by Abigail Boyd
TORN ASUNDER
Part 1
by Abigail Boyd
Copyright ©2013 Abigail Boyd
http://abigailboyd.blogspot.com/
http://www.boydbooks.com
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author, except for use in review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
FRIDAY NIGHTS ARE the worst, but at least they keep me busy. I have to keep busy if I have any hope of soothing this itch that’s becoming harder to ignore. I’ve lived in five states in the last three years, and part of me doesn’t feel like staying in one place is natural.
I take a minute to acclimate myself to the busy dining room and then I’m filling drinks and taking orders. I throw myself into work so that I don’t think about how easy it would be to get out of here and head someplace else. Usually, I don’t think like this, but lately my comfort has been replaced by boredom.
As usual for the weekend, everyone in the city of Ocela has decided that Lucky’s Grill is the place to be tonight. Two birthday parties are going on simultaneously and they are both my tables. One is for preschoolers who are using the booths as trampolines, the other comprised of girls my age who are celebrating their legal introductions to getting drunk. I can’t tell which table is more mature as I scribble down their orders.
I go into the kitchen and begin to type my tickets into the computer. It’s just as busy back here, hot and steamy from the grills, and the cooks are having a blast loudly tossing dirty jokes back and forth.
“So the girl whines, ‘Alcohol is bad for my legs,’ one of them says. “‘Why, do they swell?’ asks the guy.”
“No, they spread,” I mouth as he says the punchline. It’s just as unfunny as the first time I heard it, and the second. I wiggle my shoulders as my hot uniform starts to itch.
My friend and coworker, Quinn Foster, sweeps over to me. “Are we still on for tonight?” In one hand is a cup of coffee for me, which I accept gratefully, and with the other she’s balancing dishes on a tray. I still haven’t mastered that one.
“Of course,” I say. “I will be happy to dance my pants off when this shift is over.” I take a sip of the hot coffee and smile at her.
Quinn has been my friend and confidant since I moved to Ocela. I’ve never seen someone who looks so glamorous and like a rock star in real life, with her white-blond hair, crimson lips, and black eye liner. On anyone else it might look trashy, but she always pulls it off, and she exudes an effortless energy that makes me adore her.
“Great.” She smiles at me. “I need to get moving or Russell is going to bite my ass off. Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”
“Nope, you’re clear.”
She bobs her head and hikes up her skirt, then struts back out. I peek through the door and see her table, filled with rowdy guys, each at least on their third beer. I shake my head, grinning at her commitment, as I finish typing in my orders.
Russell is the store manager, a nitpicking jerk and the only thing I really dislike about this job. The owner is his uncle so he feels like he can do whatever he wants.
I glance at my reflection quickly in the door to the fridge as steam makes my hair curl. My brown eyes are wide as the welcome caffeine starts fizzing through my system. I finish the coffee off and toss it in the trash, silently thanking Quinn again for bringing it to me. Another problem with Fridays—I don’t get much of chance to stop moving.
“Can I get your help over here?” one of the cooks, Tom, calls to me as I’m preparing to head back out. I let go of the door and go over to where he’s standing next to the back stove.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I can’t stand this anymore,” he says. “The burners are going out again. I can’t get them to stay lit.” He’s boyish and skinny with a crooked nose and kind eyes, and he seems to be one of the few cooks that respects the waitresses. He demonstrates the problem by turning the dial, and the ignitor clicks, but no flame comes out.
He raises his eyebrows at me dramatically. “You fixed it before, do you think you could try again?” He flashes a pleading grin at me, then pouts his lip out. “You have the magic touch. I have the clumsy touch that breaks things.”
I roll my eyes as I smile and kneel down in front of the stove. “Enough with the flattery.” I study the burners, twisting each of the four dials. Two are working, but two are out, and on a night like tonight, that can’t happen. “This place is falling apart. Russell really needs to hire a repairman.” I look back up at Tom from my crouched position. “Can you go get me some matches from the emergency kit?”
It’s just an excuse to get him out of there, and he jogs off towards the back room. I make sure that none of the other cooks or anyone else is paying attention to me, and turn to the burner again. I don’t know much about appliances, other than what a relatively short life spent going from place to place and taking care of myself has taught me.
I twist the dial and listen to the click, waiting for the scent of the gas. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes and picture an orange flame in my mind. I imagine the flame growing, burning brighter, and heat fills the inside of my head. I exhale sharply and the hot sensation burns across my lips, and the burners catch and fire glows around them. I put my hands on my knees and hop back up to my feet.
Tom returns, clutching a box of matches in one hand and a lighter in the other. He stares at the burner in amazement, his mouth agape as his eyebrows shoot up.
“How did you do that? That’s amazing.” Tom hits one of the other cooks on the shoulder, who turns his head, and Tom points at me. “I’m telling you, man, this girl is magic.”
I just laugh. “Whatever you say.”
CHAPTER 2
AFTER WORK, QUINN drives me back to my apartment so we can get ready to go out. We usually choose my place to get ready, or more accurately, Quinn always suggests it, since I have a huge vanity mirror and abundant bathroom counter space. I like the apartment because it’s jogging distance to work, and was the nicest one for its price in this part of the city.
I moved to Ocela a little over a year ago, and only recently realized that this is the longest I’ve lived in one place. At least, that I can remember. It’s a good city, pretty safe in my area, but already my mind is betraying me and whispering that there’s so much more out there in the world.
“You’ve been gone all night. Are you coming back to Earth soon, spacey?” Quinn asks as she brings her makeup case and a duffel containing her clothes and chucks them on my bed.
“I’ve just been thinking.”
“Well, stop being all deep and thoughtful.” She unzips the duffel and rifles through its contents. “Tonight is the night to get stupid.”
I pull the elastic from my ponytail and shake my brown hair out. “I think you’re right.”
“I’m always right. Except for when I’m wrong, but
luckily that doesn’t happen too often.” She winks at me, and holds up a black, asymmetrical shirt to her chest. With a scoff, she fingers a hole in the shoulder.
“I really need to stop shopping at crappy stores with numbers in their names,” she sighs. She makes a free throw for the wastebasket and goes to my closet, where I’m searching through for an outfit. I pull out a shimmery gold top and a black miniskirt, and hold the hangers together to see how they match up.
“Nice,” she says with approval and holds up both red-nailed thumbs. She spends the next few minutes combing through my closet for an outfit of her own.
“You know, the apartment across from mine is for rent now,” I inform her. “You could have your very own big closet and not have to store your clothes on your bookshelves in your living room.”
“The polka music people finally moved out?” she asks, and I nod. She bumps fists with me. “Sweet. I hope it stays available until my lease it up, I might take you up on that offer.”
We jump to the bathroom and stand shoulder to shoulder, looking at ourselves in the big vanity mirror. My dark eyes and hair contrast with her blue eyed, blonde babe look. I usually go for a plainer style, but it’s also fun to play dress up.
“You’re like the generous, well-dressed sister I never had,” Quinn beams, wearing a pink and black minidress from the back of my closet. She rests her cheek on my shoulder.
I gather my hair together and bunch it on my head. “Up or down?”
She scrunches her nose. “Down.”
I let the strands fall around my shoulders. “You wouldn’t have wanted me as a sister. I’m a cover hog and I always eat all the cookies.”
We busy ourselves putting on makeup and fixing our hair. I scrub my face clean and reapply foundation, concealer, and eye shadow.
“I think Tom was hitting on me. I fixed the stove burner for him again and afterward he was talking about his plans to go on a camping trip next weekend,” I report.
Quinn smirks at me, fluffing the hint of dark hair at her roots as she sprays it with a shot of hairspray. “Too bad he looks like he’s fourteen.”
“He’s sweet.” It’s true.
“Sweet doesn’t cut it,” she says bluntly. That’s also true.
“By the way, just as a warning, I’m thinking of trying an experiment at work,” she continues.
“What kind of experiment? Should I be afraid?”
She laughs and starts using my hair curler to curl the ends of her hair, the sizzling sound echoing loud. “I read a blog post where a girl tried coming to work with different levels of makeup on, testing out her customers to see if it affected their tips. And it definitely did, so I’m going to check out what my tips are like with no makeup, full makeup, and then that natural look where you’re still wearing like ten different products.”
“Do you get credit for this at school?”
People like to think Quinn is a ditz because she’s blonde and skinny and trendy, but she’s acutely aware of their thoughts and takes pleasure in defying their expectations. She’s attending the local college and majoring in sociology, and she’s at the top of her class.
“I thought it could be.”
I lean forward again to check to make sure I don’t have any smudges, my face right below the round, bright lights. I swipe my finger across the side of my cheek.
“The way the light is hitting your eyes right now really brings out that silver color,” Quinn notes. I stop with one finger over my eye, staring. She’s right—the silver ring in the center of each of my eyes is almost glowing. I blink a few times, watching my pupils change size.
I’ve always had this bit of silver discoloration, but it doesn’t affect my sight. No one ever believes that I don’t wear contacts, even Quinn. I originally had to poke my eye twice to prove it to her, whereupon she almost yakked all over me for poking myself in the eye. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like mine, and I don’t really like it when people point it out.
I start to put my makeup away and the subject is dropped, and for that I’m grateful.
“I think tonight is the night to find a guy,” Quinn declares, clapping her hands together.
“You always find a guy,” I say. “Not judging, it’s impressive.”
“I don’t mean for me. I mean for you to hook up with.”
I look at her sideways. “Oh, really?”
She turns and leans back against the sink, frowning sympathetically at me. “Remy, I’ve known you for over a year. I’ve only seen you kiss one guy, and you’ve only had a handful of attempted dates.”
“Quinn, I know.”
Ever since I moved here, she’s felt the need to force dating. I know it’s because she cares, but I don’t know how to explain my lack of interest to her. It’s not like I’m antisocial—we go out to clubs and party all the time. I’m just not interested in trying to connect to someone, even if it’s just for one night.
“I’m just enjoying being single right now,” I continue. “No body hair on the towels, no dirty dishes left in the sink. And I just like to go dancing by myself.”
“You could do that in your shower.”
“I already do.”
She’s not giving up that easy, and keeps talking as we move out of the bathroom. “I’m not talking about a relationship. You know I don’t do the relationship thing. No commitment required. I’m telling you, you could have a lot of fun, there are some seriously fine guys in Ocela.” She spins around and grasps me by the forearms, looking serious. Her misplaced good intentions shine in her eyes. “I just want you to be able to let loose.”
“It’s not that bad.” I feel defensive and I pull my arms back to my chest.
“I don’t mean to upset you. You know I love you. It’s just, I can tell you’re lonely. You don’t talk about it, but I can see it. So let’s just do this. I’ll make it worth your while.” She clasps her hands together, as if to beg me. “You haven’t touched a guy, to my knowledge, in months. And if it did happen, I better have found out.”
“You know, I feel like a loser now,” I say, although I know that wasn’t her intention.
She looks appropriately horrified, waving her hands. “Don’t say that. You’re not a loser at all. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, you are the coolest chick I’ve ever met. I want other people to know that.”
“I’m not worried about the state of my love life, Quinn.”
“It’s not even your love life. We just need to give you a spark of penis appreciation.”
She makes her finger do a silly wiggle to accentuate her words. That gets a laugh out of me. It’s not that I don’t enjoy flirting and making out and physical attention. But it just doesn’t feel like enough. There’s always something missing in the lips and the hands of the person I’m kissing. I don’t get what the big deal is, and after years of trying to figure it out, I’m close to giving up.
As if reading my thoughts, Quinn says, “You expect too much. There aren’t always fireworks.”
“If there aren’t fireworks, what’s the point?”
“To enjoy yourself,” Quinn says, and we switch off the lights as we join the night.
CHAPTER THREE
I’M NOT GOING to be twenty-one for several more months, but I have a pretty good fake ID. We club hop throughout Ocela, avoiding the trashier district. Every club is packed, but our luck is on tonight and we don’t have to wait more than ten minutes to get in anywhere. Quinn’s brought her rhinestone flask with her and we take sips out of it—Jim Beam, not my favorite—as we’re waiting.
To my embarrassment, she lets guys at the first two clubs know that I’m up for grabs. I dance with a few of them, enjoying myself, but there’s no one who sparks my interest in particular. Quinn is definitely right about the saturation of hot guys, though—I see quite a few college guys who must spend all their free time in a gym. At the second bar, two guys with roving hands buy us drinks, and after Quinn’s second Long Island she’s well on her way to getting hammered
.
“What do you think, should we continue to the Longhorn?” I ask as we’re walking down the street, stumbling in our heels. It’s starting to get chilly as the night progresses, so we huddle together.
“Let’s go.”
In a few minutes we arrive at the Longhorn. There are a lot of people outside smoking, but there doesn’t seem to be a line. She’s carrying her stilettos by the strap in one hand. The bouncer knows us, so he doesn’t check our IDs.
Quinn bums a cigarette off of one of the guy’s standing around and he lights it for her, cupping his hand around the end.
“I thought you were going to give that up,” I lecture.
“I did give it up,” she protests, and exhales a fume of gray smoke into the chilly air. The summer is not to the point where the nights are warm yet. “I just take it back up for occasions such as these.”
“I could get you an ashtray to lick instead,” I offer.
“Smoker’s mouths do not actually taste like ashtrays,” she challenges. Then she tosses the cigarette to the ground where I stub it out with my shoe. To demonstrate her point, she grabs the guy who loaned the cigarette to her and sloppily kisses him.
“Okay, well most of the time they don’t,” she corrects, then laughs as she pulls me into the bar as he stares at her.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“Oh, come on, he looked reasonably clean.”
I shake my head at her. “Is that the kind of guy I should be looking for? Reasonably clean?”
A man turns his head as we pass and checks out my ass.
“Like what you see?” Quinn asks and I laugh as we go in. I know how my ass looks in this particular skirt, that’s why I’m wearing it.
The Longhorn is a combination bar and club with a Texas theme, despite Ocela being solidly in the Midwest. Peanut shells are scattered on the floor, cow skulls hang on the wall, and the employees wear cowboy hats and boots. But most people are normally dressed and there’s usually a good crowd here. It’s our go to place when we go out, and at least they play the usual top 40 hits and not techno country.
