I Yearn for You, My Alexandria

EPISODE 3

CHAPTER 5

The bass from Cole Kincaid stereo thumped through the floorboards, a visceral pulse that vibrated in Chris's teeth. He was leaning against a wall, a lukewarm beer in his hand, scanning the crowd with a practiced, bored disdain. The party was a circus of idiots, but it was something to do. The war with Harmon had become as routine as homework, a draining, background hum in his life.

He needed to take a leak. Pushing off the wall, he shouldered his way through the gyrating bodies and down the hall. The first bathroom was occupied, the door locked. Annoyed, he moved to the one at the end of the hall, the one Kincaid's parents probably never used.

The door was slightly ajar.

He pushed it open, and the scene inside brought him to an abrupt halt.

Alexandria Harmon was perched unsteadily on the edge of the marble countertop, her heels dangling. Her usually pristine posture was gone, replaced by a fragile slump. Her head was bowed, her dark hair curtaining her face. But it was what was next to her that made Chris's blood run cold for a split second before heating right back up with a familiar, protective rage.

A tall, red plastic cup sat beside her hip. It wasn't beer. The smell was sickly sweet, cloying even from the doorway—rum and cheap fruit punch, a concoction designed to mask the taste for someone who didn't know what they were drinking.

Chris knew that trick. He'd used that trick.

"Hey," he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the fog she was evidently in.

She flinched, her head lifting slowly. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. She blinked at him, confusion warring with her ingrained hostility. "Hunter?" she slurred. "Go 'way. You'll... you'll get cooties."

He ignored her, his gaze locked on the cup. He stepped fully into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him with a backward thrust of his boot. The sound was unnaturally loud, cutting them off from the party's roar.

"Who gave you that?" he demanded, nodding toward the drink.

She followed his gaze, her brow furrowing as if she were just noticing it. "S'my drink. A nice... a nice boy gave it to me. Tommy? No... Timmy?" She tried to pick it up, her fingers fumbling.

Chris was across the small room in two strides. He snatched the cup from the counter before her unsteady hand could close around it. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. His suspicion was confirmed. It was spiked to hell and back.

A memory, sharp and unwelcome, flashed behind his eyes: his mother, slumped in a chair, a glass in her hand, a stranger leering from the doorway. The same helpless, slack-jawed expression.

"Stupid," he snarled, the word tearing from him. He didn't know if he was calling her stupid, or the situation, or the ghost of his own past. He turned and dumped the entire contents into the sink, the lurid red liquid swirling down the drain.

"Hey!" she protested weakly, her shoulders slumping. "Tha' was mine..."

He turned back to her, his chest heaving. The war, the eggs, the milk, the ink—it all evaporated into meaningless noise. This was different. This was a line, and some other piece of s**t had crossed it. On his battlefield.

"Listen to me, you i***t," he growled, leaning in, planting his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her in. Her eyes widened, a flicker of fear cutting through the drunken haze. "You don't take drinks from people at parties. Ever. You don't leave your drink unattended. You are the student body president, for Christ's sake, start acting like you have a brain in your head."

She stared at him, her lips slightly parted. The insult was there, but the intent was... different. It was furious, but it wasn't aimed at breaking her. It felt, bizarrely, like it was aimed at protecting her.

"I... I can handle myself," she whispered, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

"Like hell you can," he shot back, his voice low and gravelly. "You can't even sit up straight." He straightened up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The fight was gone from him, replaced by a grim, weary responsibility. "Come on. We're getting you out of here."

He didn't ask. He reached for her, his movements surprisingly gentle as he helped her slide off the counter. She wobbled, and instinctively, his arm went around her waist to steady her. She was light, and she leaned into him, her head lolling against his shoulder. The scent of her shampoo—something clean, like apples—cut through the stench of the spiked drink and his own cigarette smoke.

He guided her out of the bathroom, shielding her from the crowd with his body. He ignored the stares, the raised eyebrows. Let them talk. He half-walked, half-carried her through the house and out the front door into the cool night air.

The unspoken war hadn't ended. But on that night, in the quiet hum of the Kincaid's driveway, a temporary, fragile truce was called. An understanding, born of shared fury at an outside threat and the shocking, inconvenient realization that the person you hated most in the world was still a person. And some lines were never meant to be crossed.

CHAPTER 6

The Camaro's engine roared, a stark contrast to the fragile silence inside. Chris had dumped Alexandria unceremoniously into the passenger seat, his movements all rough efficiency. The moment he pulled out of Cole's driveway, he'd slammed the gas, the G-force pressing them both back into their seats.

He was driving angry. Angry at the nameless "nice boy" who'd spiked her drink. Angry at himself for giving a damn. Angry at her for being so damn stupid and vulnerable, for making him the one who had to deal with this.

"Slow down..." Alexandria's voice was a thin, reedy protest from the other side of the car. She was curled against the door, her forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window. "Chris... I'm gonna throw up..."

"Tough," he grunted, but his foot eased off the accelerator a fraction. The last thing he needed was puke all over his interior.

It wasn't enough. The world was still spinning too fast for her.

"SLOW DOWN!" she screamed, the sound raw and panicked, her hand fumbling blindly for the door handle.

"Hey, don't you dare—" he started, but it was too late.

She managed to shove the heavy door open just as he was braking for a stop sign. The momentum and her own desperate need for distance sent her stumbling out onto the gravel shoulder. She didn't even make it two steps before she pitched forward, her hands slapping the dirt as she vomited violently onto the weeds, well clear of his precious car.

Chris slammed the car into park, the transmission groaning in protest. He sat for a moment, hands clenched on the wheel, listening to the ragged, miserable sounds she made. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, the last of his anger deflating. It was replaced by a dull, gritty sense of reality.

He got out, leaving the driver's side door open, the "ding-ding-ding" of the interior warning chime a pathetic soundtrack to the scene. He walked around the front of the Camaro. She was on her hands and knees, hair sticking to her damp forehead, shoulders heaving with dry heaves now that there was nothing left inside.

He didn't say a word. He went to his trunk, rummaged past a tire iron and an old jacket, and found a half-empty bottle of water. He walked back and stood over her, waiting.

When the worst of the heaving subsided, he nudged her shoulder with his boot. Not hard. Just enough to get her attention.

She flinched, looking up at him with watery, humiliated eyes.

"Here," he said, his voice flat. He unscrewed the cap and handed her the bottle.

She took it with trembling hands, rinsing her mouth and spitting the water onto the ground before daring to take a small, shaky sip.

He didn't help her up. He just watched, his arms crossed, as she slowly, painfully, got to her feet. She was a mess—pale, shaky, her nice party clothes dirt-stained and smelling faintly of sick.

"Get in the car," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And this time, keep the door shut."

She didn't protest. She just nodded, a tiny, broken movement, and shuffled back to the passenger side, collapsing into the seat like a marionette with its strings cut.

Chris got back in, slammed his door, and the warning chime finally stopped. The silence that followed was heavy and complete. He didn't speed off this time. He just put the car in drive and pulled away slowly, the Camaro's powerful engine purring at a docile, unfamiliar hum. The war was still there, waiting in the wings. But for now, the only sound was Alexandria's shaky breathing and the quiet rumble of a car being driven with uncharacteristic care.