by eden Hudson
Colt started hyperventilating.
“Oh, shit, she’s gone, she’s— I can’t—” He put his arms around his head like a tornado drill and rocked back and forth on the seat. “No, God, please.”
Tough stopped the truck.
“I can’t make it go away,” Colt whispered. “The black noise—”
“Colt, it’s okay,” I said, keeping my voice calm and clear. With Mom, I’d gotten plenty of experience doing meltdown-damage-control. “Whatever you’re seeing or hearing can’t hurt you. You’re okay, Colt. You’re safe.”
He doubled over and laughed until the tendons in his neck stood out. “I’m safe? I’m safe?”
Tough jumped out of the truck and ran around to Colt’s door. He opened it, but I shook my head at him before he reached out.
“Colt, Tough is by your right side. Is it okay if he touches you?”
“The lines can’t be here. They’re not real. They’re—”
I raised my voice. “Listen to me, Colt. Tough’s going to put his hand on your shoulder. If you don’t want him to, tell me and he won’t.”
Colt went still.
Tough looked at me. When I nodded, he put his hand on Colt’s shoulder.
Colt’s arms relaxed and he took a shaky breath. After a little while, he sat up and ran both hands through his hair. Then he pulled his fingers through it again like he was measuring how long it was.
“Need to get a haircut,” he said. “Starting to look like a damn hippie.”
Tough took off his hat and pointed at his hair. Vamping had grown it out just enough to show a hat ring.
“Commie fag,” Colt said. They both laughed.
Tough got back in the truck, smiling as he drove. Nothing joking or sarcastic—a real smile, like he was happy. It made me feel as if someone had poured a gallon of sunlight into my chest.
“Rian,” Colt said.
Alongside the road was the fallen angel motorcycle cop who had taken me to the Dark Mansion the other night.
Tough rolled down his window and stuck his arm out. He flipped off Motocop. The red and blue lights started flashing almost immediately. Imagine that.
Colt didn’t even act surprised, he just said, “You better be ready to lose that dickhead.”
Tough slowed down and pulled over, but as soon as Motocop stopped behind the truck and got off of his bike, Tough threw it back in gear and spun out.
Normally, I tried to stick to the Social Contract Theory because I liked rules and order and because I wouldn’t do well in anarchy. But seeing the shocked look on Motocop’s face made breaking the law this once worth whatever small amount of damage we’d just done to the system.
Through the back window, I watched Motocop sprint back to his motorcycle and jump on. By the time he got the thing started, Tough had shut off his headlights. We turned down a heavily wooded gravel road, then pulled through an open gate into an overgrown pasture. The truck lurched in the wheel ruts. I had to keep both hands on the dash to keep from bumping off of the seat. Beside me, Colt had ahold of the handle over the window. He looked over at Tough.
“Just like riding a bike,” Colt said.
Tough laughed, maybe just a little crazily. Mom would’ve said he was having entirely too much fun, but man did it look good on him. I wanted to jump into his lap and kiss him until I could taste that crazy streak.
We drove down into a creek bed and Tough shut off the truck.
Motocop’s bike sounded angry tearing up the countryside. The beam from his headlight shined out over the pasture. I was all flight-response, breathless and jittery. He was coming our way.
“All right, Bo and Luke, what now?” I asked.
They popped their doors at the same time. Tough grabbed my hand and dragged me splashing out of the cab and into the creek. Then we were scrambling up the sandy bank and running through the woods.
The air was hot and thick and hard to breathe. Dead leaves and dry sticks crunched under our feet and brush snagged my bootlaces, but we kept running until the motorcycle came to a stop and the engine shut off.
Tough pulled me down into the leaves beside him. Somewhere along the way we had lost Colt. The woods were silent, though, so Colt must’ve known to stop, too.
My body was full of sparkling, bubbly adrenaline. I was panting and sweating and starting to feel the wet sand in my shoes and all the little scratches that come from running through the woods in shorts, but I laughed.
Tough covered my mouth with his hand, then his lips.
“Boy, you better show your fucking self,” Motocop yelled. “I don’t care what Kathan says, I’ll shoot your ass if I have to come after you.”
Motocop’s macho posturing made me want to laugh harder, but Tough took care of that with his tongue. We were stretched out on the ground in no time with Tough on top. After some trial and error, we figured out how to make out without his fangs bumping against my teeth or poking my lips.
I pressed my face to the cool skin of Tough’s neck and took a deep breath. His sweat-beer-body-spray smell was there, but fainter, as if it was fading away, and underneath of it was this spicy smell like the habanero sauce Dad used to put on everything. I got one foot planted and flipped us over so that I was on top, just like yesterday afternoon.
But that memory turned out to be a paper cut—it happened, then a few seconds later it started bleeding and hurt like heck.
“You left me,” I whispered. It was getting too dark to see Tough, but I stared at where I knew his face was. “I know you did it to save Colt, but you didn’t even tell me what you were doing. You just left me and— I thought you—I thought—”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight when I realized what I’d thought.
I was one of those stupid, stupid, unforgivably stupid girls who thought sex equaled love.
I pushed myself off of Tough and dropped onto the leaves beside him. I wrapped my stupid arms around my stupid legs and rested my chin on my stupid knees—the ones I’d been about to spread for Tough because I thought that him screwing me meant that he loved me. A black hole opened up inside my chest.
In the distance, plastic crunched under something heavy.
“You got a taillight out, boy,” Motocop yelled.
A few seconds later Motocop started his bike. The headlight filtered through the trees as he turned around. I had just a second to see Tough lying on the ground with his hat in one hand and massaging his temples with the other before the light disappeared.
In the dark, Tough took a breath like he wanted to say something, then let it out. I know he couldn’t talk, but I wanted him to grab my hand or something so I’d know he at least cared about me, that I wasn’t as stupid and naive as Tempie had said. Tough could do that much for me, couldn’t he?
He didn’t.
I pressed my face against my knees, but a couple of tears got out anyway.
Hearing someone else’s footsteps in the leaves startled me out of my pity party.
“You all can stay out here if you want to. I’m going to the cabin,” Colt said. “Hell yeah, good for me. I recognize the place where I live. Gold fucking star.”
Tough
Even though the moon was less than a quarter full, I could see fine with the vamp senses. The cabin was sitting at the tree line. Colt’s Explorer was parked by the shed, one tire low from sitting for a month. I could hear the punching bag swinging on its rope in the shed and smell the gunpowder and plastic-ex. So the arsenal was still there.
The place looked pretty much like it had five years ago when I left, minus the snow. If I’d landed on my ass with Ryder yelling, “Get up, Baby Boy. Ain’t no foot soldier just going to kick you in the face and walk away,” I don’t think I would’ve been too surprised.
Actually, it would’ve been kind of nice if Ryder did suddenly materialize. Then I’d have something to focus on instead of the way Desty kept sniffing like she was trying not to cry.
I’d got her backpack out of the truck and brought it up here
for her. Wasn’t that enough of an apology? It wasn’t like I could tell her I got made so I could make her and keep her safe from Kathan, but that blew up when I realized what it really meant to be cut off from God and barred from Heaven. Even if she begged me, I could never make her now that I knew.
In my head, I tried to make the argument about me not being able to talk and Desty being unfair. Make it seem like we barely knew each other and that I shouldn’t have to answer to her about anything, but it was all bullshit. I knew if I held Desty’s hand or kissed her, she would understand. Desty always seemed to know what I was saying when I touched her.
Then the vamp-serial-killer-rapist chimed in with all the shit he wanted to do to make her understand and pissed me off all over again.
“I can’t,” Colt said. “There’s a reason. It has to do with no alcohol. Yeah, but—” He had to put his shoulder against the cabin door to shove it open. It always stuck in the heat. “—last time I thought the wrong thing, the black noise came up and I started— Oh, boo-fucking-hoo.”
That stopped me cold. I let the “Gold fucking star” slide before because I thought maybe Colt was joking, but this was too damn far. I followed Colt and Desty into the kitchen.
Did you just say “boo-fucking-hoo?” I asked Colt.
No answer. He flipped on the light and looked around.
“Looks like I left yesterday,” he said.
Colt, I know you can hear me. Tell me what you just said.
He looked at me. “About what?”
Why’re you talking like Ryder?
“I’m not.”
I heard you. Desty heard you.
“Who’s Dusty?”
“Desty,” she said. “It’s short for Modesty.”
“Sorry.” Colt shook his head. “I knew who you were, just not—” He looked at me. “Wait a damn minute. I’m not talking like Ryder.”
You said “boo-fucking-hoo” and “gold fucking star.”
“Ryder said that,” Colt said. “I didn’t.”
What was I supposed to say to that? Ryder was dead. He’d been dead for five years. Mikal chopped him up into a million pieces—and she didn’t use her fiery sword to do it, either, because that would’ve just sent Ryder on to Heaven or Hell the second it cut into him. She had hacked him up with a big-ass hunting knife and she made sure he stayed alive as long as possible. But Colt was supposed to know that already. He was the one who’d had to pick up the pieces.
Colt took a step back from me and bumped into the kitchen table.
“I know Ryder’s dead,” he said. “But he keeps bothering me, so he must not be dead enough.” Colt looked at the sink. “Could you shut up for five seconds?” Then back at me. “You heard him. I know you heard him.”
The hell I did.
“You laughed in the truck when he called you a commie fag.”
You said that!
“No, I didn’t! I’m not crazy!”
But Colt looked scared. That pissed me off worse than anything else. Colt wasn’t supposed to be scared of anything.
“Guys,” Desty said, stepping between us. “Whatever you’re arguing about doesn’t matter. No one thinks you’re crazy, Colt.”
I do. I think you’re batshit crazy, I told him. I can deal with the old OCD crap or you freaking out and talking to yourself, but Ryder is not here. Him, Sissy, Dad, and Mom? They’re all dead. That bitch who had you chained up like her fucking dog killed them.
Colt put his head in his hands and started whispering something under his breath. I should’ve been able to hear it, but everything except “Mikal” was too run-together to make out.
Desty glared at me like she knew what I’d said to him.
“It. Doesn’t. Matter,” she said. “You’re making it worse by arguing. Stop.” She took a step toward Colt. “Colt, do you remember who I am?”
After a second, he looked up at her.
“Grace,” he said.
She smiled at him. My fists started shaking and metal music screamed in my head.
“Desty,” she said. “Short for Modesty.”
“Right,” he said. “I knew it was one of the virtues.”
Desty laughed that little breath-laugh she always did when we were making out or having sex. Something exploded inside my chest. I spun around and put my fist through the counter. The particle board vaporized. Pieces of the laminate stuck in my arm.
“Tough?” I felt Desty touch my shoulder, but I shook her off hard enough that she stumbled backward. “Fine. Be mad at me if you have to, but don’t be mad at Colt.”
That helped a whole lot. She should’ve just told me to get lost so she could screw my brother.
I jerked my arm out of the counter and headed for the door.
“Tough, wait,” Desty said.
The door slammed so hard that the glass broke. The vamp speed kicked in and I was halfway to the creek before the last piece hit the floor in the cabin. I got in the truck and started it up. Tore back through the pasture to the gravel road. I hoped Rian was still patrolling this side of town. You might not be able to kill a fallen angel, but I bet you could sure beat the hell out of one.
Colt
“Dammit. I wasn’t mad at him. I was just so pissed that—” I couldn’t think of a way to say it. For almost three months after Ryder died, I’d begged God to get Tough killed in Nashville. Someone there would’ve stabbed him for his guitar or shot him for being a smartass—whatever they do in big cities. It would’ve been fast and anonymous, easier on him and easier on me. “But Tough didn’t just come back alive, he came back with a pair of protectors Kathan could keep on a leash.”
Glass crunched. Grace was stepping in what was left of the big pane in the door.
“Wait, don’t cut yourself, Grace. Let me get the broom.”
“My name’s—”
Whatever she was saying faded out when I saw the broom and the dustpan, just leaning against the fridge, right where I left them.
This wasn’t real. Standing around with my brother’s girlfriend, sweeping up broken glass? Normal people swept floors. Sane people. Brain-damaged nutcases didn’t. They sat in the dark, fighting their straightjackets and giggling, waiting for the next round of electroshock to burn the crazy out.
There wasn’t any way I was here. Not really. This was all in my head.
“Colt?” Grace’s voice sounded far away. “Are you okay?”
I had to swallow so I could talk.
“Yeah, I—” I got a death grip on the broom. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Convincing,” Ryder said.
“Fuck you,” I said.
He snorted and spit into his bottle. “You know the thing I always liked best about you, Sunshine? When you know you’re wrong, you just tell everybody to fuck off. That’s a winner’s attitude right there.”
I ignored him and started sweeping.
“Would you like some help?” Grace asked.
“That’s all right.”
Grace took a step toward me.
“I could hold the dustpan for—”
“No, don’t move,” I said. “I mean, I’ve got it.”
It’s strange to realize you’re doing something obsessive and not be able to stop yourself. Watching Grace watch me freak out and sweep the whole kitchen, then sweep it again made me feel as if I’d gone back in time to the time to living with Ryder and Tough.
When I made it all the way around the floor the second time, I got out the trashcan and dumped the dustpan into it.
There was something too rotted to recognize in the bottom of the bag, but I knew it was a hamburger. I had made it out on the grill, tried to eat, couldn’t even get half of it down. I’d been preoccupied with something. Mikal…the Dark Mansion…a Tac-Ops Tango-51?
I tried to think who I’d be picking off with an old model sniper rifle at the Dark Mansion—and without a suppressor. Might as well’ve strapped a bomb to my chest and rang the doorbell. Maybe that was why I’d been too anxious to eat.<
br />
Then I saw Grace looking out the door’s broken window.
“She’s going to cry,” Ryder said, scraping his boot on the floor. “Son of a bitch. Way to be a man, Baby Boy.”
I leaned the broom and dustpan back against the fridge, and tried to think of a way to comfort Grace. Crying girls paralyze me. I know they don’t always cry because they’re hurt physically, but that was what it felt like—like I messed up and let them get hurt.
I touched Grace’s arm. “Are you all right?”
She smiled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, just being stupid.” She brushed the bangs out of her face. They were too short to tuck behind her ear, but she tried anyway. “I’m pretty tired. Is there a place I can lay down?”
“In here.”
I went into the bedroom and turned on the light. Just being in there at night made me feel a little uneasy, but Grace didn’t act like it bothered her. The bed was made. A three-quarters-full bottle of SoCo on the dresser. Top drawer would be socks and underwear. Middle drawer two shirts, an HK .45, and a full magazine. Bottom drawer empty.
That wasn’t right. I’d put something in the bottom drawer. Top—socks and underwear. Middle—shirts, .45, full magazine. Bottom—what?
I jerked open the bottom drawer. There was a black and red box inside with BawdyHeat—Heat Up the Night printed in spiky letters across the front and sides.
Grace was standing beside me. I handed her the box.
“Tell me I’m not seeing things again,” I said. “What are those?”
“Aw, for fuck’s sake,” Ryder said, rolling his head back on his shoulders.
“Shut up,” I told him. “I didn’t ask you. I asked Grace.”
“Desty,” she said.
“Right. Short for Modesty,” I remembered. “Tell me what those are.”
“Condoms,” Desty said. “For vampires.”
“That’s what I thought.” I took the box back and turned it over. It hadn’t been opened. “You and Tough haven’t been out here, have you?”
Desty shook her head.
“I— We can’t use those,” she said.
