Loud: The Complete Series (A Bad Boy Alpha Male Romance) (32 page)

It
was easy to pretend I was still in high school. The house was quiet when I
emerged from Sienna's room. It could have been any one of hundreds of nights
when our mother had retreated to her room, my father had shut himself in his
office, and Sienna was out. She was always busy, always doing something.

The only one that
was ever around was our cook. I found her in the kitchen looking the same as
she had for decades: a white shirt, black pants, and a red apron. Her riotous
black curly hair was secured in a prim bun and blue eyes sparkled as she sang.

"No one told
you," I said, the weight pushing me back onto a stool.

"I sing when
I'm sad, too," the cook told me. "It helps. Wanna try?"

"You know I
can't carry a tune. Sienna is – was the singer."

The cook put down
her red spatula and propped her fists on her hips. "You know you never
have to refer to her in the past tense, don't you? Sienna’s memory is just as
alive as anyone else outside this room if we talk about her."

"I don't feel
like talking, Charlotte," I said.

"And you
don't feel like singing. How about baking?" Charlotte asked.

I smiled. I loved
to bake. It did not hurt that it was the one thing I did better than Sienna.

Sienna had come
home from a cheerleading meeting one year and announced an impressive list of
things she was going to personally bake for their fundraiser. After two minutes
of baking, in which flour got in her hair, she crushed a raw egg in her hands,
and the top fell off the ground cinnamon, she declared that baking was a waste
of time.

That night,
Charlotte taught me to bake the easiest, silkiest, and best buttery sugar
cookies. We decorated them with a light lemon frosting and glittery sprinkles.
Of course, Sienna took all the credit and they sold out in minutes.

"We're going
to need a good dessert table for the, ah, for the guests," Charlotte said.

I nodded, my voice
gone again. She meant we needed desserts for the reception that would
invariably follow the funeral. Still, Charlotte's practicality was comforting
as I settled into the regular routine of the sugar cookie recipe.

"It doesn't
feel real. She should come in the door at any moment," I said as the first
batch of cookies went in the oven.

"You'll look
for her for a long time. Nothing wrong with that."

Her calm
acceptance of my feelings made it possible for me to think outside of the warm
and comforting kitchen. It registered that I had seen the door to my father's
office standing open and I wondered where he went. I had ten minutes before the
first batch was done.

"Have you
seen my father?" I asked.

Charlotte shook
her head. "He asked for chicken dumpling soup when I came in and then he
disappeared."

I went to peer in
the door of his office. The lights were off, but I could see his outline
propped in a chair. He stared out the window, a glass of whiskey suspended in
the air halfway to his mouth.

"Daddy?"
I asked.

He jumped as if a
gunshot had reported in the wood-paneled confines of his office. "Quinn,
Jesus Christ, you scared me. What are you doing creeping around?"

"You're the
one sitting in the dark."

He grumbled and
turned on the lamp next to him. His eyes were red and puffy but dry as he
scowled at me. "How's your mother?"

"I don't
know, she's still upstairs," I said. "How are you?"

"Probably a
good idea. She needs to rest. I'm tired. Exhausted. You might not think it’s a
big deal to drive from Vegas to L.A. all the time for school, but it takes a
toll," he said. Finally, he noticed the glass of whiskey and took a long
sip.

"Speaking of
L.A., I should call school," I said.

"Your advisor
spoke to all your professors. The funeral is in two days. You can stay with us
until it’s over," my father said.

"The
funeral?" I asked. A sour taste filled my mouth at the word.

"Yes, I have
a friend at the Walton's Funeral Home, he's the director. Making all the
arrangements. Viewing, service, reception, it will all be here. Cook knows the
rest."

"It just
seems so, I don't know, so fast," I said.

My father snorted.
"What did you expect, Quinn? Decisions had to be made. Not everyone can go
through life wavering like you do."

"Sienna was
decisive. She kinda proved quick decisions aren't always the best, didn't
she?" I could not take the angry words back.

He shifted in his
leather chair and refused to look at me again. "Check on your mother
before dinner," he said and turned the light off.

I retreated back
to the kitchen, and Charlotte took one look at my face and folded me into a
tight hug. "He's just grieving. Anything that comes out of his mouth the
next few months is pure rubbish."

"I, I accused
her of being rash. I actually joked about where her quick decision-making got
her. It was awful," I said.

"No one can
know what went through her head. Sienna always had her mind made up and
wouldn't let anyone change it. A trait I'm happy you did not inherit from your
mother."

Charlotte and my
mother had a long-standing habit of arguing over recipes. Though my mother did
not cook, she clung fast to a few beliefs of how things should be done and
would not hear reason.

"Everyone
always says Sienna is just like my mother."

"It never
bothered you before," Charlotte said.

"What bothers
me now are the ways they are the same. The big mood swings and the
perfectionism. It’s just not that healthy," I said. My voice was low; they
were words that felt dangerous to say out loud.

"What's wrong
with perfectionism?" my father asked from the doorway. "Do I smell
something burning?"

I ran for the oven
and pulled the sugar cookies out just before the edges burned. "Nothing is
ever perfect and people who strive for it end up stressing themselves out over
something they can never achieve."

"Your sister
achieved plenty," my father said too loudly.

I could not take
anymore. "And what about the mood swings? Are you going to tell me it’s
perfectly healthy to be so depressed you stay in bed behind black-out curtains
for a whole day only to emerge ready to go out for cocktails?"

"And now,
we're talking about your mother," my father said. "Your arguments
always segue, like your entire life is full of segues. Next you'll be telling
me that you want to quit nursing and join the circus, right?"

"Sienna is –
was just like Mother. She would refuse to come out of her dorm room for days. I
used to have to bring her food. Then suddenly, I would run into her at the
cafeteria. She would be bright and smiley and act as if nothing at all had ever
been wrong. That's not right."

"They are
passionate, they know what they want, and they strive to make it perfect. I
don't see anything wrong with that. Sure, they both take disappointments hard,
but it just shows how much they care," my father said.

"Just once, I
want to hear you admit it is not normal," I said. "And don't even use
your lawyer arguments on me. Normal is not postponing Christmas because Mother
has locked herself in the closet. Normal is not you breaking down the closet
door with a metal baseball bat because she hasn't said anything through the
door for two hours. Normal is not a smart, popular, college girl at the top of
her pre-med class suddenly slitting her wrists and bleeding to death in a
bathtub!"

I looked across
the kitchen island at Charlotte. We had stood here and had the exact same
conversation over and over again. Friends had offered contact information for
doctors and psychologists, given my father books, and invited my mother to
meetings. My parents always insisted she was fine.

Now, Sienna would
never be fine again and my father still could not face the facts.
"Something must have happened to make Sienna do what she did. When I found
out who made her feel that way, there will be hell to pay. I bet it was that
boyfriend of hers, Owen. She was always complaining that he refused to get a
real job or do anything with himself."

I thought of Owen
on the front cover of the gaming magazine. My father would never understand.
"Speaking of Owen, have you called him?"

"Why would I
call him?"

"Daddy, he
needs to know! He doesn't go to UCLA. What if no one on campus had his contact
information? What if they didn't think to get a hold of him? He might not even
know Sienna is dead," I said.

"Maybe he's
the one that drove her to it."

Charlotte sucked
in air between her teeth, a sharp sound of disapproval. Even my father had to
admit that was too harsh.

He shrugged in
deference to Charlotte. "I never liked him for Sienna. They were not a
good match. He was going nowhere and trying to hold her back."

"That doesn't
mean he doesn't deserve to know," I argued. "Sienna loved him."

"Sienna
didn't love him," my father countered. "She thought he looked good in
pictures. I never heard one conversation where they ever agreed. They argued
before every date."

"Only because
they always did what Sienna wanted," I said.

"Right,
exactly. A man needs to have a little bit more of a backbone, don't you
think?" my father said.

"Enough
backbone to make a phone call," I said.

Charlotte bit her
lip to stop a bubbling laugh. My father scowled but a short sparkle of
admiration lit his eyes. I had no idea where the sharp backtalk was coming
from, but I hoped it could yield results.

"I raised two
daughters. I wouldn't know the first thing about having a man-to-man chat with
your sister's boyfriend. What if he cries?" my father said. He went to the
side cupboard and poured himself another glass of whiskey. "How about you
call him and I won't ground you for sass?"

"You can't
ground college students."

My father shrugged
again and walked out without another word.

"Don't
worry," Charlotte said. "I'll finish the sugar cookies. You have a
phone call to make."

I went up to my
room and paced around, turning on every light. Sienna had once told me the
secret to phone interviews was to talk while you looked in the mirror. She said
it made you sound more natural, more relaxed, like it was a normal conversation
with another human instead of disembodied voices.

I brushed my hair,
pinched a little pink into my cheeks, and put on a light layer of lipstick. I
couldn't talk to Owen looking like a grief-stricken zombie urchin – if I could
manage to talk to him at all.

We used to talk on
the phone in high school, quick chats before I handed the phone to Sienna, but
later calls about video games. Sometimes, Owen called to ask my opinion about
certain games or to talk through a new strategy. The calls kept up through
college, so I had his number in my phone.

The last call had
been about a week ago. It started off about
Dark
Flag
and his magazine interview. Then Owen had asked me about classes. We
had talked for over two hours about me leaving UCLA.

"Come to
Vegas and we'll chat more," he had said.

Well,
I thought,
I’m back in Vegas
. This
conversation was just going to be far different than anything I had dreamed.

CHAPTER
TWO

Owen

I
had to park two streets over. Once the car was off, I could not force myself to
open the door. Hundreds of people were going to Sienna's funeral. They walked
past my car in their expensive black dresses and hand-tailored suits. It took
all I had not to start the car and drive away.

Sienna hated my
car. It was the same old, black Porsche I had bought from my father's mechanic
when I turned sixteen. The seats were cracked, the exterior paint so worn it
had lost its shine, and the dozens of dings marred the body. Still, the engine
purred when it started. And, it pissed off both Sienna and my father. I loved
that car.

Sienna wanted
everything to be perfect. If it worked but did not look good, then it would
never be good enough for her. On the flip side, she was willing to put up with
broken things that were beautiful. That was the reason I could not get out of
the car.

Her family made me
uncomfortable. Sienna's mother was always way up or way down. One day, I saw
her with her face streaked with tears and smeared make-up. A few hours after
that, she was beaming as she belted out "Sweet Caroline" at the local
bakery.
 

Mr. Thomas was
worse. He was a high-powered lawyer who never turned off his killer instinct
for arguments. I once told him I was looking forward to the nice weather over
the weekend. He looked up three forecasts and the farmer's almanac to prove me
wrong. Sienna had just rolled her eyes at me and canceled my idea for a picnic.

Still, they were a
beautiful family with a beautiful house in beautiful Summerlin and Sienna loved
them. I could not imagine facing them without her.

What if they knew
what had happened?

I stopped again at
the foot of the driveway. It was a safe bet Sienna's family would not care if I
did not make an appearance. Her father would probably prefer it. I was about to
turn around when I saw Quinn.

She was carrying a
huge spray of flowers towards the back entrance. Despite her removal from the
front door crowd, a couple still stopped her to express their condolences. As
she sank under the weight of the flowers, they unloaded their guilt at being
more fortunate than her and her family. I could have punched the man for
dabbing at his appropriately wet eyes instead of taking the heavy vase from
her.

As much as I
wanted to turn around and never see these people again, I could not leave. If
Quinn was handling it, so could I.

I strode up and
took the flowers from her without a word.

"That's the
boyfriend," the man's wife whispered as I headed for the back entrance.

I pulled open the
door and held it for Quinn. When I looked back to see if she was coming, I felt
as if everyone from the driveway was staring at me. Somehow, they all knew what
I had done. They knew it was my fault. Sienna was dead, they needed someone to
blame, and I was the guy.

"Thank
you," Quinn said. She led the way in the back door and to the formal
dining room. The long table was covered in tasteful flower arrangements.

The scent of
lilies made me sick, but we were the only ones in the room. I would have stayed
amongst that sickly sweet stench all night if it was just the two of us.
"Quinn, I'm so sorry."

She waved a
delicate hand. "We said all of that on the phone. I'm just glad you're
here." She gave me a quick hug and retreated into the full front parlor.

I took a deep breath
and followed her into the crowd. Quinn slipped like a stranger through the
people gathered there. She was right there in the family portrait on the wall,
but all anyone could ever see was Sienna. Even when she was gone, she stole the
limelight.

"Is there
anything else I can help with?" I asked.

Quinn blinked up
at me with her chocolate brown eyes. She glanced around to make sure I was
speaking to her. "Not really. Not now."

"Have you
gone in to view the body?" I asked. It was a shit question, but I could
not take it back.

Quinn shook her
head, so I held out my arm. Her cheeks blushed as she looked nervously from
side to side. Sienna's little sister was clearly not used to being noticed.
"Don't worry. They're staring at me. If I'm not falling apart just right
or keeping it together well enough, they'll dock my score," I said.

She pulled her
lips in to stop a smile. "Or they're thinking how nasty I am putting the
moves on my sister's boyfriend." Her cheeks burned brighter.

"They don't
know how long we've known each other. They don't know I've seen
Pretty Pony
sheets on your bed," I
said.

"They don't
know that you made me pick out Sienna's Valentine’s gifts every year since you
two started dating."

"I gave you
boxes of chocolates every year," I reminded her.

"M&Ms
wrapped in Post-It Notes."

"With pass
codes and Easter Eggs."

"My
favorite," she admitted.

We stopped in the
viewing line. I knew I should let go of her, but I kept her arm tucked tightly
against me. She leaned on my arm in the crush of people and did not try to pull
it free.

"Speaking of
Easter Eggs," I said, "remember that time Sienna got mad at me for
dying eggs wrong?"

"You mixed
the colors until it was dark brown and told her you were making rabbit
turds," Quinn said. She chewed her lip to hide another smile.

"She kicked
us both out of the kitchen for laughing. We ended up eating jelly beans and
playing
Vice City
until one in the
morning."

Quinn gave a
ragged sigh. "Sienna dyed the most perfect Easter Eggs. She blew the yokes
out and everything. I always tried to save the prettiest until the next year.
Until she pointed out I could just take pictures. I think I still have some
stashed away."

"What?
Pictures of eggs?"

Quinn shook her
head and said nothing. Only Quinn would carefully preserve something as
delicate as a hollow egg. To her, they were treasures to be saved. I loved how
she treasured things. Sienna always treated everything like a prototype to be
tossed away in the hopes the next one would be better.

"Owen, we're
so glad you came. Have you signed the guestbook yet?" Mr. Thomas asked. He
took my elbow and guided me out of line.

Quinn slipped her
arm out and opened her mouth to stop her father.

He shook his head
at her. "It would mean so much to us if you'd put down a few words about Sienna.
You knew her so well."

Once we were out
of Quinn's hearing, he hissed in my ear. "Nice of you to come, but you're
upsetting my wife. Sign the guestbook and go."

Mr. Thomas dropped
my arm and went to greet better guests. I rubbed my elbow and realized he had
shoved me towards the door. There was no guestbook that I could see.

Instead, there
were large collages of Sienna. Her photogenic life had been carefully curated
and mounted to best highlight her successes. Other guests gushed over the
beauty and the achievements, but I could not see it.

A proud picture of
her with a glistening show horse and a trophy looked perfect. I cringed as I
remembered Sienna telling me how she hated her first horse. She lied and told
the trainer it had bitten her so she could ride a better one. The trainer had
taken her at her word and sold the horse to a trail ride farm up north.

Her prize science
fair display looked like the perfection of a curious and intelligent mind. To
me, it signified being stood up two times in one week. Then, Sienna had accused
me of trying to sabotage her work by guilting her.

Then, there was
the bake sale photograph and accompanying newspaper article. I knew Quinn had
baked those cookies. Hours after the fundraiser was over, Sienna refused to get
out of her bed. She was so depressed at being outdone by someone else that she
did not speak to Quinn for days.

Not only had Quinn
let her older sister take the credit, she had spent days trying to lift Sienna
out of her selfish funk. I had one foot out of the door but stopped. The least
I could do was stay and make sure Quinn was alright.

She was standing
off to the side in her own living room. Her mother and father had given her
seat away to a prominent neighbor. I was partially disgusted by her parents'
heartlessness. The other part was delighted that she was within reach.

"This seat
taken?" I asked.

Quinn shifted
along the wall and almost smiled. It faded as the hired priest moved to stand
in front of the fireplace. The packed room grew quiet.

"A great
light amongst us has gone out. And we may feel as empty and cold as this unlit
fireplace," the priest gestured behind him awkwardly, "but together
we will stay warm."

It’s
86 degrees out
, I thought.

"Sienna
Thomas was a caring, thoughtful, and ambitious woman. She had her sights set on
becoming a surgeon so she could help those among us that needed to be
healed," the priest said.

Quinn shifted from
one foot to the other. She refused to look at me, but I knew the greeting card
version of Sienna's life bothered her. Within days, her sister had sky-rocketed
into sugar-coated memories and ideal assumptions. Her real sister was fading
away.

"When her
life was tragically struck down by a drunk driver on her college campus, we all
felt a deep and abiding loss," the priest droned on.

Quinn stood up,
her pale face covered in shock. I took her hand and squeezed. If she said
something now, it would only ruin her. Sienna's memory was perfect, unmarred by
the truth. There was no way Quinn could change that without destroying herself.

"It’s not
right," she whispered to me.

"It’s easier
for your parents, for everyone," I told her.

"I was there.
I saw. Nothing's going to make that easier for me, especially not some lie that
blames someone else for her death," Quinn hissed.

I held her hand
harder. She had not given me many details on the phone. I certainly did not
know Quinn had seen Sienna's body before the coroner covered her. My mind
reeled the rest of the service.

I had no idea what
bothered me the most about Quinn seeing Sienna like that. The crowd of mourners
finally moved on through the dining room and into the backyard for
refreshments. I found myself alone with a few stranglers ringed around the edge
of the living room. I walked up to Sienna's open casket.

She looked perfect
– her make-up a little too thick and her lips a little too red, but perfect.

"Hey,
beautiful. Remember how a long time ago you asked me to tell you when you were
behaving rotten? I gotta call you out one last time. You knew someone was going
to find you. Either your roommate or your sister. What an awful thing to put on
someone else. You didn't think of that, did you? You probably had this whole
damned funeral planned down to the photographs and flowers. But you didn't
think for one second what you'd be doing to other people. She saw you, Sienna.
Like that. Makes me glad you're gone. You can't hurt me or Quinn anymore."

I stepped back and
swiped away the angry tears. Across the room, closer than she should have been,
Quinn stared at me wide-eyed. I swallowed hard and hoped she did not hear what
I had said.

#

It
was time to go. I turned
to make a break for the front door only to bump into a wall of former
classmates.

"Weird high
school reunion, huh?" Ben said. He had been the captain of the football
team. The same irritated estimation from our teenage years was in his eyes as
he looked me over. He still could not understand why Sienna chose me over him.

Ben was my height
with buzzed brown hair. His square jaw and cleft chin could have put him in
those mail order sweater catalogs. He'd gone on to college with a football
scholarship and had not changed one bit.

"What are you
up to these days?" he asked. "Is there a market for being too cool
for school?"

His cronies, a
trio of Ben knock-offs at various heights, laughed.

"I heard
you're still hanging out at arcades or something, right?" the first crony
asked.

"Something
like that," I said. I tried to step past them.

"You were
still with Sienna, weren't you?" Ben asked. "That is rough, man, just
rough. You doing okay?"

The actual
sincerity of his statement set me back a step. "I think I'm still in
shock."

"No kidding.
I could have imagined a dozen other people from our graduating class offing
themselves, but not her." Ben scrubbed his cleft chin. "I keep
thinking maybe it’s a joke. Like that time you swapped out the science dummies’
insides with lunch meat. Remember? You used food coloring to make the white
rats have bloody mouths so it looked like they'd turned zombie or
something?"