Very Twisted Things (Briarwood Academy #3) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,1
me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.
The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
Exhausted.
Done.
My body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy dust.
“She was music with skin.”
—Sebastian Tate
Two years later
WHERE WAS SHE?
I stood at the edge of the patio and adjusted my binoculars, spying on the twenty-something girl who lived in the Spanish-style mansion behind us in the Hollywood Hills. And by mansion, I mean a house three times the size of ours with a red slate roof and a huge archaic-looking door on the front. Impressive. The Maserati out front was sick too. Chick was rich, living the dream.
She was also excruciatingly beautiful with her long dark hair and badass violin.
But who was she? A Hollywood celebrity like me? Somehow, I didn’t think so—mostly because she was always alone.
Last night from my hilltop view, I’d watched her eat a solitary dinner out on her patio, taking in how she sliced into her chicken and then chewed, her head bobbing to the music on her stereo. She’d added a serving of cheese puffs to her plate without a flicker of remorse, and for dessert she’d eaten an entire sleeve of Oreos. Her evening drink was a sniffer of tequila. I didn’t judge. Living on the road for five years, I’d had my own share of strange meals.
She was odd.
Since we’d moved in a few weeks ago, I’d concocted all kinds of theories about her. She was a porn star who’d retired and chosen to live out her life in solitude; she was a musician holed up in a mansion, composing an opus that would hypnotize the entire world; or my favorite, she’d killed her last boyfriend with an axe over his refusal to share his cheese puffs and she was now using the house next door as her hideout. Crazy to dwell on someone I didn’t know, but there was something about her loneliness that struck a nerve.
My bandmate Spider thought I was just bored. Maybe.
I tapped my foot.
What was taking her so long?
“Is she naked? Otherwise, what’s the bloody point in spying on her?” Spider asked me in a stage whisper, coming up behind me in the darkness on the patio. The Englishman sipped on his Jack and Coke.
“She’s not out yet,” I said. “And, it’s not really spying. I just like her music.”
He snorted. “Uh-huh. She’s fucking hot, isn’t she?”
Hot as hell—but I wasn’t sharing. I was surprisingly territorial when it came to Violin Girl.
“I think some clubbing would cure you real fast, mate.” He did a pirouette dance move that was straight out of our latest music video.
“Dude. Not tonight.” I needed a break. The paparazzi were all over me now that I was “fake dating” Hollywood starlet Blair Storm to garner good press.
He threw his hands up to the sky. “You’re Sebastian Tate, the lead singer of the Vital Rejects whose YouTube video just clocked in at two hundred million views. We’re famous, and all you want to do is wait for her to come out.” He shook his head. “It’s right odd how you fancy her.”
I laughed at his theatrics. I suspected he was drunk. “Coming from the guy with a blue pompadour,” I said.
“Don’t be jealous.” He smoothed his newly dyed hair delicately. “Seriously, I liked you better when you got obsessed with The Vampire Diaries.”
I snorted. “Ha. Shut the fuck up. You love that show.”
He grinned. “Never. I hate blood suckers. Fucking pussies.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I watch macho shows, like wrestling and NASCAR,” he insisted.
“Bullshit. You DVR everything on The CW.” I snickered.
He lit a cig and sent me a thoughtful look. “You know, I haven’t had a shag in a while. You think Violin Girl would like me?”
I inhaled sharply. “She’s really not your type. I suggest you stick with your groupies.”
“If she’s female, she’s my type.” He waggled his eyes at me.