1.1 The Chronicles of Us - Vice & Virtue

Chapter forty-two

With trembling fingers, I open the front door and hurry inside the apartment. "Tex! Are you here?"

Nothing but silence greets me.

I frantically check all the rooms. Again, nothing. He's not home. Should I call Axel or Joey? Or maybe Roy? Perhaps it's best to wait for a while. I have a feeling Tex wouldn't want me to speak about what just happened and I won't be able to do a casual inquiry.

Completely rattled, I sit on the edge of the couch. I don't fully remember getting home. I know I took a bus and metro but I was so distraught, I missed my stop. At least two hours have gone by since he left. My many calls went straight to voicemail.

Where can I find him? Los Angeles is enormous. It wouldn't be difficult to disappear in the faceless crowd. What if he fled the state? Would he actually leave without an explanation?

My heart has trouble doing its job properly. Maybe it's still there, scattered across Hollywood Boulevard.

Keep breathing.

One thing I know for sure, him being a stone-cold killer is simply not possible. Tex is far too sweet and sensitive to be that kind of culprit.

Three more hours later, my patience is rewarded. The front door swings open and Tex stumbles in. I run to him, keeping a little distance. His demeanor demands that.

His appearance breaks my heart. The bloodshot eyes and stench of alcohol must be due to some seriously disturbing memories.

"You're still here," he says, slurring slightly.

It's not a question, but a cold observation. It sends an icy shiver down my spine. "Of course, where else would I be?"

"You need to go home." His blank face scares me more than the accusation of murder.

My bottom lip trembles. "I am home."

Intense pain flashes in his eyes and then he snaps. "Stop fucking around! You need to go back to Faroaks. Today." He marches into the bedroom and starts ripping all my clothes from the closet, throwing them in a pile on the bed.

He shakes me off when I follow him and grab his arm. "Please! Explain to me what happened."

"No! I warned you I'm too fucked up. I told you I can't do this. It's over. You gotta leave."

Please, please, don't make me go.

"Tell me, then. Let me in."

Even though he stopped throwing my clothes around, he's still unyielding in his anger, or rather, fear. "I don't want to let you in. I don't want you to know me. It's better for all parties involved if we end this now. Get on a plane and leave with the idea that I'm a good guy 'cause I'm not."

His face is so pale and pained, it breaks me entirely. When I reach for his hand, he steps back and then leaves the bedroom. I follow him again. Into the kitchen, this time. Much to my dismay, he starts clearing out the cabinets by tossing all my Pop-Tarts on the counter.

I cling to his arm and force him to stop. "You are a good guy! You are the best. Nothing you've done will make me love you less."

His head goes from left to right, frantically. "You're blinded by it. You're not thinking clearly."

I grab his face and make him look me in the eyes. "Don't devalue my feelings and opinions. You have no right to do so. If you want to break up with me, break up with me, but don't force me to go because you're scared. I'm brave enough for the both of us."

I don't know if it was the tone of my voice or the words I spoke, but his breathing calms. Though the frenzy is over, he's not in a better place exactly.