by Katie May
Because even after all of these years, you still—
I shut that thought down quickly. No, not just shut it down. I close all the doors, flip off the lights, switch the sign from open to closed, and then scream at the top of my lungs, “I’m not home!”
“…asshole!” The familiar voice causes my feet to stagger slightly, and I brace one hand against the brick siding for support. Quieting my footsteps, I peek around the corner to see Mariabella and Karsyn huddled together. Tears brim in my friend’s eyes as she glares up at him, fury like I’ve never seen before engraved onto her beautiful face. Karsyn appears tired, almost discouraged, and his head hangs forward, shaggy blond hair concealing his eyes from view.
From this angle, I can only see their profiles, but it’s enough to send a sharp stab of…of…something straight to my chest. I can’t identify or define the emotion, but seeing the two of them together has me rubbing absently at my chest, as if I could somehow fix the organ currently crumbling to dust inside of it.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Mariabella whispers, voice hoarse. She shakes her head slightly, wispy blonde hair framing her angelic face. “I don’t—”
“It’s your decision, Mar.” Karysn’s voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it before. And once more, that pesky pang returns with a damning vengeance, threatening to drag me straight to hell. It’s obvious that he cares about her. A lot.
And why the fuck do I care so much?
“Just…just leave, please,” Mariabella chokes out, and before I can duck away and pretend that I haven’t been blatantly eavesdropping, Karsyn turns in my direction. Fury dances in his eyes as he levels me with a glare capable of dropping a lesser man dead on the spot. But instead of cowering in fear, instead of apologizing profusely, I hold my chin up stubbornly as if I had every intention of getting caught.
Fake it til you make it. Or however that saying goes.
“Eavesdropping much?” Karsyn snarls, and Mariabella’s head jerks up. She quickly wipes at her blotchy eyes, but tears fall faster than she can catch them.
“Don’t be an ass,” Mariabella and I snap at the same time.
And it brings me great satisfaction when Karsyn’s scowl deepens even further.
With a disgruntled huff, he stalks away from his girlfriend, purposely ramming his shoulder into mine when he passes.
“Watch it, Simone,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
“Back at you, Alder,” I reply, ignoring him completely to give Mariabella a tight hug. She immediately collapses in my arms with a pained sob and heart-wrenching whimper. I’m momentarily at a loss of what to do, so I settle for awkwardly patting her back. “There. There.”
Over her shoulder, I level my own glare at Karsyn, who is already retreating, his hands shoved into his pockets and his head hung.
“What the fuck did the asshole do?” I hiss.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She sniffles.
“Well…whatever it is, I’m sorry.” It feels like such an insignificant word, but it’s the only one I can think of to use. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I’m sorry you fought.”
“I…I just…” She squeezes me tightly once before reluctantly releasing me. Bringing both hands up to her face, she begins to flick away tears as if they’re pesky inconveniences. “You’re a good friend, Peony.”
“If you ever need to talk…” I allow the offer to linger in the air, not bothering to say more. We don’t know each other very well, but I’ll be there for her if she needs an ear to listen to or a shoulder to cry on. Or a fist that can be used to punch Karsyn Alder in his stupidly handsome face.
And I also vow, right then and there, that no matter what happens, I won’t pull Mariabella into my revenge scheme against the Devils. Originally, I wanted to get close to her in order to harm Karsyn, but that’s not fair. It only makes me hate myself a little bit more. She’s innocent in all of this, and so far, she’s been one of my only friends.
I will make the Devils pay, but I refuse to drag Mariabella into hell along with them.
Chapter 17
The next morning marks the day of my first ever football game—and also homecoming. Per our coach’s requirements, I’m wearing the standard cheerleading uniform we were issued the day before. Fortunately, the black sleeves are long, stopping just at my wrist. It’s actually pretty damn comfortable, the material both soft and flexible. The dark red, almost burgundy in appearance, of the shirt contrasts nicely against the onyx black of the sleeves and skirt. I’ve braided the front of my hair away from my face and clipped it at the back, allowing the rest of my white hair to cascade in loose curls.
When I step into the kitchen, it’s to see Nana at the dining room table, bent over a spellbook. There’s a diagram stenciled into the table, but from this angle, I can’t tell for certain what it is. All I can see are sharp angles and numerous candles. An ancient grimoire rests in front of Nana as she closes her eyes and begins to speak softly in Latin.
A witch can perform a spell in a few different ways. Some can use their natural magical abilities and simply call upon their magic. It takes years and years of training to master that particular skill. And of course, there are the physical objects and hex bags that you can spell. Say, for instance, voodoo dolls? These usually require incantations and intricate spellwork, but it’s less taxing on your internal magic reserve. And finally, there’s the old-fashioned, recite-from-a-grimoire magic. Usually, these magical books are passed down from generation to generation. When Nana dies, she’ll gift the book to Mom as her last act before the ancestors accept her into the afterlife.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask cautiously, and Nana whips her head up so fast, I’m honestly afraid she broke her neck.
“Nothing,” she says quickly. Too quickly. She slams the spellbook shut and moves to stand in front of the table, obscuring the strange, chalk markings from view. Honestly, if she’s trying for subtlety, she’s failing at it epically. My curiosity now piqued, I attempt to look behind her.
“Seriously, Nana. What’s going on?” She doesn’t stop me as I peer over her shoulder at the pentagram etched in chalk across the table. The smiling photograph of an unfamiliar woman lies directly in the center. She appears to be around twenty, maybe a year or two older, with wheat-colored hair and sparkling eyes. “Who’s this?” I query as I pick up the picture.
And why the hell is my nana performing a spell on her?
“She’s a young witch. Ali.” Nana sighs tiredly, moving to take the photograph from my hand. Her features soften as she stares at the young girl’s face. “She went missing last night.”
Understanding dawns on me with the force of a freight train barreling me over at one hundred miles per hour.
“And they think the Bloods took her,” I surmise, and she offers me a barely perceptible nod.
“The witch’s council asked me to do a tracking spell to find her,” she confesses, and I just barely rein in my grimace. Because that type of magic? It’s powerful. And though Nana is immensely powerful in her own right, to garner that much magic as a sex witch would mean…
Things I don’t want to think about. Ever. Bleach from mind.
“But this spell would only work if she’s—”
“Still alive, yes.” Nana nods sadly as she lowers the picture once more onto the table. “And unfortunately, the spell failed. Again. This is my fifth time trying.”
My heart hurts at the realization that this girl, this witch, is probably dead. No, not probably. The only reason Nana’s magic wouldn’t find her would be because she’s already dead. Poor Ali.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask meekly, swallowing the tennis ball-sized lump in my throat.
“Stay safe.” A wide smile suddenly blossoms on her face as she gives me a once-over, the morose expression disappearing completely. “And you look adorable! Is today really your first game?”
“Yeah.” I tug self-consciously on the hem of my shirt. Is it too t
ight? Too thin? Does it make me look fat? All of my insecurities play on repeat in my mind as I shift awkwardly from foot to foot. “We’re playing the Hawks tonight.”
“Oh! We’ll be there!” She raises her voice to be heard upstairs. “Christian! Grab my camera! I want to get a picture of Peony!”
“God, Nana, no…” My protests fall on deaf ears when Christian enters the kitchen a minute later, smiling brightly and carrying a camera.
“Don’t you look cute!” he practically coos, like one would when staring at an adorable dog. He continues to offer me that infectious smile, one that even the grumpiest person in the world can’t resist. “Smile for the camera!”
I awkwardly flash my teeth, cheeks burning one thousand degrees, before I grab my packed lunch from the fridge.
“Stop it,” I murmur, blushing.
“Another one?” Christian asks Nana seriously. “Maybe this time a photo of the two of you?”
“Oh my god. I’m leaving. Bye.” Still keeping my head lowered, I hurry towards the foyer to grab my light jacket. The weather in Michigan ranges from sweltering hot to miserably cold. There is no in between, and you never know what the bipolar weather will do next.
“Perfect timing,” Gabriel says, just as I slip my hands into the sleeves of my coat. A cigarette dangles lazily from his mouth, and he removes it to blow a puff of smoke out the opened window. “Your stalker is here.”
“My stalk—Oh fuck.”
Sure enough, when I glance out the window, Elias’s Jeep is idling in the driveway. His features are shadowed, but I can see his fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
“Ugh.” Groaning, I rub a hand down my face, grab my backpack from where I discarded it on the floor the night before, and hurry out the door. “Bye, Nana!” I call out as I exit, hurrying away before I can hear her reply.
Like it’s becoming our new routine, I ignore Elias and begin my trek down the long, curving driveway. And like before, he slows his Jeep to a crawl as he keeps pace with me.
“My stalker returns,” I deadpan, and his lips twitch ever so slightly.
“Stalker is such a strong word,” he muses as he puts on his hazards, allowing a car to pass him.
“Is creeper a better description?” I quirk a brow at the stunning man, malice lacing my tone. But instead of being offended, Elias throws his head back in laughter. The sound does strange things to my body, things I refuse to look at too closely. I remind myself that this is the same man who laughed when I was completely and utterly humiliated in front of the school, and some of my lust abates.
But not all.
He doesn’t respond to my inquiry. Instead, he taps his fingers against the steering wheel, his eyes flickering to me every few seconds. Elias and silence…they go together. He doesn’t usually have anything to say, so when he does speak, you just know it’s going to be important. He was that way in middle school too. The silhouette behind his friends, constantly observing but not always participating. I don’t know if that makes him even more culpable for what was done to me or less.
I continue walking until it feels as if I might burst from the silence. “If you’re going to shadow me, the least you could do is speak, instead of just acting like a weird, creepy mouth-breather,” I huff, whirling on him. He slows his car down even more until it’s practically stopped in the middle of the street. There’s a tiny smirk on those delectably wicked lips, one that makes the tiny scar on his left cheek appear even more pronounced. But instead of hindering his appearance, it only adds to his appeal. It makes him seem rugged and unattainable. Hard and gruff and dangerous.
“Words are strange,” he answers simply, fiddling with a dial on his Jeep. A second later, soft classical music drifts from his speakers. He nods his head at the radio, as if pleased with the song selection, before turning to face the road once more. “You’re supposed to string them together to create some type of meaning. You do this for monologues, for novels, for songs, for normal, everyday conversations. But look at the English dictionary. There are dozens of words that mean joy. So which one will you use to describe yourself, if you had to? Jovial, enthusiastic, happy—”
“So you don’t talk…because there are too many words?” I ask bluntly, and those violet-brown eyes of his glimmer in the morning light.
“I don’t talk because there’s usually nothing to say,” he counters immediately, and then he pauses, eyes turning contemplative he taps his fingers in time to the grand piano. “Except…except for when I’m talking to you.”
I try to ignore the surge of butterflies that take flight in my stomach as I peer out of my peripheral vision at the striking, evasive man. Currently, his brown and purple hair is pulled into a loose bun at the top of his head. A few strands frame his face, but it doesn’t make him look any less masculine. I’m pretty sure Elias could wear a tutu and a sparkly headband and still look like something out of a magazine.
“Is that why you’ve been showing up at school?” I blurt, and when he turns to stare at me, one eyebrow quirked, I realize my slip. “I mean, I heard from some of the other cheerleaders that you usually skip the morning classes.”
But not now.
I’m pretty sure since I arrived, he’s had a perfect attendance record.
“I told you,” he evades with a small smirk. “I don’t like talking to people.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” I point out, but his smile simply grows, turning almost smug, as we turn onto the road that leads towards our school. “What do you even do when you skip?”
“What do you think I do?” he counters immediately. Amusement dances in his eyes before he focuses once more out the windshield. “Let me guess…have illicit affairs. Partake in drug deals. Rob convenience stores. You know, the stereotypical ‘bad boy’ thing.” He gives me a glance that makes me feel indignant.
“Well, you do feed into it—riding a motorcycle, wearing a leather jacket…” I protest, gesturing towards him. “And you have this whole…” I trail off once more, unable to articulate my thoughts without sounding like an imbecile.
Of course, Elias won’t let the conversation drop.
“Have that whole what?” He bites down on his lower lip to keep from laughing at me.
“That whole… Ahhh!” I wave at him in dismay.
“Are you saying that my face makes you scream? I’m hurt.” He places one hand to his chest in mock offense, while his eyes alternate between me and the road. Through it all, that damn smirk remains firmly in place.
“You know, that whole ‘stay the fuck away from me or else I’ll cut you’ thing going on,” I confess in a rush. He stares at me for a long moment, his jaw slack, before he breaks into raucous laughter. Tears stream down his face as he slaps at his knee.
“You have me pegged,” he chortles.
“Stop it.” Embarrassment burns my face as I pick up my speed. “It’s not funny.”
“It is pretty damn funny,” he protests around another laugh. “Maybe that’s what I need to do with my spare time when I decide to skip again…cut someone.” He throws his head back once more, and I can’t decide if the noise irritates me or…arouses me. Definitely the former.
Definitely.
“Whatever,” I huff.
“And if you must know, I usually do exactly this,” he says simply.
“Terrorize innocent females?” I mumble under my breath, but he still manages to hear.
“Sit in my Jeep. Listen to music. Smoke a few joints. Forget about the world,” he answers, and I have a feeling he’s being sincere. Which is strange. If what he said is true, then words are special to him.
So why did he waste them on me?
And why do I care that he did?
When we arrive at school, Elias once more branches off to park in the student lot while I head into the building. I don’t know why I’m so reluctant to let him go, but I find my eyes trailing after the Jeep until it disappears around the side of the building.
As the wise
Taylor Swift once said, shake it off, Peony.
The hallways are already full when I enter, and a few heads turn my way as I walk towards my locker. Self-consciousness pierces me like an arrow shot from a bow, and I have the sudden, irrational need to duck my head. To hide my face and pretend that everyone isn’t staring at me.
Is my skirt too short? Can they see my scars? Do I look weird? Ugly? Different? Do I look like a freak?
I try to shove those insecurities and fears in a steel coffin and bury them, but they continue to pop to the forefront of my mind like a damn jack-in-the-box. Even after all of these years, I’m still riddled with one lone, pesky thought—I’ll never be good enough.
“Damn!” a boisterous voice carries over the bustle of the hall. I turn from where my head is buried in my locker to see Emmett swaggering forward, his football jersey emphasizing all of his delicious muscles. “You look hot.”
“Thanks, Em.” I smile softly. “And you don’t look too shabby yourself.”
He looks the exact opposite of shabby, if I’m being completely honest with myself. He looks hot as hell. Like, if my vagina hadn’t just dried up like a desert from my interaction with Elias—denial is my close friend—it would be gushing right about now.
When the fuck did I get so horny?
“You excited to cheer tonight?” he asks, leaning against my locker and gifting me an incredibly effective smolder. Seriously, Emmett smolders with the best of them, easily surpassing Prince Charming in the rankings.
“Are you excited to football tonight?” I retort immediately, and he quirks one eyebrow.
“That was…honestly adorable. But to answer your question, yes. I’m super excited ‘to football’ tonight.” He flashes me a teasing smile. “But I’m more excited to see your tight ass in that little skirt doing the splits.”
“Oh my god!” I exclaim, laughing and shoving at his shoulder. “You’re a big horn dog.”
“I would take offense to that if it wasn’t true.” He shrugs, unashamed as his languid gaze continues to undress me.
