Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(25)

Now it’s my turn to stare. “You are kidding me?”

“No. And thanks, a compliment from you means something.”

“Sure does, I don’t deal them out much.”

The look that passes is too heavy with the unsaid, the opportunity to talk about what else we have in common. I’m not sure what Ruby sees in my eyes, but she looks away.

Ruby carefully places the lids on the remaining pens. “But, really? You have synaesthesia, too?”

“Yeah, all the best musicians do, you know. For instance… me.”

“Sure, Jem Jones.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was weird, seeing colours when I listened to music until someone told me what it was.”

“I guess that makes us both weird then.”

I can’t. She’s pushing at the edges of my world, another part of Ruby slipping through and joining me.

“I’ve never met another like me before,” she says.

“Oh, I’d say we’re unique people.”

“I doubt that’s the word most people use.”

We know the truth here, we’re unique; but so similar it threatens. If she were Dylan or Jax, I’d grab my guitar and join her in playing, write a song with her. But not Ruby, no more. The pale-faced girl came here because she needed to escape, needed my help and protection. I’m not tangling with another broken girl.

I hand Ruby the sheet and pull her guitar off me. “Cool, well, I’ll look forward to hearing the song when you’re finished.”

The thread of connection snaps, springing back and Ruby attempts to hide her disappointment that I’m not staying to chat.

“Back to hiding?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

She points upwards at my bedroom. “In your den.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“It’s safer there.” She gathers her pens. “Nobody can touch you.”

Of course, she understands.

In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the sun streaming through the window. The sound of Ruby’s song travels upstairs, through my open bedroom door, following me. I close my eyes and lie back on the unmade bed. Individually, the notes have the colours from her sheet; together the song has another, a rich purple that fills my mind.

Why does she have to be so much of who I am?





Chapter Thirteen



Ruby



The bass from music playing thumps through the house and into my dreams until I can’t ignore the noise any longer. My phone illuminates two-forty-five a.m., not the most thoughtful time of day for Jem to play music so bloody loud. Half an hour of shifting in bed, attempting to cover my ears with a combination of pillows and duvets, and the last remnants of sleep are gone.

Giving up, I pad along the polished wooden hallway floor into the kitchen. I pour a glass of water and rest my tired head on the counter as I consider what to do. I don’t have any right to go upstairs and tell Jem to turn his music down, but I’m working in five hours and need my sleep.

The music stops.

Did I psychically do that? I hesitate in case the music starts again; but after a few minutes, the house remains silent. Yes.

Heading out of the kitchen, I almost walk into Jem who’s coming in.

“Shit!” I say in surprise.

He’s shirtless, the curls hanging in his face unable to obscure the confused look. “Forgot you were here.” Jem pushes past.

“Obviously,” I mutter.

“What does that mean?” Jem snaps.

I turn to retort but he’s scowling at me. Edgy. Unpredictable? “Nothing. You woke me up. Night.” If I get back to bed now I can get an extra couple of hours.

“f-uck. Sorry. Ignore me.” Jem crashes around in a cupboard, swearing under this breath.

Jem Jones apologising?

“It’s okay. This is your house.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” He grips an empty glass as if confused over what he needs to do with it. His pupils are dilated. Is he high?

“You okay?” I ask tentatively.

For a long moment, Jem stares at me unblinkingly, face pale. No, not drugs, something’s upset him. “Doesn’t matter.”

When he turns away to fill his glass, I edge away.

I’m in bed less than five minutes when a crash jerks me awake. When this is followed by several more crashes, I climb out of bed and head back into the other part of the house.

In the kitchen, Jem rests his hands on the bench, head bowed, breathing deeply. Broken glass surrounds him on the floor and blocks his path out of the room.

“Jem?”

“Do you know where my keys are?” he asks, not looking round.

“Your car keys?”

“Yeah. Can you get them?”

I chew the edge of my mouth and point at his naked feet. “How will you get out of the kitchen to leave?”

“I don’t want to get out of the kitchen,” he growls.

“Then why do you want your car keys?”

“Just f-ucking get them!”

“No, I f-ucking won’t if you swear at me.”

Jem throws his head back and stares at the ceiling continuing to swear under his breath. “Phone Bryn,” he says to the ceiling.