.”

  “Is that why you aren’t at Claire’s for the big back-to-school barbeque? I hear everyone who’s anyone is there.” His tone was mocking, but he wore the same concerned expression she’d seen on her mother’s face just that morning.

  Like she was broken.

  “I’m okay, Jay. I promise.”

  He reached up and traced his thumb along one of the bruise-colored circles beneath her eyes. “The imprint?” he asked.

  She nodded, but all she could think about was the feel of his touch.

  “Have you slept at all?” His voice was lower, his mouth closer now.

  Again, she nodded.

  His hand cupped her cheek, cradling it. “They miss you, you know?” He didn’t have to say who . . . she knew he meant Chelsea and Claire and Jules. It had been a long, strange summer as she’d tried to adjust to this new life of hers—the one that was never silent.

  “I miss them too,” she admitted. “I just . . .” She faltered, trying to come up with the right words and thinking it might be easier if Jay wasn’t so close. If she wasn’t staring into his beautiful eyes and breathing his tempting breath. “They act like, I don’t know, like everything’s the same as it’s always been, but I feel like a stranger now. And whenever I’m with them, I feel like a liar too. They know I was abducted, but I can’t tell them why. And every time Chelsea asks where I’ve been, and who I’m with, I have to make up some excuse so she doesn’t know I’ve been at the Center. It’s like I’m living two different lives.” She nestled her face into the curve of his hand. “I don’t know who to be.”

  His mouth quirked up into a sideways grin, and he reached for her, pulling her against him, and she could feel him shaking his head against the top of hers. “You’re insane, you know that?” But his words were anything but critical. He drew back, watching her with the same amusement she’d heard in his voice. “You don’t have to be anyone, Vi. Just you. They miss you.”

  She smiled back at him. He was right, of course . . . he always was. And when he said it like that, so simply, it made perfect sense. Who was she kidding? Things had happened to her, things that had changed her to some degree—she’d be lying if she said she’d come out of the abduction unscathed. And it wasn’t just the imprint that haunted her. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t the same girl she’d always been, did it?

  Hadn’t her friends tried to convince her of that very thing when they’d shown up at her house day after day? Hadn’t they called and texted and cajoled her to come out with them, even after she’d turned them down time and time again?

  Wasn’t it Chelsea who’d finally worn her down by showing up every morning for a week, until Violet had had no choice but to agree to go to the lake with them?

  And she’d had fun. She’d felt like her old self again, even if it was only for a day.

  “We can still make it to Claire’s if you want.”

  She shook her head.

  “What would you rather be doing then?” he asked, his voice low and filled with meaning.

  “If you have to ask . . .” Violet’s words trailed away.

  Jay’s lips were on hers then. And that tingling of anticipation shot through her entire body, filling her with currents of pleasure that made her toes curl. She leaned into him, not thinking that her parents could look out the window any minute, or that they were kissing in front of a graveyard filled with dead animals, or that she should be getting ready for the first day of her senior year.

  She thought of nothing but Jay. Nothing but his lips on her lips.

  Nothing but the fact that everything was better when they were alone.

  THE ROAD TO HELL

  HIS FINGERS ACHED, AND HIS ENTIRE BODY WAS drenched with sweat, soaking his shirt all the way through. He was unable to stand still so he paced across the length of the stage, and then back again, clutching his guitar as he waited for the others to finish talking.

  About him. To decide his fate once and for all. But it didn’t matter, he knew he’d nailed it.

  This time he was sure he’d nailed it.

  Every once in a while he’d feel the weight of their eyes on him, scouring him in that appraising way that made him hyperaware he was under the most intense kind of scrutiny, and he’d stop, wondering if this was the time they’d tell him he was in.

  This was the third time he was auditioning for them. His third time to stand on this stage, or one like it, and lay his soul bare as he played for them.

  He knew what was holding them back, why they hadn’t chosen him before. They were afraid, worried he would outshine them all. And they were right, he would. So this time he’d played it down a little. This time he’d played a little more clumsily, and he’d pulled back on his obvious charm, giving them just enough reason to think he wouldn’t steal their spotlight.

  Sure, they’d taken on other guys in the meantime—other guitarists, during those other two auditions—but they’d never lasted.

  The first guy had been a bad fit, almost from the get-go, and there were rumors in the venues they played in of backstage bickering and out-of-control egos. One night, a fistfight had broken out onstage between the new guy and the bass player. It was unprofessional, but had made for a great show. He’d been there in the audience, watching every second of the brawl.

  He’d never seen that guy again. That had been his last night with the band.

  So they’d held auditions again. And again he’d been turned away, only to have the spot he so desperately craved filled by someone else.

  And that guy had been a good match for the band, fitting in seamlessly. And, man, oh man, could he shred.

  As much as he hated to admit it, the new guy had kicked ass up there, with the lights flashing and the girls screaming and the rest of the band at his back.

  Only problem was, that was where he should’ve been standing. That was his glory being stolen.

  And this guy didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  He’d had to force the situation.

  Dude never even saw it coming. Never saw him coming . . . until it was too late.

  Rumors flew after the new guy up and vanished. No one knew where he’d gone to. As far as they knew, he’d just left one night after a show and never come back. Maybe he’d gotten a better offer. Maybe he’d OD’d in a ditch somewhere.

  Or maybe . . . just maybe he’d been stabbed thirty-three times and bled out in a storm drain in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the guy had screamed and cried, begging to be spared.

  Maybe his body had never been discovered.

  A sly smile touched his lips. And so what if it was? There was nothing to
tie it back to him anyway. Nothing to make anyone think he might be the one responsible. He didn’t know the guy, other than he’d been in the band—something he and about a thousand other people knew. Besides, he’d tossed the knife and his clothes. No one could ever link him to the body.

  So here he was again, one hand resting on his axe, the other in his mouth as he chewed nervously at his ragged fingernail.

  They had to choose him. They just had to.

  This was his time.

  This was his stage.

  When they called his name he almost didn’t realize they were talking to him at first. He blinked when he heard it again, louder this time.

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” he said, dropping his hands and stepping forward, back into the glare of the spotlight.

  There was no postulating this time, no awkward explanations or excuses. He knew their answer when he caught that one simple phrase coming up from below him. “Dude, I’m sorry.”

  The words hit him hard, like someone had just bashed a hammer through the side of his skull.

  For a moment he just stood there, not sure what to say or do. He was stunned, he’d been so sure this time, convinced that all his practice would pay off. His fingertips were still raw.

  “Did ya hear me?” There was a soft round of laughter, and he wanted to tell them all where they could go.

  They were the ones he’d followed from place to place to place. Their songs were the songs he’d memorized, note for note, and played over and over and over again.

  They were his idols. There must be some mistake.

  “What? But . . . why?”

  The wooden chairs banged against the hollow wooden floor. “Man, I’m sorry. I hate to be so blunt, but you’re just not good enough.”

  And then he heard another voice, not directed at him, filled with hostility, or maybe it was disgust. “Dude, he’s just standing there.”

  He turned away then, unable to listen as their laughter reached up onto the stage and circled him. It ringed around him like the voices of schoolchildren, taunting and pointing and laughing some more.

  He wasn’t good enough.

  He’d heard that before. From his father.

  Rage burned the backs of his eyes, blinding him and making his shoulders shake all the way down to his fingertips. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he felt the heavy weight of the amp leaving his hands, as he hurled it off the stage and toward the place they were sitting.

  From somewhere—above him or behind, or maybe from inside his own head—there was a loud electric popping sound, as the cord came tearing free from the wall and then the amp went silent, right before it crashed down on the table where they’d just been sitting.

  Suddenly, all eyes were on him again, as he stood there above them, on the stage where he belonged.

  He towered over them, still quaking. Still seething.

  “It’s a mistake,” he finally muttered, his teeth gritted together. “You’re making the biggest fucking mistake.”

  And then he shoved his way through the door at the back of the stage, before they had the chance to reconsider and beg him to stay.

  Because he wouldn’t give them a fourth chance.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL HAD THAT TYPICAL chaotic, first-day feel. Like the inmates were running the asylum.

  Keeping her headphones on, Violet bobbed and weaved her way through the pandemonium as best she could. She watched—rather than listened—as girls checked out what other girls were wearing, as boys checked out the incoming freshman girls, and as everyone compared their class schedules with everyone else’s.

  She managed to slip through the swarms of students relatively easily, avoiding fashion appraisals and obnoxious, overzealous greetings by kids who’d been going to school together since kindergarten but were now acting as if they hadn’t seen each other in decades.

  It was only school, Violet thought, feeling more irritable than she should on the first day of her senior year. But she just didn’t get what all the fuss was about. She was probably just tired, she told herself. The pills might make her groggy, but without them the imprint made it nearly impossible to find deep sleep, leaving her with an ache in her head and a sting behind her eyes.

  And, still, there was that tinkling echo that followed her everywhere.

  Some of her irritability lifted when she saw Jay, waiting for her outside the door of her first-period class.

  “Hey,” he said, shoving away from the wall to meet her in the hallway.

  She tugged one of the earbuds from her ear and let it dangle free. “Hey yourself.” She smiled up at him, ignoring the headache—and the music-box chiming. “How’d you know what my first class was?”

  The corner of his lip lifted. “I have my ways.”

  Violet shook her head. “It was Mrs. Jeffries, wasn’t it?” she prompted, but didn’t wait for his response. She knew Jay could get whatever he wanted out of the ladies in the front office. “You know she has a crush on you, don’t you?”

  “Gross, Vi. She’s like my grandma’s age.”

  Violet leaned in closer and nudged him with her elbow. “Doesn’t stop her from flirting with you. And the sickest part is, I think you kinda like it. I think you encourage her so you can find out things like . . .” She pursed her lips, watching him through appraising eyes. “Things like my class schedule. Any of this ringing a bell?”

  He threw his arm around her shoulder, and everything inside her unwound as she leaned into him, letting him share a burden he didn’t even realize was weighing on her.

  She saw Chelsea then, shoving her way through a cluster of students who had gathered in the hallway, passing their schedules around to one another. One of the girls flashed Chelsea a dirty look as Chelsea elbowed past her, bumping the girl with her backpack. But Chelsea was oblivious to the girl’s glare, and Violet wondered if she’d even realized the other kids were standing there at all.

  “Oh my god, Vi! I’ve been texting you all morning. Don’t you ever check your phone? What the eff?”

  Despite her worries about being back in school, Violet couldn’t help smiling at her friend’s bulging eyes and breathless frustration. Some things never changed.

  Violet reached into her pocket, digging for her phone, but Chelsea stopped her. “It’s too late now. I just wanna know why you didn’t tell me sooner,” Chelsea reprimanded, her eyes level with Violet’s as she gripped her arm. She leaned in close, ignoring the fact that Jay was right there. “How come you didn’t say anything about your hottie friend comin’ to White River.”

  Violet frowned at her friend. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chels.” She pulled her arm away and glanced up to see if Jay knew what Chelsea was rambling on about. But he looked as perplexed as she was.

  “Dude, whatever . . .” Chelsea’s voice trailed off as her gaze shifted past Violet, to the hallway beyond. Her mouth curved, a sly, knowing smile parting her lips. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t know he was transferring here?” she muttered, and Violet realized Chelsea had spotted whoever it was she’d been talking about. Violet turned to look behind her. “You know, the brother of that lady who works with your uncle. The one you never want to introduce me to.” She grinned knowingly. “I can totally see why, though. Yum.”

  Violet was about to say that Chelsea was wrong, that she didn’t know anything about a new kid in school, when her breath caught in her throat. She saw, then, who Chelsea was talking about. The “hottie” in question stood out like a sore thumb in his worn blue jeans and black leather jacket, especially amid the sea of freshly purchased mall clothes, some of which probably still had the tags on them, tucked conveniently inside the collars and waistbands.

  “Jesus,” Violet heard Jay breathe beside her, and she felt his arm stiffen around her neck as they watched Rafe approach. “You’re kidding me, right? What the hell is he doing here? Tell me you didn’t know about this.”

  “I—I didn’t know a
bout this,” Violet tried to say, but she was sure that no sound had actually escaped her lips, that her words had gotten stuck, lodged against the stone blocking her throat. Because that was when she recognized who Rafe was with, the flawless blonde girl walking beside him.

  It was Gemma—looking as out of place as Rafe did, but in an entirely different way. Even from the front, Violet knew the other girl’s jeans were designer, and cost more than Violet’s entire wardrobe. The heels on her boots were at least five inches tall, yet she walked as if she were wearing flats. Effortlessly. Gracefully. Her trendy bag was too big to be a purse, and Violet’s throat tightened even more when she realized it was meant to carry books.

  Rafe and Gemma stopped right in front of Violet and Chelsea and Jay. Violet was still speechless, unable to push her voice past the clog in her throat.

  Chelsea had no such dilemma. “Sooo . . .” she said, looking from Violet to Rafe and back again. “This is sorta awkward.” But there was nothing in her tone to indicate she was the slightest bit uncomfortable. She wrinkled her nose. “Well, since Violet seems a little . . . tongue-tied, let me be the first to welcome you. I’m Chelsea.” She held out her hand, her grin extending to Rafe—and only Rafe—as if Gemma weren’t standing there at all.

  He cast an uncertain glance down at her hand, which wasn’t held out for a handshake, but was palm up instead. Rafe turned to Violet, frowning.

  Chelsea’s brows rose impatiently. “Your phone,” she explained, extending her hand even farther as she waited for him to hand it over.

  An amused expression crossed his face, but he reached into his back pocket and dropped his cell phone into her awaiting hand. Her fingers moved quickly as she unlocked the screen and opened his Contacts list, deftly adding her name and number before handing it back to him with a satisfied grin. “There. That’s better,” she stated, as if he’d asked for her phone number. “Now I just need to know your name and we’ll be all set.”