Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)
Limerence: Chapter 17

I’ve decided that enough is enough.

I’ve indulged in whatever fucked up friendship I seem to be building with Adrian long enough. It’s time to exercise some self-control, which is, admittedly, something I’ve never excelled in.

I was the kid who’d rather eat candy till it gave me a stomach-ache than save some for later. The kid who’d spend my birthday money on the first shiny thing that caught my eye.

And now I’m an adult who needs to set some much-needed boundaries.

On Friday, he texts me – because, yes, we even have each other’s numbers now – about grabbing breakfast at Caboose’s.

Can’t. I’m going to hole up in my dorm room till I get this paper done.

At least it’s the truth. I’ve already set up my desk for optimal working conditions: all my research materials cracked open, my sluggish school laptop booted up and ready to go, and some study music blasting through my headphones.

I wait a few minutes for his reply, and when it doesn’t come, I stash my phone out of reach and get to work.

And it can’t be more than twenty minutes in before there’s a knock on my door.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I consider just not opening the door, but that idea dies when a second sharp knock follows the first. “Coming,” I mutter.

Sure enough, Adrian’s grinning face is there to greet me the moment I fling the door open.

His grinning, sweaty face, that is.

Judging by the curls stuck to his forehead, the pair of headphones slung around his neck, and the long-sleeved gray compression shirt glued to his biceps, I’m guessing he was on a run.

I keep my eyes focused on his face. “Can I help you?”

He’s undeterred by the attitude in my voice, and instead produces two paper cups from behind his back. “Is that any way to speak to someone who’s went out of their way to bring you some coffee?”

I gingerly take the cup he holds out for me, the heat already permeating through the cardboard sleeve. “Oh. You didn’t need to do this, but since you did…thanks.” I take a sip, mildly surprised to replace that the coffee’s black. Just the way I like it.

He rolls his eyes. “You always say that. I don’t understand.”

My forehead crinkles. “Say what?”

“‘You didn’t need to do this.’” His voice pitches higher as if in imitation of me. “As if you could make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

Well, that I believe.

“It’s just how I was raised,” I tell him. “Southern hospitality and all that.”

“Right. Alabama,” he drawls, “Somehow, hospitality is not the word that comes to mind when I think of Alabama.”

I shrug, and he scrutinizes me closely. “You don’t have much of an accent either. That’s surprising.”

Because I spent months before my freshman year trying to rid myself of it.

And it worked – mostly.

Still, I ignore his observation. “I’m guessing you didn’t come all the way here to just drop off coffee, and I need to get back to work. So, what do you want?”

He peers past me and into my dorm room. “What the hell kind of computer is that?”

I clear my throat, a flush already creeping up my neck. “My computer.”

“It looks like it’s from 2005.”

“Actually, it’s 2007,” I correct. “And it works just fine.”

Granted, ‘fine’ was a low bar, considering it took at least twenty minutes to get from the home screen to Internet Explorer, and the device’s still running Windows Vista.

The upside? It only cost me about sixty bucks on eBay my freshman year, and I’ve used it sparingly. Usually, I write papers and complete online assignments in Lionswood’s state-of-the-art computer lab, but the facility is closed (and locked) over breaks.

“Well, if I’m being honest,” Adrian says, “I came here to convince you to put off your work and spend the day with me, but…” He levels me with a look I can’t interpret. “You’re such a sorry little thing, aren’t you? I’ve never felt particularly moved to help someone in need – not genuinely, at least – but seeing this pathetic little set-up you have, I can’t help myself. You can do the paper in my study. I have an actual computer you can use.”

I bristle. Sorry little thing?

I doubt he’d still call me that if he knew the sorts of things I’d done to get where I am today.

Annoyance flares to life in my chest.

It’s one thing to be pitied by a teacher or Dean Robins because I’ve given them a reason to, and another thing entirely to be pitied by one of my peers. By Adrian.

“If you were trying to offer your help in the most belittling way possible, I think you’ve succeeded,” I reply, oozing sarcasm. “And I think I’m going to have to pass on the offer. I’ve got everything I need here.”

His smile never wanes. “Well, it wasn’t much of an offer. I was just telling you what’s going to happen.”

“Well, I’m telling you that I’m fine he – hey! What are you doing?” Already, he’s shouldering past me and into my dorm room, where he’s packing up my research materials. “That’s my stuff. You can’t just take it.”

“Well, you can spend the rest of the morning arguing with me about possession laws,” he shoots back, “Or you can spend it finishing your paper.”

My mouth clamps shut.

So much for boundaries.

***

If I’m being honest, my productivity nearly doubles in Adrian’s study – half of which I can contribute to the lightning fast laptop he’s provided me, and the other half to working at an un-wobbly, un-creaky desk.

And it’s not like we’re actually spending time together.

After a shower and a change of clothes, Adrian’s taken up residence in one of the recliners by the study’s fireplace, one long leg crossed over the other and a medical textbook propped open in his lap.

Besides the quiet click-clacking of the computer keys and Adrian’s fingers flipping from one page to the next, we work in silence. At times, I swear I feel the weight of his stare sweeping over me, but he doesn’t say a word, so neither do I.

I don’t even realize how much time has passed until the natural light seeping through the glass-paned window behind me starts to dwindle. “Holy shit.” I blink at the screen. “It’s almost 6 PM.”

Adrian glances at his Rolex. “Oh, I suppose it is. Did you finish?”

“Pretty much,” I answer. “I just need to cite my sources, and that’ll be it.” I can hardly believe it. To think I sat here for hours on end with no break and put 10,000 words on the page. I’m never this productive – not unless it’s a caffeine-fueled all-nighter on the cusp of a deadline.

“Here. I’ll proof-read it for you,” he says, already unfolding from the recliner and striding over.

I don’t say a word as he rests his hands on either side of me and leans down so he can see the screen better. He’s so close to me that if I raised my head just an inch or two, I’d buck right into his chin.

“You have three typos in your introduction alone,” he tells me. “And your last sentence on that page two is weak.” He bends even closer to scroll the page, and I take a sharp inhale of his fresh, woodsy cologne.

Does he even realize what he’s doing to me?

“And an even weaker argument, I see,” he adds, but as he picks my essay apart piece by piece, all I can think about are the prominent veins popping out of his forearms.

“Well,” he concludes with a sigh. “You’re not much of a writer, but if you fix the typos and strengthen your thematic statement, you should get a passing grade.” He backs out of my space, and for the first time in minutes, I’m able to take a breath.

“Right,” I say. “Thanks for the feedback.”

Adrian opens his mouth, but the sharp vibration of my – no, his – phone cuts through the room, and he digs the device out of his pocket.

Judging by the tick of his jaw, it’s not a welcome call. “I’ll be right back,” he tells me, and points a sharp finger toward the computer. “Fix the mistakes I mentioned, and I’ll take another look when I’m back.” He stalks out of the study, closing the door behind him as he goes.

I don’t speculate much about the call, especially since I’m unable to hear a peep through the study’s thick wooden door, and instead focus on my paper.

When I finish implementing his feedback ten minutes later, there’s still no sign of him, so I lean back in the desk chair and try to stave off a brewing tension headache.

My gaze flits over the room, from one piece of lavish furniture to the next – and halts right over the bookcase. The same bookcase where I found Mickey’s journal and discovered the truth about Adrian.

A shiver racks through me.

I thought I was going to die that night.

And look where I am now.

I’m not sure what compels me to walk over – only that I have the sudden urgent need to see Mickey’s journal one more time.

I let my fingers glide over the spines of Gray’s Anatomy and Atlas of Cardiac Anatomy in search of a familiar leather-bound volume.

But – as I realize moments later – the journal is gone.

My stomach sinks.

Did he get rid of it?

That would be the logical thing to do. The journal (and its last page) are as close to concrete proof of Adrian’s guilt than anything else. But the fact that he’d kept it at all…

Maybe he threw it out after I found it, I think, only for a counter-thought to immediately spring up: But he didn’t need to throw it out. Not really. He doesn’t fear the cops replaceing out he killed Mickey.

After all, I have perfect recollection of Adrian as he hovered over me in my dorm, confessed everything into the recorder, and drove home the reality of the situation like a knife to the ribs. The Cedarsville Police Department would never be any match for the Ellis family.

So, really, he had just as much reason to keep it as some sort of twisted keepsake as he did to throw it out, and my gut keeps nudging me toward the former.

I run a frantic hand through my hair.

Go back to the desk.

Finish your paper.

But some sort of twisted, masochistic urge rises in me, and I need to see it one more time.

I need to put my hands on it. Flip through the pages. Read Mickey’s terrified chicken scratch on that last page.

If I can see it one last time, maybe I can remember why enacting boundaries with Adrian is so important.

Heart thrumming, I keep both ears peeled for his approaching footsteps as I rummage through his desk drawers. The top drawers are nothing interesting: a selection of loose-leaf paper and expensive pens (a few of which I pocket).

The next two drawers look to be other school supplies and assignments, but as far as I can tell from my two-second perusal, there’s no journal.

And the bottom drawer is completely empty.

I sigh and shove it closed – pausing when it rattles loudly.

That’s…odd.

I inspect the drawer, closing and opening it a few more times. There are no loose bolts or screws, but something is making it rattle.

I squint at the empty bottom.

Definitely odd.

When I reach down and rap my knuckles against the base, I’m not sure it’s what I think it is, but the hollow feedback just confirms it.

My heart spikes.

It’s a false bottom.

Just like the cabinets that Rick likes to keep in the master bedroom. Granted, he keeps spare cash in those (“Banks will steal your money if you let ‘em. Ain’t no way they’re touching mine.”), but I have a feeling that whatever Adrian’s hiding in here, it’s not cash.

Guess I have another thing to thank Rick for.

That’s got to be a record at this point.

If I do replace extra cash in here, I’ll buy him one of those sparkly Father’s Day cards that sing when you open it. Mom will love it.

Carefully – just the way I learned to do with Rick’s – I search for a small raised opening, but already, I can tell this one’s more sophisticated than anything Rick’s ever brought into the house.

And there’s no lever, not unless it’s the –

Bingo.

The drawer handle.

I twist the knob, excitement surging through me when there’s an answering creak. I peek above the desk one more time, straining to hear any approaching footsteps before I return to my task.

I peel back the false bottom, my stomach jumping straight into my throat.

There you are.

The drawer’s only inhabitant is one dark, leather-bound journal.

I’m not sure if it’s satisfaction or dread that bolts through me when I reach down and grab the journal, but whatever it is, it’s making me tremble.

This moment feels like self-induced déjà vu.

I take a breath and flip to the first page, readying myself for the renewed guilt and shame I’ll surely feel when I start reading – only for confusion to mar the lines of my forehead instead.

What the hell is this?

The outside looks almost identical to the journal I discovered on Adrian’s bookshelf a few weeks ago, but the inside bares no such similarities.

For one, it doesn’t have Mickey’s name smeared on the first page.

And the paper is different.

Mickey’s journal had lined paper, the flimsy kind that’s good enough for notes or journaling and not much else.

The paper in this one is thicker. Unlined. Definitely of much higher-quality. And used.

Every single page filled with neat handwriting with no resemblance to Mickey’s chicken scratch.

So, I have no idea what this is, but it’s not Mickey’s journal.

Did he kill someone else and keep their journal too? The thought trickles over me like ice-water. Adrian never said Mickey was his only kill. Maybe this was his thing. Stealing their journals and diaries. Keeping them as trinkets.

A terrifying thought – but one that I can’t entirely rule out because this is Adrian, and nobody’s keeping their grocery list in a hidden drawer.

I take a shaky breath, check for the sound of impending footsteps one more time, and start reading.