“Yeah,” says Micah. “But a lot less than it used to be, and we have the Young Herons to thank for that. Everything they do is to get more wealthy people into SF. Which means hell for those who don’t have money coming out their ears.”
We get on the train, squishing between weary-eyed commuters. The train rocks, and my body tilts into Micah’s, but he doesn’t seem to mind. We hit Glen Park—one stop shy of ours—when he puts his hand on my wrist.
“Boars in the next car.”
“What?” I crane my neck and the tattoo stings. “What do we do?”
Micah’s eyes are fiery and still. “It’s probably coincidence. Just be on guard.” His tone is dark and unusual, like some beast in him has come alive. He takes out his phone and sends a text so quickly I wonder if he even typed anything.
“Jax?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Gathering my breath, I make my expression as passive as possible. The train stalls, and the conductor says something about maintenance on the track. Of all days. I do my best to focus on my breathing, and not on my crazy fast heartbeat or the fact that I’m batshit terrified.
Finally, we start moving again and the intercom garbles. “Balboa Park. Balboa Park station.”
“Don’t move until the doors open,” Micah says.
The train slows. Lifetimes pass. The doors open.
Micah pushes me forward, not bothering to apologize to the cyclist we bump into to get off. I shove my ticket in the turnstile and speed through the barrier. In a move I can’t decide is stupid or brave, I check behind us.
Three shark-eyed guys in gray-and-red sweatshirts trail us. I make eye contact with one of them, and he smirks. He stops short and pulls up his sleeve.
On his arm is a name written in red. Leo.
I lose all feeling.
Micah’s hand finds mine—his warm, mine icy—as he leads me out the west exit. A long concrete overpass connects to Ocean Avenue beyond and a man emerges from the shadows.
He is huge in every sense of the word. His brick-wall frame walks in the opposite direction, and it’s only as he passes us that I see the Stag tattoo covering half his skull.
We reach the end of the overpass, and Micah slows. I check over my shoulder again, but the Boars must have stayed in the station. A gentle mist settles onto both of our heads. Droplets collect on Micah’s hat. He lets go of my arm, and I wiggle my fingers to get the blood flow back.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Jaws, the last of our group. Are you okay?”
Blood pulses in my ears. I see rain. I see red. I see a little body and the lights of an ambulance. No siren.
“Valerie?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” I take a breath. “Did you see?”
“The name? Yeah.”
“It was my brother’s,” I say quietly.
“I know. They’re just trying to psych you out.”
“I know.”
“Did they?”
“Did they what?”
“Psych you out.”
“No.” I stare at the ground. My shoes are dark from where puddle water is soaking through. Bile rises in the back of my throat. “How would they even know about Leo?”
He gazes at me a long while. “People talk,” he says, but in a way that makes me believe he’s resigned to it rather than in favor.
Then—kindly, gently—he reaches around my hair and touches the pad of his finger to the plastic-wrapped tattoo. Then he turns and walks toward the street, so quickly you’d think I broke his heart.
4
Micah unlocks the door, and we’re blasted with a wave of heat and the smell of booze. On the couch, Mako leaps up and raises his hands over his head—touchdown.
“There she is!”
He gives me a hug and kisses my cheek. Drunk. Kate appears from around the hall. She’s in dark-wash jeans and a black sweater.
Come to think of it, Mako’s in all black, too.
“Val!” Kate shrieks. “Come here right now. Shots time.”
“Wait, what?” I ask as she drags me into the kitchen, hair swishing around her shoulders in old Hollywood waves—the girl really knows how to use a curling wand. “What are we celebrating?”
“You, obviously,” she replies.
In the kitchen, Nianna perches on the countertop, nursing a glass of red wine. Next to her, Jax picks up a shot glass of what I guess is vodka. He puts it in my hand.
“Initiation. Drink. Now.”
“What is this?”
“Drink of the gods.”
“Vodka is not the drink of the gods,” Nianna says, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t listen to her,” is Jax’s reply. “We drink.” The air between us crackles with daring—Jax is a permanent truth or dare. I pick dare.
Lifting the glass to him once, I down the shot. The vodka is ice-cold and horrible, but I finish it in one go. Jax claps and even Nianna looks pleased.
“Another,” he says. “Right now.”
Two drinks later, my stomach churns. I’ve had alcohol a few times before—Lyla’s sister, Zoe, let us tag along to a few parties—but I can already tell this’ll be different. No one’s going to be looking out for me or making sure I drink enough water here.
I wonder if Matthew is drinking tonight. If he is, it’s champagne and fine wine. My chest aches at the thought of him. Where would he get his tattoo?
My own ink makes me the center of attention for the next few minutes. While I hold the loose strands of my hair up, the Stags ooh and ahh.
“Oh, my gosh, it’s perfect!” Kate gushes. “Nianna, are you seeing this?”
“I’m seeing it,” she replies. “Nice job, Micah.”
Mako and Kate move on to flirting with each other in the corner while I lean back into the cool door of the refrigerator. I inhale a deli sandwich I find in the fridge, grateful to have something in my stomach.
Micah—who disappeared for a moment, only to return dressed head to toe in black—takes a place next to Jax. The latter claps a hand on his shoulder.
“So how was our little Valentine?” he asks.
“Really good, given the placement.”
Jax loves this answer. “Perfect. Fucking perfect!” He roars like an animal then pours another drink. Then another.
“Valentine.”
I look up. “That’s me?”
“Hell yeah, that’s you. This shot’s yours.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m good. I only just ate, so…”
He straightens and holds the glass out. “I thought we talked about this. One more. Then we go.”
“Where?”
“Drink first.”
Reluctantly, I do. My throat and stomach are both wildfires as I nod to Jax, who beckons me forward. As he gives me the finger, his hand lands close to my ass, which I try hard not to notice. At the door, Mako dares Kate to open what looks like a very broken umbrella.
“Don’t open that inside,” Jax snaps.
Kate mumbles an apology while Mako howls with laughter and says, “Told you he’d freak.” I hide my smile. Jax, the big tough leader—who would have thought he was superstitious?
The guy in question leads me out the door. Where Nianna—When did she get out here?—waits, a black backpack hanging off each of her shoulders. Smears of neon paint coat the sides and zippers.
“Right,” says Jax. “Standard procedure. Don’t be seen. Don’t get caught.”
“Let’s do it,” says Nianna. She tosses Mako one of the backpacks, and he catches it with ease. Whatever’s inside clinks—metal on metal. Jax and Micah follow Nianna. Mako lets out a whoop and slides his arm through mine.
“You’re with us, Valentine.”
“That’s so cute. Valentine,” Kate muses from around his other arm. Mako kisses the side of her head.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Nowhere,” says Mako. “Nowhere and everywhere and nowhere again.”
“What does that mean?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” he says. “Just follow me.”
The alcohol’s hit me, and I throw my hands up. “Okay, fuck it. Let’s just go.”
The mist settles on our clothes as we go, but I feel warm as ever. We walk for ten minutes, maybe fifteen—I have no idea—skipping at times and twirling at others. The streets are empty, but Mako keeps us out of the headlights of any cars and buses.
Kate stops and points at a wooden fence. It’s part of a church. “Babe, this,” she says. “Right here. Give.”
Mako squats and opens the backpack. Inside are cans of fluorescent spray paint. He picks up two—orange and pink—and gives them to Kate. Next, he unrolls a plastic stencil. With the glow from a nearby streetlight, I can just make out the shape of the Stag emblem. Kate takes the paint and faces the wall.
“Watch and learn,” Mako says. He touches the small of my back, and I flinch. He just laughs.
Kate’s arms fly across the boards of the fence, leaving streaks of color in their wake. She darts from her canvas to the backpack and back, grabbing at the cans and dropping others to the ground. Washes of color sweep over each other. Left to right. Right to left. The color erodes the dark wood into a sea of pastels that quivers with energy and passion.
She wipes her hands on her pants, adorning her thighs with neon jewels. She grabs the stencil and the last can of paint for three final sprays.
Kate backs away from her masterpiece and runs the back of her arm across her brow. Three Stag emblems stare at us, the navy-blue paint stark against the pastels. Smiling, she reaches up and runs her thumb against my cheek.
“For you,” she says. “Lovely.”
I motion for her to hand me one of the cans. “What is this?” I turn the thing over. The words chalk based stand out. “It doesn’t look like real spray paint.”
“It’s not,” Mako replies. “It’s discontinued because of how it runs. But Jax doesn’t like messing shit up for real. Says it makes us lazy. This way, we have to constantly refresh.”
My brain muddles through his words. The tags aren’t permanent, and that’s why I see fewer of them around. I teeter on my feet, the alcohol now swirling freely through my bloodstream.
We fly through the neighborhood, down Holloway and beyond. Mako keeps us clear of Ocean Avenue—“Too many people.” Instead, we steer up the hill and into the mist.
We color fences, telephone poles, MUNI stops. It feels wrong. It feels amazing, like we’re running the city, claiming it with each tag. We’re the Stags, and we are here, and this is our city. They let me do my own work, but I can’t get it right. Each one is just a sloppy imitation of what they create.
If Kate is the sea, Mako is the sky. Auroras explode from his hands. His strokes are jerkier but bold. Artistic. He lets me do the final stencil, and I pick the very edge to cover the least of it as possible. The paint smells, but not badly.
All our phones buzz at once. Kate doesn’t even check it before she stops short and turns around.
“Time to go home,” she says. “Holy shit, I have to pee.”
The rush disappears like the fog. What I really want to do is vomit. I can feel the alcohol in my eyes. I’ve only been drunk—what, like, twice before? I had the sandwich for dinner, but I’ve had a lot of liquids …
“Damn it, Kate,” I shout. “Now I have to pee, too.”
Mako—who relieved himself on a fence two streets over—doubles over in laughter. When he recovers, he slaps Kate’s ass and spins around the empty intersection, whooping.
“This a’way,” Mako says. “Back to Holloway House.”
“I like how you guys say that like it’s a real place,” I say as we stumble-walk down the hill. “Holloway House.”
“Well, there are other houses,” Kate says. “Like where you got your tattoo. There’s another one downtown on Beale Street. But we stay here more often than not. It’s the biggest.” She hustles ahead of Mako and me, cursing under her breath. “Fuck, I gotta pee.”
Neither Kate nor I make it to the house. Breathless with giggles, we each find a dark corner and squat. Mom would flip if she saw me doing this, I think. The guilt of leaving her swings back, and I have to force her from my mind.
Zipping up my jeans, I check my phone. Its weight is still unfamiliar in my hand—it’s a smaller model than my old one. Kate was right—the text message was from Jax. All it says is “H.” Whether that’s Holloway or home, I don’t know, but I don’t question.
We reach the house. Standing to the right of the door is the giant from the BART station: Jaws.
“Oh. Hullo,” I say. “I’m Valerie. It’s nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand. When he shakes it, I nearly laugh—his hand is twice the size of mine. He lets go, and I teeter backward, waiting for his reply.
“Oh, Jaws doesn’t talk much,” Kate says. She pats his cheek and he doesn’t so much as blink. “He keeps all of us extra safe.”
“Oh,” I say as she holds the door open for me. “Well, thanks. Jaws.”
He nods.
Inside, the air is stifling. The TV blasts bass-heavy rap, and the smell of weed winds its way through the halls.
“Valentine?” Jax is spread out on the couch again, a beer held idly in his hand. “Come ’ere.”
I plop down next to him, all twirly and out of breath. Whoa—who am I? I’ve never been this familiar with guys I’ve just met. Oh wow, this vodka is hitting me. What was I thinking? Oh. Yeah. I’ve never been that girl, whose legs guys run their hands up and down like Jax may or may not be doing now.
“Did you have fun?” Jax asks.
“Yeah.” I pull my leg away from him.
“Good. Hang on. Stand up for a second.”
He shifts his position, half-lifting me until I’m perched with my legs on either side of his hips. Jax says something.
“What?” I’m spinning. I’m ten thousand miles up.
“You shouldn’t crunch your neck,” he says. “Not with that tattoo. Micah will kill me.”
“Where is he?”
“He went to bed. Tattooing tires him out.” He slides a thumb under my shirt. I pull back again and this time Jax curls his fingers so he’s holding on to the end of the fabric. Keeping me there. My skin is hot, and so is his.
“We’ll get them,” he says quietly.
“Who?”
“The Boars.” Jax shifts again, still holding me as I try very hard to focus on his words and not the heat currently between my thighs. “I know you’re mad that I won’t tell you. But I promise, we’ll get the guy that shot your brother.”
Around us, the room’s quiet—and whether that’s because everyone else has gone to bed or the music has stopped or I’m going deaf, I don’t know. All I see and feel and hear is Jax.
“Sorry,” he says, noticing my look. “I just wanted you to know that I know it wasn’t right. There was no honor there, and for that we’ll get them back.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. That’s all we’re here for, V. Live fast, fight for what we want, then die and be remembered for all we did.”
“I’ll start by fighting,” I reply, the words an oath to myself and to him.
Here I am, in a strange house in a part of town I’m not familiar with, no family or friends around, and yet for the first time in two years, I’m actually feeling hope.
This is not how you planned it, Valerie, I think. But you’re where you wanted to be. In the Wars. Closer to finding the Boar.
Closer to being free.
5
I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. My cheeks are chilled, and I am in the same clothes I was wearing the night before. Was last night even real?
Sitting up, I grope for the glass of water I vaguely remember bringing downstairs and gulp down the dregs. Pale light from the windows illuminates the room and the smell of coffee drifts down from upstairs.
My pillowcase is dotted with blood and ink. Micah said that would happen. I touch my fingers to the back of my neck, driftin
g over the ridges of ink and scar tissue. It was real, all of it.
Day one of the Wars, done. I flop back onto the bed, stomach sloshing. Oh man. I do not feel good. My mind wanders as I try to motivate myself to get up.
I wonder if anyone else I know was recruited. I didn’t have that many friends besides Lyla and Matthew, but I had some. Kids from elementary and middle school. I have a sudden vision of myself pointing a gun at an old classmate or a friend of a friend and the thought makes me shudder.
I finally drag myself out of bed and upstairs. I quickly pee, wash my face, and then go to the kitchen. Nianna’s already up, running a sponge in and around a shot glass.
“Morning,” I say.
“Good morning, newbie.” She gives me a quick nod and motions to the coffeemaker beside her. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I do, thanks.”
I find a cup and pour a generous portion. Some of my friends hate coffee, but I love how it pairs with baked goods. Plus, there’s the caffeine—I swear I wouldn’t have been able to function at school the past two years without coffee to mask the effects of all those sleepless, nightmare-ridden nights.
I open the fridge to look for creamer. Even after yesterday’s feeding frenzy at breakfast, the fridge is fully stocked. Inside is a hodgepodge of brands and items, all haphazardly stuffed into the drawers.
“This is a lot of food,” I say casually, taking what I need from the door.
“We support the mom-and-pop shops around here as much as we can,” Nianna replies. “Even if that means buying more than we need.”
“Oh, I see.” Okay, it’s a little wasteful, but at least they’re supporting local businesses.
We fall into an awkward silence—me sipping coffee, her washing dishes. I wonder if she’s taking her time just so she doesn’t have to look at me. I clear my throat.
“So, are you always up so early?”
She nods. “I try and do yoga every morning.”
“That’s awesome,” I say. “And really impressive.”
“Helps me focus,” she says.
“Yeah, I imagine.” Okay, so maybe Nianna isn’t so bad. Might as well try to keep talking. “So, Kate and Mako are obviously dating. Did they know each other before the Wars?”
A Thousand Fires Page 5
