You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

  I lean back in my chair, sprawled and relaxed as Violet. “Fight good.”

  He laughs once, edgy and quick, then departs.

  Announcer guy enters the ring. Tonight his suit is baby blue, and he has a fedora.

  “Aaand ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our first fight of the evening. Give it up for Dodging Jack and the Razor!”

  Two guys dance into the ring. They’re about my age, but I don’t know them.

  They grapple and gnaw at each other, fists against flesh, but there’s none of that poetic artistry I noticed right away with Valentine. I suppose that’s not surprising. They can’t all be classically trained dancers turned super MMA fighting machines.

  The night drags on. My eyes twitch to the door so often it turns into a permanent tic. I’m all wound up with nowhere to direct my energy.

  Until the fourth fight, when the congressman arrives.

  Electricity crackles over my skin. He’s here. He’s really here. All those doubts about whether Dorsey was really involved or it was just my own biased paranoia vanish, because he’s here.

  Valentine told the truth—he wasn’t playing me.

  Dorsey looks the same as he did at Ava’s memorial, with the shiny helmet of thick, dark hair and a perfectly tailored suit. He casts a careful look around, but no one besides me notices him.

  He takes an empty table near the wall. It’s deep in the shadows, but I can still see my mark well enough in my peripherals.

  “And now it’s time for our fan favorite: the one, the only VEEETEEEEEEE!”

  My idiot jogs into the ring, silk robe fluttering behind him as he shadowboxes for the crowd.

  Valentine’s eyes meet mine as he goes to his corner. He glances Dorsey’s way, and I give him a reassuring nod. I’ll behave myself. A little of the tension leaves his shoulders.

  One corner of his mouth tugs up, and mine does the same of its own accord.

  How is it that he elicits this completely out-of-control reaction from me?

  Valentine’s eyes fall closed. He rolls his neck and shoulders. Sucks in a deep breath through his nose.

  His eyes open, still locked on mine, but they’re darker now. Hungry.

  I recross my legs.

  The bell rings.

  Valentine’s opponent is a bit closer to his weight class than last time, but the guy still looks like ’roid rage personified. I check back in with Dorsey. The chair opposite him is still empty.

  Now that Valentine’s told me about his tragic career as a dancer, I can see it even more clearly in his moves. He leaps through the air, and his face is cast in the dim glow of the ring lights. His words from the park echo back to me.

  That feeling of leaping onstage. Exultation.

  He lands a savage one-two combo to the other guy’s jaw.

  Dorsey’s on his phone. He has one hand pressed to his ear to drown out the violent soundtrack of the club.

  The crowd hisses, and my eyes snap back to the stage. Valentine is on the ground. His opponent bashes his fist into Valentine’s cheek, once, twice, three times. My stomach turns over. Blood coats the guy’s knuckles. Valentine springs back to his feet. The other guy barely has time to turn his head before he’s down on the ground.

  The bell dings, and Valentine’s eyes meet mine. His tongue darts out to swipe a trickle of blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. I grit my teeth against a racking full-body shiver.

  Shouts and cheers. Valentine exits without looking my way again.

  I check back in with Dorsey. He’s scrolling through his phone. The light of the screen gives his face a sickly alien glow.

  On the other side of the ring, movement in the crowd snares my attention. The next match hasn’t started yet, but there’s a cluster of people screaming and jeering like a fight is about to break out. I squint against the bright glare of the lights, and with a flash of horror I realize I’m staring at Paige Thomas.

  A small but very angry mob is forming around her. One guy shoves her. Paige winces as he jostles her broken arm, but she stands her ground.

  What does she think she’s doing? Showing up at school to prove you’re not scared is one thing, but she shouldn’t have come here. She’s going to get killed.

  A vicious wave ripples through the crowd, gaining momentum. Paige looks so small in this ocean of seething hatred. Someone throws their drink in her face. Little droplets trickle across her ghastly bruises, but she barely blinks.

  I’m trying to keep one eye on Dorsey, but I’m half out of my seat. Could I get to her before she’s torn apart? The crowd begins to part around her, and I spot a big guy dressed in all black, speaking into a walkie-talkie. Security. He wraps an arm around Paige’s shoulders and attempts to escort her out, but she’s had enough. She shakes the security guy off and pushes her way through the crowd on her own, back toward the exit. Another asshole tries to shove her as she passes, but she stomps on his foot.

  The security guard watches her all the way out the door. Once she’s gone, he shakes his head and melts back into the shadows at the perimeter. The crowd merges back together, all hostility forgotten as the next fight begins in the ring. I ease back into my seat.

  In the corner of my eye, I see someone approaching Dorsey’s table. This new man is also wearing a suit. An expensive one with sharp, crisp lines. He’s in his thirties. Clean-shaven. He looks like your basic Wall Street type, which means he is very, very out of place here.

  Wall Street unbuttons his suit jacket and sits. His expression is cordial, like they’re meeting over coffee. In the ring, a new fight starts, but I barely notice.

  Dorsey and his friend are deep in conversation, but I can’t hear a thing. Something happens in the ring that makes the crowd screech and howl. I guess that’s the point of meeting in a place like this.

  Dorsey stands and adjusts his suit. Wall Street does the same.

  Panic seizes me. They’re leaving, and I haven’t learned anything at all.

  The two of them walk toward the back entrance.

  I look around. Valentine is nowhere to be seen.

  I promised him I would stay put.

  For a second, Dorsey is illuminated in the light of the hall, and then he disappears. The door swings closed.

  Valentine hasn’t been totally straight with me, though. Twice now I’ve found out he was lying. Even tonight, I don’t think he gave me the full truth. Am I really going to miss out on a lead for him?

  I stand up. Conscious that Valentine has people looking out for me, I slink out the back door and shut it carefully. Dorsey and Wall Street are walking away. They don’t notice me as they round the corner, out of sight. The echo of the empty tunnel distorts their words.

  I edge along the wall, mindful of how I place my feet. The voices sharpen.

  “—can’t believe you wanted to meet here, of all places,” Dorsey says.

  “I didn’t want us to be overheard.”

  “Still. The optics aren’t great. If anyone recognized me—”

  “Relax, no one was paying attention.”

  Dorsey lets out a brief chuckle. “Yes. Whoever runs this place certainly has a knack for show business.”

  Their voices fade again. They’re on the move. I creep closer to the corner. Any farther and my shadow will be visible.

  “So when can I expect deliverables?” Dorsey asks.

  “Soon, now that we’ve removed certain obstacles. Very soon.”

  My heart kicks into high gear. I’m a child playing hide-and-seek, while two men casually discuss murder a few feet away. One of them could turn around at any moment, and I wouldn’t have time to make it back inside unnoticed.

  “That is excellent news,” Dorsey says.

  The grinding sound of a metal door opening, then a slam as it closes. The hall is silent.

  I already broke my promise. Might as well go all the way.

  I race down the hall after them. Up the stairs on light, quiet feet. Out the door and into the parking lot.

&nbs
p; No one’s there.

  I spin around, but Dorsey and his friend have vanished.

  It’s that stupid promise I made. If I hadn’t sat there dithering over it, I might have gotten something real from Dorsey’s conversation.

  “Aw, now, don’t be disappointed,” a voice slithers out of the shadows. “We can always keep you company.”

  Three men approach me. If we were in a movie, these guys would be listed in the credits as Bad Dudes One, Two, and Three. Bad Dude Two cracks his knuckles. It could almost be comical, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight to attention.

  My eyes flick from one to the next, trying to catalog details in the dim light in case I need to make a police report. Three white guys, maybe in their twenties. One of them is wearing a yellow hoodie. Another has acne scars.

  I take a tiny step backward.

  One of the guys takes a step to my left, blocking me in. “Where you going, sweetheart?” He looks me up and down but doesn’t come any closer. For now.

  My Taser is tucked in my jacket pocket. Am I fast enough to reach for it before they make a move? There are three of them. I can’t keep my eyes on all three at once.

  Sprinting footsteps behind me. “Cherry!” Relief floods through me.

  I keep my eyes on our enemies as Valentine jogs up behind me.

  “Thought I told you to stay put,” he mutters.

  “Got distracted.”

  The three men close in. Valentine and I step closer together. We’re still outnumbered.

  “Cherry”—Valentine’s voice is low and even, as though we’ve stumbled upon a pack of gorillas—“get in the car.”

  In slow motion, he reaches over and hands me his keys. Everyone’s eyes track the movement. My hands tremble as I take them.

  Acne Scars takes another step closer. He and his friends exchange grins.

  “Red,” Valentine says again, this time more urgently. “The car.”

  It’s parked four spaces away. I raise my chin, steel my spine, and take a step toward the car.

  The world erupts.

  Valentine darts in front of me, and the men fall in around him. He fights to kill—none of the showy moves from earlier. He lays one guy out flat, but another one gets his hands around Valentine’s throat from behind.

  Valentine wheels on him and catches sight of me. “Red, move!”

  I remember myself and reach for the car door.

  Someone grabs me from behind and spins me around. A metallic shwing sound, and then there’s a knife inches from my eye. The man leans in close. His breath is warm on my skin. He traces the blade in the air over my face. Choosing where to start.

  “Wanted to get you alone,” he murmurs like a lover. “I know you’ve been a nosy girl.”

  I knee him in the balls as hard as I can.

  He doubles over but doesn’t let go. His fingers bruise my arm. “You fucking bitch. Think you’re so fucking cute,” he pants. Presses the knife to my cheek. “Let’s just see.”

  The knife goes in. I cry out. Blood trickles warm down my cheek and over my lips. It tastes like panic.

  The guy is ripped away from me. His knife clatters to the ground, the sound a dull, slow-motion echo. Valentine drags the man to the asphalt. He punches him in the face again, and again, and again.

  “I. Said,” he screams in time with his punches. “Get. In. The. Fucking. Car.”

  I climb in the passenger side, scrambling over the console to reach the driver’s seat. My hands shake, and I drop the keys on the floor, but I finally manage to start the car.

  Valentine is still busy pummeling the guy into a red slick.

  “VT, come on!” I yell out the window.

  “You go!” His fists don’t stop.

  “Not without you!” I yell back. One of the other men peels himself off the pavement. Valentine doesn’t see him.

  I fumble in my jacket pocket and pull out the Taser. I grip it with both hands and aim it out the car window. Two wires unspool in front of me, flying through the air and latching into the back of the man’s bright yellow sweatshirt.

  He goes rigid as a plank as fifty thousand volts surge through his body. He teeters and goes down hard.

  The sound of the man hitting the pavement finally penetrates Valentine’s bubble. He hurls himself into the car, half slumped over with one hand pressed to his side.

  Blood trickles through his knuckles. “Drive!”

  I slam on the gas, and the car screams out of the parking lot. I don’t even make it to the driveway, just thud over the curb. The impact makes Valentine hunch over with a gasp. I have no idea how bad that wound under his hand is, but blood blooms across his white T-shirt like ink.

  “You alive?” I glance sideways. He’s not holding himself up too well.

  “Peachy,” he spits.

  “Did you know those guys?”

  “Seen ’em around. Never did anything to piss them off, though.”

  My cheek itches as the blood dries to a crust. “It’s me. This is Dorsey’s message.”

  “Smart girl.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Really not in the mood for sarcasm while I’m driving our getaway car.”

  He snipes back, “I’m pissed at myself. I left you alone. Should have known you would pull some stupid stunt like this. Turn left.”

  God, he knows how to make me furious. His shirt is half red by now, and it’s my fault he’s hurt, but it kills me to hear him say stuff like that. Like I’m some naive kid in over my head.

  I take the turn a little too aggressively. Valentine slides into the side of the car and groans.

  “You know who I am. What I do,” I say. “How can you call me reckless when you get yourself beaten half to death every week?”

  His voice is wheezy with pain, but no less vicious. “These people are dangerous, Red. You hear me? They are criminals. Murderers. You pulled some amateur, wannabe Nancy Drew shit, and it nearly got us both killed. If we’re doing this together, no more mistakes like that. I trust you. You trust me.”

  “Fine!”

  “Then it’s been a learning experience for us all. Turn right up here.” He flops back against the seat, breathing hard and watching me through half-lidded eyes. “You’re bleeding.”

  “So are you,” I bite out.

  “Yeah, but I bleed all the time. It’s practically my job.”

  I adjust my grip on the steering wheel. “I’ll be okay. Just a scratch.”

  “That bastard nearly sliced your face off.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Right up ahead.” He takes a few more panting breaths. “You always this brave?”

  “Brave. Stupid. Crazy bitch. I get called a lot of names.”

  “No. You’re perfect,” he murmurs. Two seconds ago he was yelling at me, and now he thinks he can say stuff like that?

  “You’re suffering from blood loss,” I tell him. He laughs, but it turns into another groan.

  We pull up in front of Valentine’s building. He takes the four flights of stairs to his place slowly, wincing all the way, but refuses to lean on me when I offer.

  With a jingle of keys, Valentine ushers me into his apartment. His kitchen table has one chair. I’m positive he found his living room couch on the street.

  Valentine throws his keys on the couch. “Bathroom’s this way.” He limps down the hall with one hand still pressed to his side.

  I follow. There are no pictures on the walls. You’d think maybe at least one of the sister, but it’s like a ghost lives here.

  In the bathroom, Valentine pulls his bloody shirt over his head. My face heats, and I look at my feet. He’s still bleeding, but he’s also very close to me, and this bathroom is very small, and he’s not wearing a lot of clothes. His tile could use a good scrub.

  “Wash your face,” he says.

  I force myself to look in the mirror. A two-inch slash below my left eye. I am detached. Clinical. I probe the cut gingerly with one finger. It’s not that deep—it just
bled a lot. I’m okay.

  Cass’s dark, glitzy eye shadow looks particularly gruesome with all the blood. Some of it has crusted in my hair. Nothing to be done about that until I shower. I fish my lockpicking bobby pin out of my back pocket, bend it back into shape, and twist my hair up in a bun. My eyes keep dragging back to the cut. It’s hard not to look at. It’s not huge, but it swallows my entire face. It throbs. I can still feel that man’s bruising grip on my shoulder, the tearing of my own skin as the knife sank in.

  Turn on the faucet. Focus on the task. I cup water in my palms and dab it over my cheek. It stings, but the bleeding has stopped. With the dried bits cleared away, it’s not so bad. All it needs is a bandage and an explanation for my grandfather. That thought makes me want to never go home again.

  Behind me in the mirror, Valentine turns on the tub and grabs a washcloth. I take one last look at my face. I’m still a wreck, but I’ll be okay for now.

  My voice is hoarse. “Hey, let me.”

  He hands me the washcloth without a word.

  “Sit,” I tell him.

  He hoists himself up on the sink, jaw clenched and forearms trembling slightly with the effort. He’s in pain, a lot of it. Because of me.

  He inhales sharply through his nose when I pass the washcloth over the long, deep cut. It’s much worse than mine.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Knife,” he says. I bite back the duh that’s fighting to escape my mouth. He is hurt, after all. Guilt twists in my throat. I gently wipe the blood from his skin.

  “You need stitches,” I say eventually. “Give me back your keys. I’ll drive us to the hospital.”

  “Under the sink,” he grunts, eyes closed.

  Confused, I crouch down and open the cabinet in question. Inside, there’s a bottle of whiskey and a neat stack of hospital suture kits.

  I rock back hard on my heels. “No. Absolutely, emphatically not.”

  He gives me a teasing pout, but it’s undercut by the bloodlessness of his face. “Where’s that brave girl from earlier?”

  I don’t budge.

  Valentine rubs a hand over his eyes, dropping the act. “Listen. This fucking hurts. I don’t have the cash to pay for a hospital visit, and you don’t want doctors asking inconvenient questions or waking up your parents. Truth is, Cherry, you messed up tonight. You gonna take care of me, or leave me to bleed out in my own bathroom?”