The Contradiction of Solitude (33 page)

There was never enough of Layna.

She let me take her clothes off. She let me fill her body. She let me kiss the pain. A- Way.

I moaned. She sighed. I cried. She laughed.

I loved her.

I loved her.

What was wrong with me?

“Elian, we need to talk,” George said as I walked into the studio. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been there.

Where had I been?

Margie wasn’t there. A different girl was behind the counter. I didn’t recognize her. She didn’t acknowledge me when I came in.

“I can’t right now, George. I have things to do.” I walked into the studio. Stan and Tate looked up but neither greeted me.

I didn’t care.

George followed me. Frowning. Irritated.

“Hang on a sec, Elian. You haven’t been here in over a week. No call. No show. And you just waltz back in like you still have a job!” George sputtered.

Over a week?

Where had I been?

With Amelia.

With Layna.

“Are you on drugs? Because if that’s what’s going on, I’ll find someone to help you.”

Tate and Stan pretended like they weren’t listening. But I knew they were. Assholes.

“I’m not on drugs.” I sounded dead. Unbothered.

I sat down at my bench and picked up a piece of steel wool.

What was I supposed to do with this?

I held it for a few seconds and then dropped it on the worktop. I rested my hands on the smooth piece of wood that lay there, untouched in weeks.

What was it supposed to be?

I couldn’t see the picture that had, at one time, been so clear in my head.

George pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. I barely noticed him. He didn’t matter.

I ran fingers along tools, trying to think of what to do with them.

Sand and stain. Cut and saw.

“If drugs aren’t the issue, then please tell me what’s going on. You’ve been working here for three years. Three years, Elian. That’s a long time. And I’ve never seen you act like this. The guys tell me you’re with some chick. If she’s got you tied up in something—”

“Enough, George,” I threatened low. I threatened loud.

He blinked at me in surprise.

He didn’t know me.

Elian Beyer didn’t live here anymore.

“Whoa. This is what I’m talking about. The complete attitude change. What the fuck is up?” George was angry.

I didn’t care.

The clock ticked on the wall. Tick. Tock.

I stared down at the wood in front of me, willing it to make some sort of sense. This had always been my passion. Something I was good at.

I was losing absolutely everything.

But Layna.

I always had Layna.

“I need someone who’s dependable. I need an employee that won’t flake when I have a piece that needs to be done. You’re never here anymore. I try to call and you don’t answer. You can’t expect to keep your job when you do shit like that, Elian.”

I picked up the wood and thought about hitting George in the face with it. Smashing his nose and letting the blood run.

I felt sick.

The vomit rose in the back of my throat. My vision went fuzzy and a humming filled my ears.

“Elian, are you even listening to me?” George demanded.

I scraped my fingers down my face and ran them over my scars.

My scars.

They were me.

“I think you need to pack your stuff and get out of here. Maybe when you get your head together we can talk about you coming back. But right now it’s clear you’re not all here.”

“You want me to leave?” I asked, taking deep, deep breaths.

“I’m sorry, Elian. You’ve always been my best employee. But something’s not right with you. I think you need to sort yourself out.”

“Sort myself out,” I repeated.

His eyes met mine and I thought I was drowning.

Drowning in coal black eyes.

“Yeah. Look if you need someone to talk to, you know I’m here. But maybe you should go home for a little bit. See your folks. Hang out with your nieces and nephews. Get some distance between you and whatever has brought this on.”

Go home.

Go home.

Home was with Layna.

That was all I knew.

“I’ll go home,” I told him. Wanting him to leave. And he did. George said something else but I didn’t hear him. Then he was gone.

I sat at the bench and picked up the piece of wood that at one time was supposed to be a guitar. What had I seen in this chunk of material? Where was the vision? Where had it gone?

“Elian?”

Tate said my name a few more times but I ignored him.

We weren’t friends.

Never had been really.

I had been deceiving myself in thinking that my life in Brecken Forest was anything worth keeping.

Not until Layna.

And her horrible, horrible secrets.

Layna Whitaker.

The devil’s blood.

“How did it all get so messed up?” I asked to no one in particular. I didn’t expect an answer. There was none to give.

“I think she’s bad news, man.”

I looked up at the sound of Stan’s condemnation. He looked at me with fear.

Fear.

“What did you say?” I asked, wanting to hear him say it again. Wondering if he’d have the balls.

He and Tate exchanged nervous glances. They weren’t my friends. I didn’t need these people in my life.

“That girl. Layna. She’s changed you. Something’s wrong with her. And she’s taking you down with her.”

I curled my hand around the long, dense piece of wood. It fit perfectly in my palm. It was warm and secure.

“Don’t say her name,” I warned.

I saw red.

Vicious, brutal red.

Layna.

“Look at you, Elian. Ready to take our heads off for saying her name? What in the actual fuck?” Tate demanded.

As though he had a right to know anything.

The two men stood beside my workbench. Talking. Talking. I didn’t hear a thing they said. In and out of my ears. No recognition of actual words or statements.

I gripped the piece of wood and knew that it was about to connect with their heads. I wanted to hurt them for questioning Layna. It was irrational. It was unreasonable.

It was the reality I now lived in.

I dropped the piece of wood on the bench with a clatter and got to my feet.

“Do you think that any of this is real?” I asked, waving my hand in the air between us.

“What are you talking about?” Tate asked.

Frowning.

We were both frowning.

“You don’t have the right to ask me questions. You don’t have the right to express your concerns. You have no place in my life. Goodbye.”

I left.

It felt good.

A door closing.

With a bang.

I
wrapped each picture carefully and placed it in the box. One. Two. Three. Four…

All of them. Covered glass. Empty faces.

Put away.

But not forgotten.

Just moving on.

The apartment was bare. Like I had never been there. My scent still warm in the air and the only indication that my presence was ever felt.

Sad and lonely.

And moving on.

My phone rang and I reached for it. A number I didn’t recognize flashed across the screen.

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Miss Layna Whitaker?”

“This is she.”

My heart started thumping in my chest. Thump. Thump. Thud.

“This is Michael Pierce, the warden at Red Onion State Prison. I received your message in regards to your father Cain Langley.”

I swallowed.

“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Pierce,” I replied weakly.

“How can I help you, Miss Whitaker?”

I put down the framed photograph that I was wrapping with tissue paper and bit down on my lip. Hard.

Was I really doing this?

It was time.

“I wanted to see about visiting my father. If that’s possible. I completed the visitor form as well as the background check online.”

“I checked the status of your background check before I called, and it seems it has already gone through. Which is pretty darn quick for government.” He chuckled. I didn’t.

He cleared his throat and continued, “I’ve put you on Mr. Langley’s approved visitor’s list. Visiting hours are on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from eight until three. Visits can last up to three hours. It’s important that you familiarize yourself with visitor regulations before you come.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Depending on the number of visitors there may be a delay or a limited amount of time given for the visit.”

“Okay,” I said softly.

Buzz…

“Do you have any other questions, Miss Whitaker?”

“No, I think that’s it. I appreciate you calling me back.”