Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)
Limerence: Chapter 8

“Just so you know, Locke, the buy-in’s two-grand. Cash only. I don’t care how many bottles of Macallan you promise me.”

“Who wants to do body shots?!”

“Does anyone know how many calories are in a line of coke? I can’t afford to wreck my diet.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many drunk, sweaty bodies packed so tightly in the same place, but it’s like a can of sardines in here. And considering the sheer size of Adrian’s dorm room, that’s an accomplishment.

Well, dorm room is about as adequate of a term as calling the titanic a boat. I had no idea they let students live in quarters this large.

Is quarters even the right word?

This might as well be a two-bedroom apartment.

Actually, I think there are two bedrooms.

Granted, when every spare inch’s been claimed by another body, it’s hard to appreciate much of the dark, eclectic furnishings.

As I weave through the sea of students, all the body heat makes my dress cling to my skin. It’s the same too-tight black gown I wore to the vigil – the only semblance of formal attire I seem to have in my closet.

I thought I regretted my impulse decision to come here when the mountainous freshman checking invitations at the door gave me a long once-over and proceeded to ask if I was new – but now I’m really regretting it.

To my left, there’s a strip poker game with little regard for the open leaded windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. Just about every single player’s stripped bare, and oh –

Guess BeeBee Landis did get a breast augmentation last summer.

To my right, a group of senior boys have staked claim on the recliners stationed around the fireplace, and seem to be bickering over whose family yacht is larger while they trade Cuban cigars and whiskey worth more than my mother’s annual salary. I spot a mid-century bronze figurine on the marble mantle and momentarily calculate my chances of stuffing it under my dress and selling it on one of those online auction sites without detection.

Probably not great.

I’m better off stealing someone’s Rolex.

Every other piece of furniture seems to be occupied – either by the swim team doing lines of coke on the coffee table or a half-dressed twosome (or threesome) making the most of whatever high’s buzzing through their veins.

I finally have the firsthand experience to describe a coveted Adrian Ellis party.

Overwhelming.

And pungent.

I’d worry that all the cigar smoke and perfume might seep into the furniture, but Adrian strikes me as the kind of guy who’ll have professional cleaners here before dawn.

Because, while this place looks and feels like chaos, it’s contained chaos.

A shoulder knocks into mine and I stumble, but clammy fingers right me before I can fall and bring me face to face with Penelope Lawson, her pupils blown so big I can’t even make out the color of her eyes.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” She giggles. She’s at least three inches taller than me, her honey-blonde hair styled into a slicked back ponytail. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her unattached to Sophie’s side. It feels almost unnatural, seeing one without the other.

“It’s okay,” I say, and attempt to shake off her sweaty hands, but Penelope looks so high off her ass I don’t think she even notices.

“You look a little familiar,” she squints at me. “Have we made out before?”

“Uh, no. We haven’t.” In a room full of intoxicated people, at least my flushed cheeks don’t look out of place. “Hey, do you know where I can replace –”

“Woah!” She fingers a strand of my hair, transfixed. “Your hair is so blonde. Like white. Where do you get it done?”

Before I can answer, someone calls her name, so I slip away while her attention is diverted. I have to squeeze by a couple groping each other on a leather chair, and they shoot me dirty looks when I accidentally trigger the seat’s reclining function. “Sorry,” I mutter.

There’s no free seating, not unless I join strip poker or try to convince the leather recliner couple I’d like to make it a threesome.

All these intoxicated, clumsy bodies are starting to feel like a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare and Adrian is nowhere in sight.

I need to escape all this body heat.

It’s a miracle I manage to weave through the living room without stumbling into anyone else, but once I get past Ava Chen and some girl from the debate – no, Chess Club – behind a bookcase, I realize an entire part of the suite’s been sectioned off.

The hallway that lies beyond the red stanchion ropes contains a couple of closed doors, and surprisingly, looks empty of party-goers.

Even wasted, these kids have enough sense to stay out of Adrian’s bedroom or study or whatever he’s protecting from a bunch of drunk teenagers.

Heart pounding, I’m slipping beneath the ropes before I can talk myself out of it.

There are three doors, all closed – but the third, at the very end, is cracked, light filtering through the gap.

Unease creeps over me.

I should just leave.

I should just turn around and leave. See if I can snag that bronze figurine on the way out and count my losses.

But I’ve made it this far, so I head for the third door, push and…

It’s a study.

An empty study.

I close the door behind me, and for the first time since I arrived, it feels like I can breathe again.

Ropes aside, I’m surprised nobody’s ventured in here already. It’s not as big as the living room, but it’s a far more impressive workspace than the cheap pine desk that sits in the corner of my dorm.

There’s even a brick-walled fireplace crackling to my right – as if this dorm needed another one. I run my fingers over the stately looking mahogany desk, void of any clutter or half-completed school assignments. I even run my fingers across the underside of the desk, and not a speck of dust comes back.

This room is spotless.

His chair is real leather, soft and supple under my touch. Not the unyielding synthetic stuff that never stops feeling like plastic.

I try to imagine Adrian sitting here and actually doing homework, but it’s hard to picture him putting in effort for anything, let alone schoolwork. But I know he has to. He’s number one in our class, a spot he’s held since freshman year.

There’s a large window overlooking the campus gardens (because of course Adrian Ellis gets a garden view), but it’s the bookshelf tucked against the wall that catches my attention.

My fingers skim a myriad of titles on physical anatomy, cardiothoracic surgery, psychology, and even a first edition of Gray’s Anatomy in immaculate condition.

Someone’s interested in medicine.

Wonder how much that first edition would go for online.

The only book that looks out of place is a small, leather-bound volume shoved to the far end of the shelf. There’s no title on the spine, and since I’ve already crossed into full-fledged snooping territory, I pull it out.

But there’s no title on the front either.

I flip to the first page, and my breath catches.

It’s a journal.

But not Adrian’s.

As the first page tells me in smeared ballpoint pen, this journal belongs to Mickey Mabel.

My stomach clenches.

I shouldn’t be looking at this. This is Mickey’s, it should be with his parents, his family. But it’s not. It’s with Adrian.

That alone has me flipping through the pages before my conscience can catch up with me.

And I know it’s probably a mortal sin to rifle through a dead person’s things, but it can’t be worse than premarital sex, which is what’s happening in the living room.

Most of the journal is still blank.

Which makes sense because, according to the dates listed at the top of each entry, Mickey only started it this year.

Not entirely sure what I’m looking for, I skim what few pages have been filled out, but replace them to be…

Strangely boring.

Is calling a dead person boring also a mortal sin?

Mickey spent a lot of time venting about homework and professors and the excitement of his pending Yale application.

My heart constricts when I reach that last part. Mickey will never get to attend Yale now.

He mentions a girlfriend once or twice, but never by name. I make a mental note to revisit that tidbit when I have more time.

But what I replace more surprising than unnamed girlfriends and Mickey’s potent dislike for Professor Ayala is that the boy who wrote these entries – boring as they are – seems content.

Happy, even.

None of it references depression or gearing up for a suicide attempt. You’d think if Mickey was going to share those thoughts anywhere, he’d do it in his journal.

I skip to the last week of entries. Another mention of his girlfriend, and weirdly enough, one paragraph even references me: I need to finish my section of the scholarship presentation slideshow before this weekend. Not that it really matters because Poppy always waits till the last minute to do her side then spends the entire presentation hiding behind my grades and kissing the dean’s ass. I don’t know how he hasn’t caught on yet, but I don’t really mind. I don’t have to do as much talking this way.

I let out a quiet, breathless laugh. I guess Mickey was aware of our unspoken little routine.

I turn to the page, and my heart lurches into my throat.

It’s the final entry.

Just one sentence.

And it confirms every uncomfortable gut feeling I’ve had this entire time…but so much worse. It’s scrawled right there on the page, in what very well may be Mickey’s final words.

It could be a joke.

Some sort of last-ditch prank or revenge from a boy who knew he wouldn’t live long enough to see the ramifications. That would be the logical conclusion to draw from this, especially since there’s nothing else to indicate Adrian Ellis’ homicidal tendencies within these pages.

But my churning gut knows the truth, and the truth has been spelled out in Mickey’s chicken-scratch.

“Whatever you’re reading must be absolutely riveting,” says a low, smooth voice behind me.

I freeze, panic closing around my throat.

I slam the book closed, but I’m not sure I’m able to hide terror in my eyes or my voice when I turn and say, “Adrian. Hey. I, uh, didn’t see you there.”

He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed with an unreadable look on his face, and I’m once again reminded of just how large he is. There’s no way I’m making it past those broad shoulders.

Mickey’s words play on repeat in my head: Adrian Ellis is going to kill me. Adrian Ellis is going to kill me.

Is Adrian Ellis going to kill me for reading this?

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have been snooping in your room. It’s incredibly inappropriate. I just wanted a little breather from the party.” I try to smile, but it comes out so forced and awkward that I don’t bother keeping it up.

“So, was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Was it riveting?” His dark eyes gesture to the journal I’ve got a death grip on. “The book.”

I wonder if he can hear my heart trying to pound out of my chest.

“No, not really,” I reply. I do my best to keep my voice even. Stable. “I didn’t get very far. Just the first few entries, which again, I shouldn’t have been reading at all.”

“Why were you then?” I’m searching his face for anger or guilt or murderous rage, but again – frustratingly unreadable.

“Well, I saw the name on the front…” I swallow and give a kernel of the truth. “I guess I was just hoping I could replace some clarity about why Mickey killed himself.”

Well-intentioned snooping. That’s believable, right?

At least, it probably would be if I hadn’t already accused him of lying and sicced a detective on him.

Adrian’s gaze is so heavy it’s stifling, like he’s weighing my explanation to see if he believes it. For several long moments, the hissing, cracking fireplace is the only sound in the room.

And then he nods, the tension dissipating like smoke in the air. “Everyone wants an explanation when these things happen,” he says, and his lips curl upward. “At least, that’s the line Dr. Patel has been giving to all the students who come to her for grief counseling. Apparently, she’s handing out a lot of adult coloring books.”

Any other day, I think I’d melt like ice cream in the sun against his charm. He’s got one of those effortless smiles that just pulls at you, like you’re doing something wrong by not smiling back.

And he’s got dimples.

How have I never looked closely enough to realize he’s got dimples? They bite into the apples of his cheeks – his perfect, sharp-enough-to-cut cheekbones – and it’s all I can do to not let my guard down.

He has Mickey’s journal.

He got Detective Mills fired.

His looks, his smile, his wit, his goddamn dimples – they’re meant to be disarming.

I realize this now.

It’s a front designed to lure you in and lower your guard. A pretty smile to hide the sharp teeth beneath.

“Is that why you have his journal? Because you want an explanation?” I ask.

I wonder if Adrian has read the last page.

Is it possible he flipped through the first few entries, assumed there was nothing incriminating and shelved it? Surely, he would’ve thrown this book in the fireplace if he knew what was in it.

“Something like that,” he shrugs.

I clear my throat. “Well, I think I should probably get going. It’s getting late, and I’ve got a lot of studying to do this weekend, so I need to go…get on that. Again, really sorry about the snooping. That wasn’t cool. It won’t happen again.” The words come out in a rush as I cross the length of the office and attempt to squeeze by Adrian.

He doesn’t move an inch, only tilts his head so he’s peering down at me, and it’s a wonder I can even breathe at all under the suffocating weight of his attention.

“Excuse me,” I say and try again, but his broad shoulders, covered in alabaster-colored cashmere, don’t budge.

His eyes shift to my hands. “You’re still holding the book.”

I look down and he’s right – I’m clutching Mickey’s journal so tightly my knuckles have turned white. “Oh, right.” A nervous chuckle escapes me. “My bad. Let me – let me put this back.”

My hands tremble as I return the journal to its designated spot between Gray’s Anatomy and The Laws of Human Nature.

Later, I’m sure I’ll berate myself for giving up so easily, for letting go of what very well could be the only proof that I’m not crazy, but none of that seems to matter right now.

In this moment, my self-preservation’s running on overdrive.

My fingers are so shaky that I have trouble sliding the book back into its slot.

A large, tanned hand covers mine and I still completely.

His fingers, steady over mine, push the journal back into place. “You know what I think, Poppy?” Cool breath ghosts over the shell of my ear. His voice is soft – almost seductive.

I don’t dare answer.

“I think you’re lying to me.”

The trembling spreads to my other extremities, but I hold my ground. “I’m not lying.”

“No? So, you didn’t read Mickey’s entire journal? Not even the part where he names me his killer?”

The air’s knocked right out of my lungs.

The jig is up.

I know it.

He knows it.

The shaking intensifies, but I force myself to turn around and look him in the eye. “So, what if I did? Are you going to kill me too?”

He’s less than a foot from me now, his angular face bathed in the light of the crackling flames.

It’d take him no effort at all to reach out and snap my neck like a chicken bone or slam my head into the brick fireplace. If he really wanted to be poetic, he could probably drag me over to the window, push me out and throw another candlelight vigil where they’ll use bad pictures of me for the slideshow.

But he doesn’t do any of those things.

He stays right where he’s at, that same playful smile tugging at his mouth.

It’s only his eyes that have changed – as dark as ever, but gleaming with something.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” The hand he’d used to replace the journal shifts, his fingers wrapping around my neck.

Terror washes over me like ice water, but he doesn’t choke me. His fingers are a collar around my neck, just restrictive enough to keep me from breaking free. They’re nice fingers too – strong and nimble and definitely capable of crushing my windpipe.

“Are you going to beg for your life, then?” It comes out sounding flat. Like he’s already bored.

I want to. Every muscle in my body screams for me to do just that. Beg. Appease. Pull out the puppy dog eyes. Melt into a puddle of tears.

But I quietly ask, “Is that what Mickey did before you pushed him out the window?” I feel the weight of his hand with every word, every short, gasping breath. “It didn’t seem to help him very much.”

A lazy smirk transforms his face. “No, I suppose it didn’t.”

Oh God.

Dread coils around my spine with the realization that I was right. His dark eyes are empty. No humanity, no compassion – nothing for me to latch onto or change his mind with.

He did kill Mickey.

He killed Mickey, and now he’s going to kill me.

I am going to die, terrified and invisible as the day I entered this school.

I’m not sure if it’s courage or some misguided form of determination that cuts through all the panic and fear, but whatever it is, it’s entirely responsible for what happens next.

“I’m not going to beg,” I say, voice steadier than I expected. “But if you just –” I swear his hand tightens. “If you just hear me out for a second, I can give you something else.” My pulse races. “It’ll probably be more entertaining than hearing me beg.”

One thick eyebrow arches. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not interested in your body.”

My cheeks flame with as much fervor as the real fire, and despite my predicament, I sputter, “No! Not that. I was going to offer you honesty.”

He looks no more impressed by that response than when he thought I was offering up my body – but I take his silence as answer enough.

“I didn’t know you killed Mickey,” I tell him. “I suspected you had something to do with it, but I didn’t know for sure. Not till I read the journal. I didn’t come here tonight to snoop through your stuff. I came to confront you about Detective Mills. I know you got her fired.”

He doesn’t start squeezing the life out of me, so I keep talking.

“And I could tell you that I won’t say a word,” I continue. “And mean it. Because, as much as I’ve liked played detective these past few days, I’m way too selfish to die for a guy that wouldn’t even make small-talk with me. But I’m guessing that doesn’t matter because, honesty aside, I’m a liability, and I think you’re going to kill me, anyway.”

A cocktail of fear and adrenaline course through my veins as I wait for his hand to tighten. He stares at me, unreadable and blank, and then –

His hand loosens.

What?

I still don’t feel like I can breathe, not even as he completely removes his fingers and steps back. I watch him warily, and it’s only when he’s out of arm’s reach that I ask in disbelief, “You’re not going to kill me?”

I’m not going to die right now?

Something flashes through his eyes. Excitement or anticipation or –

Curiosity.

That’s what it is.

“No,” he finally says, and it’s almost a question – like he’s testing out the word on his tongue. “I don’t think I will.”

He takes another step back, his finger closing around the doorknob the same way they closed around my throat. “Not right now. You’ve just become the most interesting thing on campus, Poppy Davis.” He shoots me one last smile that’s all sharp, too-white teeth before rejoining the party.

The door gently shuts behind him and I sink to the ground, panting like I just ran a marathon.

I’m alive.

I’m alive.

I’m alive.

It’s more than I thought I’d be two minutes ago.

Right now, a voice that sounds eerily like Adrian reminds me.

Somehow, I’ve managed to end the night more poorly than I started it: with my life on tenuous terms and the attention of a murderer.