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when it came to furniture, except for the fact that there were musical instruments and books and other crap piled everywhere. Drum kit, standing bass, a ukulele on the coffee table. There were also a lot of empty cans and bottles and trash around. Like he’d had a party.
    He rubbed his head, messing his hair even further. “I wasn’t expecting you, or I would have cleaned up. I had a little session last night and haven’t had a chance to recover.”
    “Session?”
    “Music. I had some friends over and we played for a while. I had to get my mind off things.”
    He went to the kitchen and started pulling things out of the cabinet.
    “Coffee? I think I’ve got some cereal here somewhere, too.” He held a cup up to illustrate.
    “You don’t have to do that. Feed me and take care of me and everything. I just came to say that you were right and I don’t think we should see each other anymore. At least not like this. I’ll still have sex with you, but the talking and the soul-sharing and all that? I can’t do it anymore. I’ve got friends and a new therapist for that.”
    He paused, the cup in his hand.
    “Is that really what you want, Katie?”
    I hovered in the doorway. I couldn’t do this if I came all the way in and sat on the couch. I knew I wouldn’t want to get up again. “Why does it matter what I want? I’m only using you.”
    “If I really believed that, I wouldn’t be making you coffee right now when I’m horribly hung over.” He took a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch down from a cabinet and grabbed two bowls. I almost laughed at the silliness of this tatted-up, pierced guy eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
    “You need to get your head on straight, sweetheart. I get that. You need some time. I get that, too. I’m more than willing to have sex with you, no strings, if that’s what you want.”
    “Okay.”
    “Fine.” He poured cereal into both bowls and I unstuck my feet from the floor and went to the fridge to get the milk.

 
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
    Stryker
     
    Katie and I ate cereal and drank our coffee in almost total silence. I should have been pissed at her for not telling me she was coming over so I could have cleaned, but then I realized she wasn’t my girlfriend. I didn’t have to impress her so I stopped caring. Almost.
    She looked like shit, if I was being brutally honest. Her face was puffy and patterned with bluish marks and still-red scratches. She also hadn’t washed her hair and her nail polish was chipping. The girl who sat at my table and stared blankly at the wall was not the girl I’d seen in the pink dress that night at the party. This girl had “damaged goods” written all over her.
    “Thanks for breakfast,” she said, putting her bowl and cup in the sink. “I have to get back so Lottie and everyone can fuss over me and make sure I’m not going to slit my wrists like in some tragic TV drama.”
    “Slitting your wrists really isn’t an effective way to kill yourself. Too many things can go wrong. You’re better off shooting yourself or taking cyanide. Or being hit by a train,” I said, draining my coffee cup. It was going to take more than one cup to get me back in fighting shape again. I massaged my pounding forehead with one hand, wishing I had listened to my intuition last night.
    She froze and stared at me for a moment.
    “I wasn’t asking for tips, but thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. How the hell do you know that?” she said.
    I joined her at the sink with my dishes.
    “Morbid curiosity,” I said turning on the water and grabbing a sponge. Ouch, even that hurt.
    “Have you ever…”
    “Obviously not, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried. When I was seven I found a knife and tried to stab myself. Still have the scar.” I put the sponge down and lifted up my shirt, pointing to the thin white line on my stomach that marked my first, and least-successful, attempt. There had been others, but Trish had always thwarted those.
    She looked anywhere