The Probability of Violet and Luke

Chapter 1

Violet

I’m on the brink of losing consciousness, fading in and out as two months of bad decisions weigh me down and push me further into the water. My entire body is drenched, my lungs about to combust, yet I don’t come up for air. I freely accept the lack of life inside me and allow myself to stay there, going further and further, until I feel light and weightless. A second or two longer. That’s all I need. I can do it. Feel the comfort for just one more moment before I have to return to the painful reality of my life and what I am.

Just one more second.

Hold your breath.

Keep it in.

Trap the pain.

Drown it out.

Don’t think.

Breathe.

Don’t live.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I took it one step too far. Stayed under the water one breath too long. Inched a step too close to the edge. Drove just a little too fast down the road. Death. Would it hurt? Or would it be weightless? Liberating? Would it be better than life? Would I finally, at the very end, be able to breathe freely again? The only way I’ll ever know is to go through with it—fall off that edge. Go too fast. Sink to the bottom and never come up for air. I’m so close to finding out, yet I’m not ready to fully seal my fate just yet.

So gripping onto the edge of the bathtub, I drag myself up out of the water, gasping for air, my lungs gratefully aching. I sit up, half in, half out of the water, inhaling, exhaling, blood pumping through my veins and mixing with the adrenaline. My emotions are still numb and I focus on getting that next breath of air. But the longer I breathe, the easier it becomes, and the more my mind starts to awaken again. Feelings and thoughts of my parent’s death arise, stabbing at my heart. Their murders. And the thing that nearly kills me every time I think about it. Every minute. Every second. Every damn day—it consumes me.

Luke Price. The one guy—the only person—I’ve ever let in. The only person I’ve ever felt safe with. And now that’s all gone—he’s gone. Taken away—stolen—by destiny’s sick and warped humor. Letting us meet for the first time, then allowing us to discover that we’ve been connected with each other long before we first met. Revealing that his mother was one of the people responsible for my parent’s murders. That all along, we could have never ended up together. Even though destiny let us think that it was meant to be from the moment I fell out that window and kicked him in the face.

And now I’m left feeling worse than I’ve ever have in my entire life. Before Luke, I didn’t know what it was like to have someone care about me and to understand how it felt to care about someone else and I’m learning really quickly that it’s difficult turning my emotions off when I know how amazing things can feel.

But I keep trying to push through, if for nothing else than to see this through the end. See someone finally pay for my parent’s deaths. But it might be impossible since there’s still another person involved—another person that is still unknown. I hate not knowing yet at the same time I loathe knowing who one of them is, especially since there hasn’t been any justice yet. Hate that it ruined my shot at happiness and I despise myself for thinking about it that way. It feels selfish. My parents are dead and I should only be thinking about justice for them, yet I can’t stop thinking about how Luke made me feel. Content and happy, something I hadn’t had since I was five years old. I want it back, almost as much as I want justice for my parents. And that feels wrong, makes me feel like my parents would hate me if they were still around. And maybe they do. Maybe they’re hating me from the graves I’ve never yet even paid a visit to, simply because I can’t bring myself to go there.

“Violet, what the hell are you doing in there!” Preston, the last foster father I had from the ages of fifteen until I became eighteen and an adult, bangs on the door. He’s eight years older than me, but doesn’t mind the age difference, and uses it to his advantage all the time. He didn’t use to be so interested in me, well not to this extreme. But then his wife left him and now all he seems to see is me. It makes me sick to my stomach, just hearing the sound of his voice because it reminds me of everything that’s happened the last two months I’ve been living here. Rent doesn’t come free and Preston won’t accept money. So I deal to pay rent and then my body pays him for any mistakes I make along the way.

I hate myself, for letting despair kill me enough that I allow stuff to happen.

“I’m taking a bath,” I reply, brushing my hands over my wet hair and letting my head fall back against the rim of the tub as vomit burns at the back of my throat as I remember the night… his callous hands...

“Well, it you don’t get out soon, I’m going to have to pick the lock and come in and make you get out,” he says through the door with amusement in his tone. And desire. Lust. Need. .

I hate him.

I need him.

I wish I was somewhere else.

“I’ll be out in just a few,” I holler back, watching the faucet drip and ripple the water. I put my foot up on the brim of the tub and stare at the yellowish bruises covering my shin and that dot up from my knee to my thigh. But as the images rise of where they came from, I shake my head and put my wall back up. I refuse to think about them. I need to survive no matter what happens, like how I did for most of my life, in and out of foster homes. After all, I’ve had worse.

“You should get dressed out here,” he tells me, the sound of his voice making the bruises on my flesh sting. “It could be another payback for that eighth you lost last week.”

I cringe at his reminder. Last week I messed up badly. I was distracted knowing that the semester would be starting in a few days and that Luke and I would have to see each other again in the hallways and probably in class. I ended up giving some guy an eighth without collecting the cash first and he took off without paying and totally screwed me over.

“I thought I was going to sell for you on Saturday and Sunday for that.” I don’t bother mentioning that I already did something else to make up for it, only because I’m afraid I’ll throw up if I say it aloud. I slump back and stare at the ceiling, willing myself not to be affected by his words, not be affected by the vile sensation manifesting in the pit of my stomach. Vomit burns at the back of my throat, but I refuse to hurl.

“You’re becoming a real downer, Violet Hayes,” he says. “Life would be so much easier if you’d just relax and do what I tell you.”

“I do that already,” I reply through gritted teeth. I’ve never been a fan of hearing my last name, or even telling people it. It reminds me too much of my mother and father and how they died. The only person that’s said it where it didn’t bother me was Luke. Usually I’d chew Preston out for using it, but lately I’ve been too emotionally drained to put up a good fight.

I only breathe freely when I hear Preston walk away from the door. Then I get out of the bathtub and dry off my pruney skin with a towel before putting on a purple tank top, a black vest, and matching pants. I tousle my hair with some gel, put lip-gloss and some kohl liner on, then head out of the bathroom, feeling a little high from the adrenaline rush I got from almost drowning myself in the bathtub.

I grab a Pop Tart from the cupboard and a bottle of water from the fridge, hoping that Preston will be cooperative when I ask him for a ride to school. Please be cooperative.

But he’s not in his room, which probably means he’s down under the house in the crawl space, where he keeps his drugs. The entrance is always locked but I wouldn’t go down there anyway. The last thing I want to do is go down into some creepy, small, narrow space below the house, alone with him. So I go into the living room and put my boots on, taking my time as I wait for him to come out.

The trailer that we live in is fairly clean, although it does smell like cigarette smoke and weed. Still, there’s no garbage lying around and everything is organized and in place. I’ve lived in foster homes where cleanliness was nonexistent and filth, garbage and dust coated everything. It wasn’t ideal.

“So what are you up to today?” Preston asks as he strolls into the house, slipping on a plaid hooded jacket and then dusting some dirt out of his hair.

My hand twitches with this aching urge to ball my hand into a fist and punch the casualness off his face. But I bury the urge and zip up my knee-high boot, then get to my feet, reaching for my bag. “I actually need a ride to class, unless you just want to lend me your car for the day.” Please say a simple yes with no strings attached.

“You know I hate doing that unless it’s for dealing,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms, giving me that look—the one that comes before he asks me to do something for him. “Then I’m just stuck here without a vehicle.”

I swing the handle of my bag over my shoulder. “Well, can you give me a ride then? That way you’ll still have your car.” School has only been going for a few days and it’s already becoming a pain in the ass to get there. I should have just gotten a dorm room, but I stupidly waited to long, thinking I was going to just live in the apartment with Luke, Seth, and Greyson, but that brilliant plan went to shit.

Preston ruffles his hair into place as he crosses the room and comes to a stop in front of me, too close and I can smell him—I hate the smell of him. “I hate doing that because then I have to wait around for a couple of hours to pick you up.”

“Don’t you have anything in town you need to do?” I subtly lean away from him, his scent becoming too nauseating.

He shakes his head. “Not really.” He reaches for his car keys on the coffee table. “But I do have shit to do over at Dan’s.”

My mood plummets. “Dan the pervert?”

He nonchalantly shrugs, swinging his keychain around his finger. “You say pervert. I say a guy who just likes to have fun.” He winks at me. “Just like me.”

“He pays women for sex.” I say it like it changes something, when it clearly doesn’t.

“Money, food, a roof over their head—a lot of people trade stuff for sex.” There’s accusation in his eyes.

Please someone get me the fuck out of this goddamn place.

I notice how red his eyes are, which means he’s more than likely stoned and that having any form of argument with him is a lost cause. I sigh, giving up, and back toward the door. “Fine, I’ll just hitchhike a ride.” I both love and hate the idea of doing this. Love it because of the thrill. And hate it because I love doing things like this—love the danger because it’s all I have left anymore. Risks. Well, really they’re not risks anymore because what do I have to lose?

Preston rolls his eyes. “Don’t be overdramatic. I’ll drive you to school, but you’re on your own for the day because I have shit to do.”

Finding my own ride anywhere else means probably hitchhiking, since I don’t have any friends, except for maybe Greyson, who I still talk to at work and hang out with sometimes, but I don’t think he has any class today and I hate asking people for favors—it’s bad enough I have to ask Preston.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” I force a chipper tone as I turn for the door, ready to get the day over with.

The last month has been really intense, especially with my parent’s case being highly investigated due to Luke coming forward and giving them information about Mira Price, his mom. I haven’t talked to Luke about it because I can barely look at him as it is, without feeling both agony and something else that I don’t think I’ve felt before. The case still hasn’t gone anywhere. Mira Price has been questioned and detective Stephner, who’s in charge of the investigation, is trying to get enough evidence to get a search warrant for her house. When I asked why Luke and I couldn’t just testify, he said he wasn’t sure if a song would hold up in court—they needed more. DNA proof or something better. I wonder what the hell would be left in her house after all these years—I’m sure she’s destroyed any evidence—so I’m pessimistic at the idea that an arrest will ever be made. However, what the case has done is spark tons of media attention, which has made my life a living hell, people like Stan, the reporter who harassed me through phone calls, popping up left and right. It’s nerve racking, especially because any of the text could be from the real killer since there’s two people out in the world that did it and they could still be lingering around, watching me.

What if he finally comes looking for me?

During one brief, semi-intoxicated meltdown, I told Preston my fears about this, which led to me stupidly divulging more than what I intended, like what went on between Luke and I, which he uses against me. So not only am I constantly looking over my shoulder, but I have Preston reminding me of what I’ll have left if I leave him—absolutely nothing. Still, sometimes I want to take the nothing.

I try not to think too much about it, though, as I head out the front door with Preston close behind me. When I reach Preston’s old grey Cadillac parked in the driveway, he steps around and opens the door, holding it open like a true gentleman, but he’s not. Something that he proves to me with his next move, when I veer around him to get in the car and he grabs my hip and pulls me against him.

I try to picture myself standing on top of the tallest building and soaring off of it with my arms spanned to my side as he presses himself up against me and kisses the back of my head.

“I was thinking that maybe tomorrow we could do something fun for your birthday,” he says, his fingers wandering downward toward my lower hipbone and pins and needles start to stab at my skin.

“My birthday was over a month ago,” I say flatly. Shut down. Shut down. “And honestly I don’t want to celebrate the day I came into this world.”

“God, what the hell is wrong with you. You’re always so down all the time.” He dips his lips to my ear and nibbles at my lobe. “Don’t I do everything for you… give you everything you want?” His fingers slip underneath the waistband of my pants and brush my skin. “Let me do something special for you or better yet, let’s do something together.”

“I’m not in the mood to sit around and get high while you cop feels.” I want to run. Take off down the road and never stop. Outrun what I’m feeling inside. The confusion. The disgust over this and the last couple of months. The obligation, something I know Preston will remind me off if I tell him to quit touching me.

His fingers dig into my skin, his flirty mood shifting to anger—I’ve said the wrong thing again. “Why can’t you be more grateful? Jesus, sometimes I think it might be best if I just kick you out. Just let you go live on the street. You could be a whore and make money that way.”

“Maybe I should.” I bite down on my lip as soon as I say it because I don’t want to be homeless right now, not with everything else going on. “Fine, if you want to do something for my birthday, we can.” I attempt to clean up the mess I made while I focus on picturing what it would be like to come to the end of the fall and crash. Would it feel like I was flying for a moment? Or would I just fall? Would I feel the pain when I hit the ground? My bones breaking? Or would I blackout before I even made it there?

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re always so good at doing what you’re told.” Then he kisses my neck, sucking on it before pulling away and my heart accelerates rapidly, but I remain dead on the outside and let the images of me splattered on the ground completely take over and consume me, but then they shift into something else, which happens sometimes. My mind goes from being on that ledge to falling into Luke’s arms.

Safe.

It would be so much easier if that feeling had stayed, but I know all too well that nothing good ever does.