Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

Still, I should have been smart enough to decipher whatever Dr. T was really trying to say to me. But no. Her arm around me clouded my ability to think straight.

Perhaps sensing my rising discomfort level, she moved back to her chair, giving me some breathing room.

“Rue, tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

Yeah, right.

“You know I have always tried to be professional with you. You are my client, and you deserve to be treated with every level of respect and dedicated care. But”—she paused, and I felt a blow coming—“I care about you very much.”

That statement should have felt welcome, comforting. Instead, it felt loaded.

Dr. T didn’t have any children of her own. My mom had told me about her series of miscarriages and subsequent divorce. I supposed it was completely natural for her to care about me, especially since I felt the same way about her. But, for some reason, it felt heavy for her to finally voice it. “I know what I’m about to say now may be hard for you to hear, but I am going to say it anyway because it’s the truth .”

I took a deep Courage Breath, just like she’d taught me.

“It’s time for you to let your mom in. You need each other now like never before.”

Dr. T was right—that kind of advice was hard for me to hear. Wasn’t it Jane’s job, as the mother, to let me in? Not the other way around?

“You say that like it’s an easy thing to do,” I argued.

“I didn’t say it would be easy. In fact I know just how hard it will be. But it’s time.” Dr. T checked her watch as if she was beginning to check out.

Until now, I’d pretty much relied on her to be a sounding board and nonjudgmental third party when I needed to vent about various neuroses. But now that I’d killed someone, indirectly caused an innocent death, and trapped myself in my own lies and illegal obsessions, I really needed her.

“We’re going to end our session a few minutes early again today,” she said. “We’ll make up the time at another appointment.” She stood to escort me to the door. But she hadn’t even given me the chance to tell her about my mom’s affair. “I want you to give what I said a great deal of thought. Truth or repose—you can’t have both.”

I honestly had no idea what she was talking about. But maybe with some distance I’d figure it out.

“See you next week,” she said with a sympathetic nod. “Have a safe weekend.”

“You, too,” I said.

And she shut the door in my face.

Equation of the night: Muggy air (smelling of equal parts beer and sweat) + hip-hop (blaring from the Napoleon-complex speakers) ÷ the throng of horny teenagers (rubbing up against each other like animals in heat) = sensory overload.

“I can’t believe you brought me here!” I yelled into Alana’s ear. “Can you get a ride home? I don’t feel comfortable—”

“Oh, shut up and relax,” she yelled back, fist-pumping to the music. “This is just what you need—mindless social interaction. No one is worried about you and what you’ve done or haven’t done. They’re too busy having fun !”

She was wrong. This wasn’t just what I needed . I didn’t need to be manipulated into coming to some stupid high school party when she promised we could talk. What I needed was to figure out who was messing with me. And fast, before anyone else got hurt or Martinez discovered that I’d been stalking LeMarq long before I put a bullet between his eyes.

As soon as I could, I was going home, locking myself in my room, and poring over my notes on the Filthy Five. There had to be a connection between them and my whole life falling apart.

I watched as Alana slipped into the pulsating heart of the dance floor. Her wavy black hair bopped to the beat, and her skinny little Daisy Dukes–wearing legs jumped up and down with the crowd. I couldn’t help wondering why she still put up with me after all these years. Me, the epitome of Buzzkill. She remained ever loyal, even when I failed to reciprocate. I imagined Dr. T would probably say that as opposites, we needed each other to balance out our weaknesses and strengths. She kept me normal, and I kept her in excellent couture . Except lately, I worried I was more of an anchor, pulling Alana down into the depths with me.

As she got sucked further into the riptide of flesh, I found a wall to lean on, my anxiety growing. I shouldn’t be here, hanging out, doing nothing. But I didn’t want to feel the consuming guilt and anger threatening to break me, either. Maybe Alana was right: I needed a good distraction.

I scanned the massive room, observing other people’s issues for once instead of concentrating on my own. It appeared that Declawed Taylor and unnamed friend were lushing their way to happiness. Jell-O shots and tube tops were all they needed. A pack of football players surrounded them as they slurped themselves into oblivion.

As my eyes roamed the room, I found so many examples of kids with major problems: Brianna Hartley, who’d spent last spring in rehab; Miles Brown, who’d gotten two girls pregnant in the same year; Ted Cohen, who’d once eaten a handful of worms on a dare…

But even after some therapeutic people watching, or as Alana liked to call it, “people judging,” I still felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothes. Well, a wolf in four-inch Jimmy Choo wedge heels. Yeah, these kids were crazy, but I was almost 99 percent sure that none of them were violent-crazy. Like me.

I caught eyes with a guy named Jace I dated freshman year—if dating meant kissing a lot and then being constantly harassed about “moving to the next level in our physical relationship.” He was a charming guy, but his smooth talking got old. And when I told him I thought we should go back to being friends—the kind without benefits—he took it hard. If hard meant spreading rumors about what a boring prude I was.

While I was still looking in his direction, he shaped his hand into a gun and took aim at me. I couldn’t believe it. He’d been a jerk-jar before, but this was crossing the line. I had half a mind to cross the room and break his little gun-shaped hand (and equally little boy parts) but the thought of the story getting leaked to Access Hollywood kept my back against the wall. When he cocked his hand and made a blasting gesture, I finally looked away. What a piece of—

“Don’t pay attention to Jace.” Liam’s familiar voice caught me off guard. And his warm breath against my ear almost made my Jimmy Choos give way. “He only acts like an ass because he’s never gotten over you.”

I turned my head to find him leaning on the wall next to me, the disco ball sprinkling light on his face like diamond reflections.

When the freak did he get here?

“Oh, hey,” I said, taking a firmer stance against those eyelashes. “Right. Jace. Ass. Totally.” What was that? California Cavegirl–speak?

“It’s hot in here. Wanna come out on the balcony with me?” This time his lips brushed the side of my neck as he leaned in. How could he still want to talk to me after I stared down his scars and then lamely left him at the beach?

I looked around for something to hold on to. A lifeline to keep me from jumping off this cliff. Where was Alana when I needed her?

I found nothing and no one. I looked down instead, trying to steel my resolve. Except his classic white Nike Air Force 1s might have just turned me on even more. This boy, his lashes, and his shoes were going to break me.

“Sure,” I said.

He took my hand and weaved me through the bouncing bodies, up the stairs, through a master bedroom, and onto a balcony overlooking the shore with a spiral staircase leading down to the beach.