The Birch House

Chapter Three

Evie's P.O.V.

I woke up in the dark with a panicked flinch that sent the ice pack - water sloshing in a bag now - thumping off my pillow and onto the floor. The house was quiet, except for the creaky, creepy noises houses made at night. Outside, wind rattled the dry leaves on the trees, and I heard music coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

I slid out of bed, fumbled for a lamp, and found one next to the bed - Tiffany-style glass, really nice - and the colourful glow chased away any nightmare fears I'd been trying to have. The music was slow and warn and contemplative, kind of guitar alternative. I got my shoes on, took a look in the dresser mirror, and got a nasty shock. My face still hurt, and it was obvious why - my right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple. My split lip looked shiny and unpleasantly thick, too. My face - always pale - looked even paler than normal. My short pixie-cut black hair had a serious case of bed-head, but I fluffed it out into something like order. I'd never really been much for make-up, even when I'd been stealing Mum's to try on, but today maybe a little foundation and concealer couldn't hurt... I looked ragged, and beaten, and homeless.

Well. It was nothing but the truth, after all.

I took a deep breath and opened my bedroom door. Lights were on in the hall, warm and glowing gold; the music was coming from downstairs, in the living room. I checked a clock hanging on the wall at the far end; it was after midnight - I'd slept for more than twelve hours.

And missed all my classes. Not that I'd have wanted to show up looking like this, even if I hadn't been so paranoid about Millie following me around... but I'd need to hit the books later. At least the books didn't hit back.

My bruises felt better, and in fact my head only Hury a little. My ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up my leg with every step down the stairs.

I was halfway down when I saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Chase had been sprawled before. He had a guitar in his hands.

Oh. The music. I'd thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it.

I'd never heard live music before - not really playing, not like this. He was... wow. He was wonderful.

I watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn't even know I existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and I'd I had to put a name to what I could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing. He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Chase's, in a careless mop. Not as big as Chase, and not as muscled, though he was maybe as tall. He was wearing a T-shirt, too, black, with a beer logo. Blue jeans. No shoes.

He stopped playing, head down, and reached for the open beer on the table in front of him. He toasted empty air. 'Happy birthday to you, man.' He tossed back three swallows, sighed, and put the bottle down. 'And here's to house arrest. What the hell. Own it or get owned.'

I coughed. He turned, startled, and saw me standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. 'Oh. You're the one Chase said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down.'

I did, trying not to limp, and when I got into the full light I was his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalogue the bruises.

He didn't say a word about them. 'I'm Alex,' he said. 'And you're not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation.'

I sat, fast, heart pounding. 'I'm in college,' I said. 'I'm a freshman. My name is-'

'Don't bullshit me, and I don't care what your name it. You're not eighteen. It's a good bet your not even seventeen. We don't take anybody in this house who isn't legal.' He had a deep voice, warm but - at least right now - hard. 'Not that you'd be signing on to orgy central, but sorry, me and Chase have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there's something going on-'