Page 117 of Wicked Angel
Anyway, the first time Shayla saw me doing blow, when she was fifteen, was the very last time I did it. I didn’t want her thinking that shit was okay, for her or for any guy she brought into her life. I didn’t like being a bad influence on her, or a bad role model, and I knew I was, in so many ways.
Now, when I felt uneven, I’d drink, maybe. Alcohol just made me more uneven, usually, but at least it helped me forget the details. Drinking was a distraction more than a pleasure.
Or, I’d use sex as a distraction. A mood lifter.
That sometimes worked, on a biological level. But not for very long.
Or, I’d smoke pot. Sativa, not indica, to keep my mind active. I’d play guitar. Reading or watching TV or even listening to music was too passive. I needed to do something with my hands, stimulate my brain in a certain way, to switch my focus away from that unevenness.
But the last thing, the very worst thing I could do was go to sleep.
If I slept in this state, the nightmare would find me.
I thumbed through my phone. A few people had dropped me a text about going out tonight. Shane. Noah. Even Yash. But I didn’t like being around my friends when I was this uneven—unless I wanted to get immediately, extremely wasted.
I didn’t want to get wasted right now. And anyway, Shane and Lex had given me enough flack the last time I brought my problems to them. The night I’d hired Angeline to be my publicist… because I couldn’t stop looking at her across the bar, thinking about her.
That was what this was about, right? I didn’t really hire her to be my publicist. I hired her because I wanted her around, even when I didn’t want her around.
She irritated me and she fucking fascinated me.
I could’ve easily spent the rest of the night with her, even if nothing happened between us tonight. We could’ve had a drink. Talked. Watched fucking Netflix for all I cared. We were both alone. According to the alarm system on Shayla’s house, also connected to my phone, my sister wasn’t home.
But maybe Angeline just wasn’t interested. She already regretted that kiss, and tomorrow she’d tell me she hated me all over again.
I finally stopped pacing and got undressed, maybe to convince myself I wasn’t going next door. I picked up the wooden box on my nightstand, walked naked out onto the patio in the dark. I settled onto a lounge chair and opened the box, taking out some weed and rolling papers. Rolled myself a blunt, then laid back and smoked, looking up at the night sky.
Then my phone lit up with a notification. When I picked it up, I saw her name on the screen.
Angeline:You didn’t fuck anything up. You did well. It was a nice night.
As I was reading the text she’d sent me, another one came in.
Angeline:And a nice kiss.
I texted her back, becausewhat the fuck.
Me:Nice?
I sent her an eye roll emoji. And a thumbs down emoji. And a vomiting emoji.
She sent back a laughing emoji.
Angeline:You were a gentleman. Let’s leave it at that.
Me:I’m not a gentleman.
Angeline:I know.
I let that hang for a minute while I smoked, wondering what she was thinking.
And what she really felt about me.
Because the girl felt every fucking thing. All you had to do was look at her to know it. It was in her eyes. Maybe I couldn’t tellwhatshe felt, but whatever she really felt about me… hatred wasn’t it.
I tried to remember all the shit she’d said to me about relationships in her little lectures. Listening to people… Genuinely caring…
Letting people in.
