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She woke up in the dark with a panicked flinch that sent the ice pack - water sloshing in a bag now - thumping off her 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 she heard music coming from the other side of the bedroom door.
Claire slid out of bed, fumbled for a lamp, and found one next to the bed - Tiffany-style glass, really nice - and the colorful glow chased away any nightmare fears she'd been trying to have. The music was slow and warm and contemplative, kind of guitar alternative. She got her shoes on, took a look in the dresser mirror, and got a nasty shock. Her face still hurt, and it was obvious why - her right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple. Her split lip looked shiny and unpleasantly thick, too. Her face - always pale - looked even paler than normal. Her short pixie-cut black hair had a serious case of bed-head, but she fluffed it out into something like order. She'd never really been much for makeup, even when she'd been stealing Mom's to try on, but today maybe a little foundation and concealer couldn't hurt.... She looked ragged, and beaten, and homeless.
Well. It was nothing but the truth, after all.
Claire took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. Lights were on in the hall, warm and glowing gold; the music was coming from downstairs, in the living room. She checked a clock hanging on the wall at the far end; it was after midnight - she'd slept for more than twelve hours.
And missed all her classes. Not that she'd have wanted to show up looking like this, even if she hadn't been so paranoid about Monica following her around...but she'd need to hit the books later. At least the books didn't hit back.
Her bruises felt better, and in fact her head hurt only a little. Her ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up her leg with every step down the stairs.
She was halfway down when she saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Shane had been sprawled before. He had a guitar in his hands.
Oh. The music. She'd thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it. She'd never heard live music before - not really playing, not like this. He was...wow. He was wonderful.
She watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn't even know she existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and if she had to put a name to what she could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing. He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Shane's, in a careless mop. Not as big as Shane, 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."
Claire coughed. He turned, startled, and saw her standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. "Oh. You're the one Shane said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down."
She did, trying not to limp, and when she got into the full light she saw his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalog the bruises.
He didn't say a word about them. "I'm Michael," he said. "And you're not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation."
She sat, fast, heart pounding. "I'm in college," she said. "I'm a freshman. My name is - "
"Don't bullshit me, and I don't care what your name is. You're not eighteen. It's a good bet you're 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 Shane have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there's something going on - "
