Neil looked both angry and sulky at the tongue lashing he’d just received, but instead of acting contrite, he muttered, “Sounds like you might have a little crush on the - er, on Scarlett. Should I warn Devon she has a rival?”
Jackson’s gaze narrowed dangerously, and he felt a sense of satisfaction to observe the way Neil cowered just a bit in reaction. “Weren’t you the one who swore me and Doctor Parks to absolute secrecy?” he drawled, his tone deceptively lazy. “Who insisted that no one but the three of us could ever know of Scarlett’s existence? So, no, Neil. I don’t think you’re going to warn Devon about her. Not that there’s anything to warn her about. I can feel sorry for Scarlett, be appalled at the shitty life she’s had, and even admire how she’s toughed it out and is trying to make a better life for herself without having a so-called crush on her. Now, let’s put our heads together and figure out what excuse we’re going to give the family.”
***
Scarlett wished for perhaps the hundredth time since moving into this house at the start of her sophomore year that her tiny little attic room had an actual door. Having seven roommates had only one advantage - the fact that it lowered everyone’s rent by dividing the total among more people - and a whole lot of disadvantages. One of those disadvantages was how damned noisy it could get at times, between televisions and music blaring, plus the sound of all those voices. A few of her roommates - there had been such a revolving door of them over the last two years that she didn’t even bother to remember all of their names half the time - were very social and frequently had friends over, so that there might be closer to twenty people in the house at a given time.
Like tonight, for example, when she really needed to study for finals that began next week. Jackson had been relieved to learn she would be finished with finals and spring semester by the end of next week, so that she’d be available to fly to Phoenix immediately afterwards and begin the bone marrow donation process.
And, much as she hated to admit it, Jackson Gilmore was also why she was finding it difficult to concentrate this evening. She had never been the type of girl who crushed on a guy, mostly because she was such an emotional disaster that she hadn’t wanted to inflict her problems on someone else. And the vast majority of the guys she’d dated over the years had been even more messed up than she was. Scarlett had decided a long time ago that she wasn’t about to play confidant, caregiver, or nurturer to someone else, not when she had to expend so much emotional energy taking care of herself.
But Jackson Gilmore sure as hell didn’t need anyone to take care of him. He was confident, mature, and capable, and the ease and speed with which he could make things happen had made her almost dizzy with disbelief. Of course, having tons of money and gobs of power and charisma didn’t hurt, either. But Scarlett sensed that even if he was as poor as she was, he would still be brimming over with that confident, authoritative manner.
There was also, of course, the physical attraction, something she’d very, very reluctantly admitted to herself existed. But even someone as damaged as she was could still feel sexual attraction, and what she felt for him was way beyond anything she’d ever experienced before. He wasn’t her usual type, of course, but then she supposed she didn’t really have a type. Plus, a man as sexy and good-looking as Jackson was every woman’s type. Even her bisexual and lesbian friends - well, more like acquaintances because she didn’t really do the friend thing very well, either - would agree he was smoking hot.
‘For the love of God, Scar!’ she scolded herself. ‘Stop fixating on him, will you? Because nothing - and I repeat, nothing - is ever going to happen there. If he isn’t your type, then you sure as hell aren’t his type. His girlfriend is probably tall and blonde and tanned, has a figure to die for, and a designer wardrobe. While you’re short and skinny with red hair and everything in your wardrobe either came from Walmart or the thrift store, and you haven’t bought anything new since high school. And that’s not even taking into account the really, really fucked up family situation between the two of you. So quit daydreaming about Jackson because he’s so far out of your reach you might as well be living in a parallel universe.’
For the next hour or so, she was able to block it all out - the noises from downstairs, her odd and unwelcome fascination with the unattainable Jackson Gilmore, and even the mingled sense of dread and curiosity she’d been experiencing at finally meeting her father in two days time - and managed to get a good amount of studying done. She’d gotten good at blocking things out - mostly the unpleasant ones, of which there had been many - from a young age. Whether it had been her hateful grandmother spewing out vile curses, or her classmates taunting her for a whole host of reasons, or the voices of her own inner demons, she had perfected the art of closing off the noise and retreating instead to a place deep within. It was why the meditation sessions with Ananda had always felt so familiar - because by blocking out all of the unpleasantness, she had found a way to inner peace.
By eleven o’clock she was yawning and could barely keep her eyes open, very unusual for a borderline insomniac like herself. Despite the hectic pace she kept up - a full load of demanding classes, lots of studying and homework, working three part-time jobs - Scarlett rarely felt tired. She knew part of that was simply her hyperactive personality, not to mention all the caffeine and sugar she subsisted on most days. But she had always had difficulties falling asleep, starting from the time she was a toddler. Neither her mother nor her grandmother had seemed to give a damn that a small child needed a fixed schedule and bedtime routine, and zero attempt had ever been made on either of their parts to instill such habits in Scarlett. Then, too, both of them had been night owls, frequently watching TV at a loud volume until the wee hours of the morning, or having screaming matches at any given time of the day or night.
And when she’d gone into foster care, Scarlett had been too traumatized and afraid of her new surroundings to feel secure enough to actually fall asleep. During her years in the group homes, she had never slept more than a couple of hours at a time, far too wary of the other inhabitants to trust they wouldn’t steal her things – or worse - while she was asleep.
Even when she’d lived with Roz and Margie she had rarely slept more than a few hours at a time. Old habits died hard, after all. Plus, as used as she’d become to expecting bad things to happen to her - because they always did - it had taken her a long time to believe that she wasn’t suddenly going to be yanked away from the only place she had ever felt even remotely safe and cared for and forced to move to yet another foster home.
Going away to college hadn’t been much better, especially freshman year when she’d been crammed into a dorm room meant only for two but shared by four due to a shortage of on-campus housing. She had rarely slept in her actual bunk that year, preferring to curl up in an armchair in the student lounge or some other out of the way spot on campus that she had stumbled upon.
There had been a larger room available when she had moved into this house, one with a real door and an actual closet. But it had also been more expensive, and she’d had to watch every dollar she spent. Besides, she had liked the idea of being all alone up here, away from all the chaos, even if she couldn’t always escape the noise.