Wickedly They Dream

by Cathrina Constantine

  Jordan’s temperature spiked ten degrees.

  “Hi, kids,” said Seeley, who’d been watching the scene unfold while leaning over the kitchen counter. “How’s everyone enjoying summer vacation?”

  “It rocks,” said Rolly, swerving from the window. “Thanks for letting us bunk here, Mrs. Ch— Oh, sorry, I mean Mrs. Donovan.”

  “That’s okay, Rolly.” Seeley engaged him with a smile. “I’m still getting used to the name change too.”

  “We really appreciate the offer,” Paisley said. “Your place is amazing.”

  “I think so.” Seeley furnished them with a platter of warm cookies and drinks.

  Declan came into view, sleepy-eyed, tousling his hands through his hair. “Hey, guys, what’s up?” His gaze hooked onto Paisley, and blinking, he scooted away rather hastily.

  “Hello, Mr. Donovan,” Thrill said, presenting his hand.

  “Call me Declan,” he said, pumping Thrill’s hand.

  “The boys can sleep on the couches,” Seeley instructed in her motherly voice. “And the girls can sleep in Jordan’s bedroom.”

  “Mom, when we get back from the concert,” Jordan said, “we’ll probably order a pizza and sit up all night watching movies. I thought we could just pass-out in the living room.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Seeley objected, giving her the mother-knows-best-eyeball. “I think the girls should sleep in the other roo—”

  “Seeley, please,” Declan jumped in. He strode up behind her and gripped her shoulders, giving her a massage. “Let the kids have some fun. We’ll be in the next room, and no doubt,

  you’ll be walking to the kitchen for who knows what just to spy on them.” Declan’s smirk improved his rugged looks.

  “Whatever,” Seeley said through a sigh.

  “Come, Mrs. Donovan.” Declan steered her by the shoulders, leading her into their bedroom.

  After the grown-ups departed, Rolly piped up. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

  “It’s only a few blocks. We could walk and leave the car here,” Jordan suggested, primping her hair for the umpteenth time. “It’ll be nuts trying to find a parking space.”

  “Good, idea, shrimp,” Rolly agreed, ruffling Jordan’s coiffed hair into a snarly mess.

  Looking like celebrities in designer sunglasses, they began the stroll to Darien Park, singing accolades of the Twisted Tour concert as the best entertainment of the season. Jordan noticed the obvious flirtatious dialogue springing between Cayden and Rolly.

  It was funny picturing them together. Cayden was a string bean, compared to thickset Rolly. His hot-dog-like fingers lingered on her shoulders longer than necessary, and her girlish giggles were directed primarily at him.

  Meanwhile, Paisley pretentiously trekked onward with an air of formality. Her nose and chin pointed toward the sky as if she was parading on the runway. She stepped in line with Thrill and Jordan.

  Paisley awarded Thrill one of her lip-licking smiles while cinching his free arm into her abundant boobs as if they were best buds. The cuddling effect not only drew his eyes away from Jordan, but a spectacle of avalanching cleavage wobbled on his arm.

  Thrill’s upper lip curved, the jiggling monstrosities visibly enamoring him. She checked out her own measly rack and frowned. Oh well.

  WELCOME TO MY WORLD

  THEY ARRIVED AT Darien Park, where clusters of teenagers evolved into a sea of humanity. Clipping Jordan’s hand, Thrill tugged her in his wake. She felt like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed among staggering bodies.

  They halted with the rest of the mob to inspect a wide billboard packed with band posters and their itineraries—what stages they were playing on and their scheduled times. Jordan searched for one particular band. She located it in small print. Cult: Stage Five.

  Their little party moved onto a less-crowded grassy patch, which enabled Jordan to catch her breath.

  “This is friggin’ outstanding, man,” Thrill said. “Look.” His arm swept the air, gesturing to a makeshift stage. “Take It To The Morgue is warming up. Let’s get over there and find a spot.”

  Instead of holding Jordan’s hand, Thrill propelled her through the maze with his hands on her shoulders, using her like a battering ram. She wasn’t pleased.

  Yellow, no-admittance tape cordoned off specific sections of the park. Overweight and under-exercised security guards swaggered like Robocops. The festivities had scarcely begun when two men in blue hauled a guy who’d passed out into a medical tent explicitly erected for the purpose.

  “That dude’s going to miss all the fun,” Rolly said, channeling his rotund body through the maze.

  Contiguous to the stage, vendors displayed their merchandise. Stacks and stacks of screen-printed T-shirts with Take It To The Morgue logos in every color lay on the tables.

  Thrill rifled through the piles like a kid in a candy store. “We’ve got to buy you one, Jor.” He held up a white shirt. “This is brilliant. Want it? I’ll buy it for you.”

  The white tee looked like someone had been bludgeoned while wearing it. Violent splashes of red paint and a strategic rip below the neckline. When he turned the shirt around, she saw the band’s name written in dripping red letters.

  “We’d be like contradictory twins,” Jordan said. “Black versus white.”

  Thrill looked confused until he peered down at the shirt he was wearing. “Oh, yeah,” he said with a chortle. “Here, for you.”

  He dropped the T-shirt into her hands and paid the vendor, a creepster with eyes and lips outlined in thick kohl. Besides the gauges distorting his earlobes, a ringed gauge poked through the cartilage on the inside of his nose. Jordan tried not to stare at the piercings or the tats, painting every inch of visible skin.

  “Thanks for the shirt,” she said, “but now I’ll have to carry it around all day.”

  “Put it on.” Tearing the shirt from her hands, Thrill started to stuff it over her head.

  “No, Thrill.” She swatted at his awkward attempt to redress her. “It’ll be too hot. I’d rather just—”

  “I’ll wear it,” Paisley said, and plucked the shirt from his hands. The T-shirt was up and over her head in a jiffy, and a satisfied smile decorated her face. Cupping the shirt with her palms beneath her breasts, she boosted the mounds to peek through the garish slit. “Looks good on me. What do you think, Thrill?”

  Thrill’s mouth gaped open. His generosity in gifting his girlfriend had gone awry.

  “Ah . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Jor,” Paisley said, rearranging the shirt to show more skin. “You can have it back tonight.”

  Paisley was on the warpath. A war to belittle Jordan and get Thrill into her clutches. Jordan knew of their past history. Since she’d been misplaced in the city, Paisley had free rein with Jordan’s lonely boyfriend in Elma.

  Even though she’d interpreted Paisley’s overt seduction, Jordan hated playing the tug-of-war game. Either Thrill’s with me or he’s not. Jordan just hoped he didn’t play her for a fool.

  “That shirt is way too small for you, Paisley,” Cayden said, supporting Jordan. “You’re popping out all over the place.”

  “Oh, shut up, Cayden. It’s perfect.” Paisley adjusted the shirt’s hem. The cotton fabric stopped just above her pierced bellybutton.

  Cayden tilted her head and shrugged, obviously not insulted by Paisley’s scorn. Wispy ash-colored hair sprang her over bony shoulders as she headed to where Rolly shifted from one leg to the other.

  “Hurry up,” Rolly hailed, trying to rush them. “We can check out the merch tents later. They probably got all that crap.” His massive bulk parted those juggling for position in front of the stage. He pointed, saying to Thrill, “East of Eden is setting up on the next stage.”

  There were seven main stages with intermittent side stages presenting a variety of instrumental genres. Jordan became enthralled with the venue, the ear-deafening clamor, kids jostling and acting like jumping jacks, and arms hacking in tribu
lation to the riotous compositions

  The head-bashing music scored into her brain like a mind-altering drug, releasing phenomenal endorphins. Thrill bent his knees and shouted, “Get on!” He patted his shoulders.

  She straddled his neck, and slung her legs over his shoulders. He hoisted her into the air. Clamping her arms around his head, she fastened her fingers under his chin. He wrapped his arms around her calves to support her. Oh to be tall, she thought. It was a different perspective entirely.

  The singer looked as if he were eating the microphone, screaming lyrics. Stippled black and white hair flopped around his jerking head as he strutted like a peacock from one side of the stage then skidded on his knees, offering himself to the frenzied fans. A myriad of fingers grasped at his hair, arms, and legs. The singer was undeterred, continuing the offbeat harmony. The female bass player in military camouflage pants and a grooved tube top, her body lurching to and fro, handling the neck of the guitar in rhythm with the music.

  While Jordan had the advantage of height, she scoped out her surroundings, looking for stage five. All she could see were multitudes of bopping heads and body parts. Her eyes then snagged a placard for Stage Five.

  Thrill rocked to the tempo, and holding firmly to his head, Jordan rocked right along with him. “Thrill,” she tried bellowing over the music, “put me down.”

  When he didn’t comply, she boinked him on the head. He got the message.

  Paisley bounced up and down. “Me, Thrill. Me next.” She leapt in front of him, settling her hands on his shoulders, giving the boy an eyeful of her overplayed hooters.

  Jordan watched as the fleshy mounds tried wrestling from Paisley’s shirt. She’d seen more than she wanted too, and said rather loudly, “Thrill, I’m going to take a walk.”

  “Where you going?” he said, detaching his eyes from Paisley’s boobs to look at her.

  “Bathroom,” she mouthed and held up her cell. “Put your cell on vibrate. You won’t hear the ring. I’ll find you.” He nodded in beat to the music.

  “Want me to come with you?” Cayden asked.

  “Nah, that’s okay. Stick with Rolly. I’ll be back.” Maneuvering like a trained bloodhound, Jordan picked through the midst of cavorting teenagers, only getting conked twice by flinging arms. She came to a clearing and checked the time on her cell, and then gravitated toward stage five.

  Cult, an advertised local band was in session, the site was teeming with groupies achieving incongruous body contortions. Tongues pierced with silver studs flicked out of their mouths, as if they were lapping at snowflakes, and their heads twitched in total insanity. Arms flapped, one nearly catching Jordan in the face.

  Why am I not surprised? It was none other than Stringer as the lead vocalist, Tits on electric guitar, and Ransom whacking a deranged beat on the drums.

  The heat was at full throttle, and Jordan paused beneath a tree. Stringer’s baldhead was a soggy sweat-ball of running rivulets, and so was his naked chest. It seemed that the guy didn’t like to wear shirts much. She wasn’t protesting.

  Stringer shouted into the mic and pointed at her. The words were hard to comprehend, but after he screamed them three times, she definitively heard, “Sweet meat . . .”

  A whisper sifted into her ear. “Not my kind of music.” Jordan jerked her head toward the voice. “Markus?”

  “Hey.”

  “Um-m . . . what are you doing here?”

  He gifted her with a disarming smile, and her heart picked up a notch.

  “You look guilty,” he said. “Why?”

  “Not guilty. Just surprised to see you. In person.”

  “Miss me?”

  Enduring the torment of his amethyst eyes and impeccable features, she sighed. He managed to unbalance her time and again. It didn’t seem right to suffer such magnetism to her guardian angel.

  “Hot today, isn’t it?” She plucked at her top allowing a wisp of air to tunnel in and squelch the heat stealing up her chest. Getting a grip, she said, “Dressed for the part I see. And you cut your hair.”

  Markus leaned on a tree trunk in a casual manner, hooking his thumbs into his jean pockets. Hair the color of a golden moon was clipped behind his ears, and billowed in lengthy curls past his shoulders. Stonewashed jeans were scored to perfection with tattered rips at the knees and thighs, and the unadorned powder blue T- shirt clung to his broad chest. Jordan’s inspection led her to the fandangle, worse for wear sneakers, so contrasting his cream-of-the-crop footwear.

  “Times are tough,” he said, noting her judgment of the grubby sneakers. “Besides, they’re my favorite. I’ve worn them in.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  Markus graced her with a brilliant smile.

  “Well, well, well,” said a familiar tenor, “the gang’s all here.”

  Markus’s charming smile faded. “Ronan,” he said in severe angel mode, “or should I say Camille?”

  GIFT FROM GOD

  CAMILLE’S SHOULDERS SHOOK as she cackled. “You slay me, Mark.” The gray hood had slipped off her head, and she righted it, shielding her face. “So you don’t trust me to deal with Jordan alone?”

  “I don’t trust the devil.”

  Her lips formed an obnoxious smile. “Is that a backhanded compliment?”

  Jordan pushed a strand of her hair from her sweaty forehead then browsed Camille’s garments head-to-toe. Her once bewitching friend was perceptibly self-conscious about her disfigurement, and Jordan felt a twinge of pity for her.

  Without thinking, Jordan blurted, “The Order has wealth beyond imagination. Why won’t they get a plastic surgeon to fix your face?”

  Whether it was the shadow of Camille’s hood, or the blackness of her pupils, she sensed Camille’s resentment.

  Markus lightly shoved Jordan to the side, ending Camille’s glare. “Enough,” he said.

  “Got information for me, Camille?” Jordan asked, getting antsy.

  “I hear,” she said snottily, “your mommy’s going to have a baby.”

  “Yes, everyone knows that.” Jordan tossed her bothersome locks off her shoulders and slipped her fingers into her front pockets. “You do realize Thrill, Rolly, Cayden, and Paisley are here.”

  Camille twitched. She’d hit a nerve.

  “Thrill’s probably looking for me by now.”

  “I figured they’d be with you.” Camille’s head winched toward the mob scene. “I’m not ready yet…” She didn’t finish her statement. “Here, go to this address.” She handed Jordan a piece of paper. “There’s a sequence in the chain of command.”

  “You were supposed to get me the information. Overstepping authority was never your weak point. Now I’m dealing with someone else?” Perturbed, Jordan glimpsed Markus. “It’s always a trap.”

  “I’m going with you,” Camille stated, her gaze also looping to Markus. “Surely, Mark is going to come too?”

  Lacking a retort, he just continued to stare at her.

  “I deserve the credit for this coup d'état,” Camille said. Lifting an arm, she wiped her mouth. “Meet me tomorrow at the corner of Washington and Ellicott at nine o’clock. I have it written on the paper, in case you forget.” Pivoting on her heels, she blended into the labyrinth of bodies.

  “Jordan, what have you gotten yourself into?” Markus demanded, sounding miffed.

  “I already explained what the person said in the crystal ball. I need to find where the hex is coming from to save mom.”

  “At what price? What did you offer Camille?”

  He’s going to blow, but the sooner he knows, the better. “Me,” she said. “Me.”

  “I knew it.” Infuriated, he jammed his hands into his hair. Breathing deeply, he seemed to be struggling for self-control. “We’ll have to discuss this later, Thrill’s coming.”

  Jordan searched the crowd. “He’s not coming.”

  “Wait for it,” Markus said.

  “There you are,” Thrill bleated.

  Jordan turned t
o view a mixed batch of emotions spreading over Thrill’s face. Glaring at Markus, he quickly daubed a crooked grin to his mouth.

  “Hey, Mark, didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you moved.” In a show of possessiveness, Thrill arranged an arm around Jordan, gluing her hip to his side.

  “I’m in town and thought I’d check out the tour.”

  “I get the impression you’re hounding my girlfriend. In fact, I know you’re nosing around where you shouldn’t be.”

  “Thrill, don’t start,” Jordan said. Seeing her angel’s stormy eyes, she tried inching away from Thrill.

  Thrill wasn’t backing down. “Do you think I’m a pansy ass, dimwit?” he said packed with spite. “I saw the two of you coming out of the woods. And if I catch you around my girl, I’m gonna beat that pretty face of yours to a pulp. Got it, dickhead?

  “I’m ready and willing, bro. Anytime,” Markus taunted right back.

  Jordan felt Thrill’s body tense.

  “You wanna settle this here. Right now.” Thrill dropped his arm from Jordan, squaring his shoulders. “I’m ready for you, prick.”

  “Thrill, please,” Jordan begged in a low whine. She half-expected to see him slamming his fists into his chest like a gorilla, exhibiting his strength. Knowing Markus could kill him with a flick of his hand, she tried not to laugh. “I’ve known Mark forever. We’re good friends.”

  “Too good,” said Thrill, “if you ask me.”

  “We’re not asking you,” Markus said, his tone livid. Straightening his spine, he appeared to grow a head taller.

  Again, Jordan was thunderstruck by Markus, her devoted angel, creating a public scene. “C’mon, Thrill,” she said while shoving on his hips. “Let’s get back to Rolly and the gang.”

  Whether it was Markus’s thunderous expression or her angel’s obvious clout, Thrill backed down. Jordan pushed Thrill in the opposite direction and noted the vicious glint in his eyes.