Fractured Heart: a Fairy Tale Romance (LUV Academy Book 1) Read online

  JJ doesn’t. He continues staring at me, patiently waiting for me to cave. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Is there booze in there?”

  “In here?” JJ raises the drink in surprise. “No way.”

  I nod even though I’m not sure I believe him.

  “It’s got protein powder, ginger, honey, blueberries…” JJ starts listing off ingredients, all of which sounds harmless. “See for yourself.”

  I take a sip and grimace in disgust. The concoction tastes pretty gross, but is that just the weird mix of ingredients? After seeing what drinking has done to Father, I’ve never touched the stuff. I wouldn’t recognize it, even if it weren’t mixed with a bunch of ingredients.

  “If makes you uncomfortable, I can pour it out.” JJ gets to his feet.

  “You don’t have to do that. I believe you,” I lie. My heart pounds in my chest and I start to feel light-headed. When JJ walks up to me and takes his protein shake, I think I might throw up.

  “I’m sorry I scared you last night. I really didn’t think there’d be anyone on the couch. We don’t usually bring girls around, and if we do, they don’t sleep on the couch.” He doesn’t so much as smirk as he says it, his previously flirtatious tone completely gone. He takes in my obviously pale face and his frown intensifies. “I swear, if I knew you had a problem with alcohol, I wouldn’t have gotten drunk.”

  “I don’t—” I start to deny it, even though it’s obviously true, but JJ doesn’t let me finish.

  “Yes, you do. You’re scared of me.”

  “I’m not.” It’s not JJ I’m scared of, but my gaze is glued to the protein shake in his hand and I realize I’m trembling.

  JJ shakes his head and backs away from me. He dumps his protein shake in the sink and storms out of the living room. By the time he emerges in jeans and a plaid shirt, water bottle in hand, my heart rate has slowed and I’ve stopped shaking.

  “JJ, I’m sorry.”

  “No.” He holds up a hand. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Not you.”

  “But—” I start to argue but he slams out the front door, leaving me alone in the empty apartment.

  Chapter 21

  Guilt washes over me as I sit alone in the empty apartment. The rain drums lightly against the windows and my half-finished omelet grows cold on my plate.

  JJ left because of me. Because I projected my problems with Father onto him. I basically accused him of being a drunk, even if I didn’t come right out and say it. He welcomed me into his home and how did I repay him? I made him leave.

  I force myself to finish the food he worked so painstakingly hard to make for me. I won’t insult him by throwing it out, even if I can’t enjoy it.

  What was once a tantalizing explosion of flavors now tastes like guilt. It makes my stomach roil and I down a full cup of coffee before it settles.

  The least I can do is clean up. I get to work, humming my favorite Cinderella song as I clear the counter. It feels wrong. I’m not a servant anymore…I’m more like an ungrateful guest. I’m the reason JJ stormed out.

  I make sure his kitchen’s spotless before I make my way to the couch. For the first time since Mom died, I have no responsibilities. No school, no chores, no worries, and no way to make myself useful.

  There’s a huge, curved TV that’s mounted on the wall. I wish I had my laptop so I could cast some musicals onto the big screen.

  Even more than that, I wish I had my laptop so I could go over my compositions. I have them all backed up to the cloud, so at least I don’t have to worry about Father destroying them.

  Now, if I can only find a way to compose without my software.

  It takes a second and then I jump to my feet. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t, but there’s absolutely nothing else for me to do until this afternoon’s rehearsal. And that’s hours away. Plus, it’s not like I can text Tate and ask for permission. I’m sure he won’t mind. Hopefully?

  I feel a sliver of guilt as I cross the living room and sneak into the room where I changed last night. The room that held books, sports equipment, and Tate’s guitar.

  It calls to me, like a siren singing my name. I approach it slowly, my gaze caressing its wooden surface.

  It’s even more beautiful than I remember from when I got a glimpse at it last night. It’s a work of art: sleek and shining with silvery frets.

  Somehow, it manages to look brand new and well-loved all at once. Tate’s clearly taken expert care of this instrument. The steel strings shine both with the fruits of careful maintenance and the loving engagement of constant practice. It glows with love.

  I carefully carry the guitar back to the couch, terrified that I might trip or drop it.

  When I’m safely seated, I hold Tate’s instrument reverently. I run my fingers gently over the strings, making sure each one is perfectly tuned, and then I start to play.

  It’s been months since I’ve held a guitar and it’s like getting reacquainted with an old friend. There’s something magical that happens when my songs travel through my fingers, something beautiful about creating music with an instrument instead of computer software.

  The songs I wrote since graduation feel different. The guitar lets me focus more on my vocals. As I play, I realize I don’t need the symphony of loops and backup tracks I’ve gotten used to adding digitally. The version I’m playing now is more authentic. Stripped down. Honest.

  The rain provides the slow tempo of a metered beat. It’s just me and Tate’s guitar, playing our way through the silent morning.

  I forget that JJ left and still hasn’t come back. I forget that I kissed both Tate and Charles. I forget that Father might come after me. I forget that I have no place to live and twenty dollars to my name. I forget everything—everything except my music.

  Minutes blend into hours. I modify my songs, though I have no way to record the new versions. I let myself get lost in the magic of fairy tales. I let myself live in the moment.

  Someone pounds at the door.

  I’m so startled, I drop the guitar. Not on the couch, or even the coffee table, but onto the floor. With the rug gone, wood strikes wood with a loud, echoing thud. I fall to my knees after it, my face pale as I flip it over to check for damage.

  The guitar didn’t fall far. It should be fine, but it’s not. A crack runs down the back.

  I broke Tate’s guitar!

  I stay paralyzed in place until there’s another bang on the door.

  It has to be Tate. He left me his key card, so he has no way of getting back in. The thought of him catching me with his broken guitar propels me into action. Even though I know it’s wrong, I grab the guitar and race to put it back where I found it. I can’t let Tate find out what I’ve done. Not after I flooded the entire apartment last night and he st

  ill let me stay. He’ll kick me out for sure. And he’ll hate me.

  I make sure the guitar is positioned exactly where it had been earlier. Maybe I can get the money to fix it before Tate finds out?

  I know how unlikely that is. I’ve spent months trying to find work, and no one would hire me. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to pay Tate back, but I need to hold onto that dream. It’s the only way I can live with what I’ve done.

  I close the door behind me, erasing any evidence of my presence, and take a few seconds to catch my breath. Then I go to unlock the front door. I almost flip the bolt before I remember to check the peephole. I know it’s probably Tate, since I have his key card, but what if it’s Father? Or Campus Security checking if there are any non-students where they don’t belong?

  I peek into the hallway and a petite girl my age stares back at me. "Roonie Hill?" she calls out in a muffled voice. How does she know my name? Am I in trouble?

  I already broke Tate’s guitar! How much worse could my day possibly get?

  "Who is it?” I call out tentatively.

  "Angela from Stillwater.”

  “Angela?” I call back. I don't know anyone named Angela. And I’ve defini
tely never heard of Stillwater. Is that the name of campus security?

  I hesitate and she adds, “Tate Green sent me.”

  Chapter 22

  Tate called Campus Security?

  I shake my head. Tate would never do that to me, even if I deserve it or worse. I flooded the apartment and I made out with him and Charles. I pitted the two roommates against each other. And I’m attracted to JJ. I’m an absolute disaster. Maybe I was challenging fate by running away from home. And it looks like fate’s caught up with me.

  JJ probably told the guys what happened and convinced them that the best thing for everyone would be for me to leave. He probably made Tate call campus security, and when Tate finds out what I’ve done to his guitar, he’ll be glad that he did.

  I touch my collarbone, needing the calming presence of my pendant. My heart sinks. I reach into my pocket, where the four pieces of my fractured heart reside. My fingers graze the cool stone, but I don’t feel the usual peace. I just feel broken. My shoulders slump and I open the door.

  “You must be Roonie Hill?” Angela from Stillwater smiles at me. She seems unusually happy for someone who goes around kicking people off campus. She doesn’t look like much of a guard. She’s around my age and a full head shorter than me. Her green eyes and blond ponytail give her an air of childish innocence. So does her uniform. It consists of comfy-looking black yoga pants and a white polo shirt. The word ‘Stillwater’ is emblazoned on her sleeve, but in pretty pink cursive.

  The huge bag she’s holding with apparent ease is clearly marked Stillwater, as is the fancy ironing board she has propped up against the wall beside her. She picks it up like it weighs nothing and pushes past my startled form.

  I stare after her for a second. She can’t be from campus security. Tate must have called her to do his laundry.

  “Do you need any help?” I call after her.

  “It’s cool. I got it.” Angela smiles at me over her shoulder. “I do this all the time! For the last few months, anyway.”

  She unfolds the ironing board in the middle of the living room. It’s a lot larger than the one I’ve used the few times Father needed a suit. It’s also got a padded leather surface instead of a thin, cloth one and sturdy wooden legs rather than weak, metal ones.

  “It’ll only take me another minute to set up.” Angela smiles when she sees me watching. “Why don’t you get ready?”

  “Ready?” I ask in confusion.

  Angela nods. “You’ll be more comfortable without a bra.”

  “What?” I stare at her, sure I must not have heard her right.

  “Oh, is this your first time?” Angela asks. “Look, that’s totally cool. Just take off your clothes but leave your underwear on. Okay?”

  First time? Take off your clothes? I take an instinctive step back and gesture between us. “I-I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

  Angela stares at me for a few seconds in confusion. “About what?”

  “This. I’m not interested in you. And even if I was, I’m sort of seeing someone.” Or two someones, emphasis on the sort of. Plus, I’m also interested in their roommate, which I do not want to think about.

  Angela’s eyes widen. “Wait…you think I’m hitting on you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I’m from Stillwater.”

  At my obvious lack of understanding, her eyes widen further and then she bursts out laughing.

  “Who are you? And why are you here?” I demand, which only makes her laugh harder.

  “That’s…never happened before.” She laughs harder.

  I frown.

  “I’m from the campus spa,” she adds through a fit of laughter. “For a massage.”

  “But I didn’t order a massage.” I turn to her ironing board with new eyes. It does look like a massage table. It’s even got a hole where the face should go. How did I not notice that?

  “Your boyfriend ordered the massage. He probably wanted it to be a surprise,” Angela says, only to burst out laughing again.

  I open my mouth to tell her Tate’s not my boyfriend, but she doesn’t give me the chance. “I can’t believe you thought I wanted to sleep with you.”

  “I didn’t,” I cry, my cheeks flaming.

  “Yeah, you did.” Angela giggles.

  “Okay, maybe a little,” I amend. “But you told me to take off my clothes. And you asked if it was my first time.”

  My words echo through the huge living room. A second passes as I mull them over and then I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, too. It takes the two of us forever to calm down. By then, I’m bent over at the waist, hands on knees and my ribs ache. My face splits into a grin. I’ve missed having friends. My friends and I have hardly talked since they left for college. They’ve been too busy studying, partying, and becoming a part of campus life, while I’ve had an ever-increasing amount of chores courtesy of Father.

  “We should probably get started.” Angela smiles. “I have another massage to get to at one, and your boyfriend paid for 75 minutes.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I shake my head.

  “Friend with benefits?” Angela asks, eyes twinkling.

  “No!” I snap, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

  “Sorry I asked,” Angela snaps right back and then her cheeks flush, too. “No, seriously, I’m sorry. We were laughing and I forgot I was at work and you’re a client.” She quickly looks away. “Why don’t I finish setting up, and you get ready?”

  She straightens up her uniform, all business, and digs through her bag. First, she takes out a tray. Then she arranges an array of dark glass bottles on its surface. When she’s done, she lays a fresh sheet across the massage table. This time, when she smiles at me, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Do you have a towel? If you don’t, I brought one. And I’ve got all kinds of massage oils I can use. How about coconut?”

  When I don't respond, she grabs a bottle and flicks open its cap. She offers it for me to smell. I lean in and catch a whiff of deep, tropical air.

  "Do you like it?” Angela asks hopefully. I nod. “Great. Let’s get started then?”

  I shake my head like a mermaid trying to shake off water. A massage means taking off my sweater and I can’t let Angela see my bruises.

  Her face falls. “I’m sorry I pried into your personal life. I really, really am. It was none of my business and it won’t happen again, Miss Hill.”

  “Roonie,” I correct. “And it’s fine. You didn’t pry.”

  Angela’s shoulders slump in relief. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I need this job. You wouldn’t understand, living here, but I have a little sister. She’s depending on me and we’ve got bills and…you don’t care about my problems.”

  “Of course I do. I don’t want you to lose your job.” I hesitate, but there’s no harm in telling her the truth. Some of it, at least. “I don’t actually live here.”

  I quickly summarize leaving home, falling in the forest and Tate inviting me to stay. I make sure to downplay the fight I had with Father and I make it sound like things between the guys and myself have been purely platonic.

  “Wow,” Angela stares at me with new eyes. “And they’re letting you stay here?”

  “Just for a couple of days.”

  “It was so sweet of Tate to order you a massage.” Angela gets a dreamy look in her eyes.

  “He’s just a nice guy.” I can’t help but smile when I think of my Prince Charming.

  “But you like him?” Angela winks.

  “Maybe.” I stare down at my feet.

  “So, about that massage?” she asks hopefully.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head and she gets that panicked look again. She needs the money, but there’s no way I’m letting her see my bruises. I can’t think of any way out, except…“What if we just pretended you gave me a massage?”

  “Huh?”

  “We both say the massage happened, that way you still get paid.” I’d still have to find a way t
o pay Tate back, but considering I already owe him and Charles for food, clothes, the bathroom flood and a broken guitar, I can just add it to the list.

  “You want me to lie?” Angela doesn’t look happy.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone. And you can hang out here, so it looks legit.”

  “I guess.” Angela takes a few seconds to think it over. “You’re the client, so I guess there’s no harm in that.”

  “Great.” I take a seat on the couch, which immediately makes me think of JJ. Where did he storm off to? And does he plan on coming back here before rehearsal, or is he avoiding me?

  “Whoa, this thing’s fancy.” Angela tentatively sits down on the couch. “I don’t know how people can live like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.” She gestures around us. “This whole apartment looks like…”

  “A castle.” I can’t quite keep the longing out of my voice.

  “I was going to say freakish mansion.” She gets to her feet and circles the living room, much like I had last night. “Don’t know why anyone would want to live like this. I’d be afraid of touching anything.”

  “It’s not so bad.” I flooded the entire apartment and the guys didn’t even bat an eye.

  “I guess.” Angela shrugs. “So, what do you have against massages, anyway?”

  “I just don’t like them,” I lie, then quickly change the subject. “Do you want some coffee?”

  Angela follows me to the kitchen, and I show her how to use the fancy coffee maker. I make sure to follow all the steps Tate had, and manage not to flood—or break—anything.

  While we wait for our coffees to cool down, Angela asks me to describe each of the guys in great detail, starting with Tate. She fans herself when I describe his princely good looks. When I get to Charles’s huge, towering form she whistles. Then, when I reach JJ’s ripped muscles, and the way he exited his room shirtless, Angela makes me laugh by pretending to swoon.