The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “I don’t have an ID,” I whisper into the phone, just in case one of the evil twins is eavesdropping at the door.

  “No worries, we’ve got it covered,” he answers, and I wonder what the hell he means by that. But I guess I’m going to find out sooner rather than later, because for some reason, I’m finding it difficult to say no to him.

  “So,” he says, “what do you think? How about we pick you up in thirty?”

  “Oh, all right!” I sigh. “You win. See you in thirty.”

  “Awesome! See you then. Bye,” Xander says, sounding like an excited thirteen-year-old at a Comic-Con event, and he disconnects at his end.

  I go back down the stairs to the dining room where everyone is finishing their dinner. Grandma Winnie has started clearing the serving dishes. I ask Dad if I can go to out with Camilla and promise to be back by midnight, as we will be attending Sunday morning mass at five a.m. with Aunt Matilda and Uncle Calvin. Dad reluctantly agrees. I suspect he is doing everything in his power to make this adjustment more tolerable for me, although he may not necessarily agree with what I want to do. I feel grateful for his trust.

  I run back up the stairs, spritz my curls with spray gel, and slip on my favorite dark-denim miniskirt and a gauzy, black, butterfly-sleeved blouse. I decide to wear black, strappy heels and use a heavier-than-usual hand while applying my makeup, hoping I’ll look twenty-one instead of like a pre-teen. The curse of having pale skin is that I can never tan, which makes me look years younger than I really am. The freckles don’t help. Neither does the flat chest.

  As I’m finishing up, a car horn blares impatiently outside, and I peek out my window. Although the night is pitch black, I can still see Camilla’s BMW convertible, with the top up, in the driveway. I grab my iPhone, turn the ringtone up to full volume, with vibrate on, and stuff it into the miniskirt’s front pocket. There’s no way I’m going to miss Javier’s call this time. As I run to the front door, I yell “goodbye” in the general direction of the living room, where Dad and Grandma Winnie are watching reruns of America’s Most Wanted. I hear Dad say “Not too late, Evie,” as I slam the front door.

  Camilla’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel and looking impatient when I get to the car. Xander is sitting in the back seat, texting.

  “Hey, guys,” I say as I close the car door. “I told my dad I’d be home by midnight.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Camilla scoffs as she eases the BMW out of the driveway. She looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot she’s ever met, but I ignore the glare she’s giving me and shake my head. “Well, that’s not going to happen, so maybe you should text him later and say you’re going to be late. Make up some excuse, like we’re stuck in traffic. It won’t be a total lie. The show’s not even over until eleven thirty. There’s no way we’ll make it back in time.”

  “You know what?” Xander pipes up, and I turn to look at him. He’s sitting up straight and taking up the entire backseat with his head flush against the roof of the soft-top. It’s as if he’s one of those circus clowns in a tiny clown car. I’d laugh, except at the moment I’m too annoyed with Camilla. Instead, I give him a weak smile. He leans forward until his face is directly between Camilla and me, and I get a whiff of his cologne. He smells wonderful, like a meadow in a pine forest after a late-summer rain. No kidding. I inhale again, and he continues, “Why don’t we drop by my house. I’ll drive separately so I can leave a little earlier and bring Evie home on time. Jude and some other guys will be there for you to hang with after we leave.”

  “Whatever,” Camilla replies, her eyes narrowing at me. “That’s fine with me. I’ll probably stay at Christian’s house tonight, anyway.” Camilla shrugs, but the annoyance is obvious in her voice.

  “Shocker.” Xander retorts and flicks a smile at me. I mouth thank you to him.

  ***

  Xander follows us into the city in his Land Rover. We find street parking—a miracle on a Saturday night in DC—just outside of Club Trinity. There’s a line of people wrapped around the block, mostly girls dressed in sparkly hooker attire. Camilla marches right up to the bouncers at the door—two tattooed, unusually large Asian men—and whispers something to the particularly burly one. She extends her hand to him, and he stamps the back of it. The three of us cross under the red-velvet rope he’s holding up, and the other bouncer stamps first my hand and then Xander’s. Cries of protest come from the line of people, who undoubtedly have been waiting for hours, and Camilla turns and sneers at them. Xander grabs her by the elbow, then wraps his left arm defensively around my shoulders and leads us inside.

  Systemic Purgatory is already on stage. There’s Christian in front playing his guitar and singing with a voice that doesn’t seem to match him at all. It’s a nice voice, but there’s no hint of the British accent whatsoever. He sounds smooth, like Marvin Gaye, even though he’s screaming through most of the song. Those magnetic, blue eyes of his fall on us, and a devilish grin tilts his mouth. Again, I have to remind myself that he’s Camilla’s boyfriend, but it’s hard—because seeing him up on stage thrashing on that guitar and wailing into the microphone, sweat beading on his face, dials up his hotness quotient by a thousand. I glance to my right, and Xander’s staring at me with a defeated expression. I flick my eyes away, feeling my face flush, because I know he’s caught me ogling Christian. Thankfully, Camilla didn’t. She’s too busy giving the stink-eye to a group of girls dancing right in front of the stage where Christian is standing. She makes a beeline to the stage and positions herself between the enemy and her man. Christian smiles and, when the song is over, he kneels down to kiss her on the forehead. I look around at all the frowning faces, and I know that every girl’s heart breaks—except mine, of course—when he does this.

  Xander places his hand on my back and motions toward a table at the front of the club, just to the right of the stage. I can barely hear what he’s saying, because Systemic Purgatory has started another hard-driving song; but I do make out the name Jude. That’s when I realize that I’m staring at the back of Jude Redfield’s curly, blond head, which is intermittently reflecting shades of the red, blue, and green lights blinking from the stage. Xander takes my hand, and we weave through the crowd, dodging lit cigarettes and undulating bodies. We join Jude and a group of five other boys at their table in a dark, smoky corner. Xander attempts to introduce me, but the band is too loud. I nod my head at each one (as if I’ve actually heard their names) and take a seat next to Jude. Xander sits to my left and scoots his chair in closer to mine. Jude’s friends look like they belong to a hipster biker gang, each wearing some version of the black leather jacket, vintage concert t-shirt, jeans, and black combat boots. Tattoos poke out from under pushed-up sleeves and unzipped jackets. A few of the guys have similar tattoos to Christian’s—the black lapping flames around the base of their necks. My hand goes down to my hip, where my own tattoo hides; but I alone know it’s there, and I alone know what it represents.

  After a few minutes of dancing and having every male in the place mesmerized, Camilla sashays over to the table, gives Jude a peck on the lips, and plants herself in his lap. As she whispers something in his ear, her right hand disappears under his open jacket and their eyes lock. Their faces are just inches apart, and he’s gazing at her with intense eyes. But then he grins from ear to ear, shakes his head, and tells her in a husky voice that she’s bloody twisted. Before she rises and moves to an empty chair across the table, she tells him she’s glad he left his bitch of a girlfriend at home.

  “Actually, I tried to get her to come, Camilla, but she’d have nothing of it. She’s too much of a good girl to come here.” He scowls at Camilla and lights up a cigarette.

  “Oh please. The word good has no place in a statement describing Laurel-freaking-Danton, for Christ’s sake! She’s too much of a prude ass to come here, Jude. Don’t kid yourself,” Camilla snaps back at him as if she’s taken his comment as a personal attack on her own virtue.

  “Mayb
e that’s what I like about her. Did you ever think of that?”

  “If you want a ‘good’ girl,” Camilla signs air quotations with this phrase, “then date Evie. She’s not a complete bitch. Actually, she’s not a bitch at all.”

  I give her a look that I hope says shut up or I’ll kill you, but I don’t think it does, because she completely ignores me and continues the conversation as if I’m not even in the same zip code, let alone sitting right across the table.

  “But you’ll have to fight Xander for her.” She thumbs toward Xander, who’s intently watching Systemic Purgatory as if he can’t hear her big mouth. But the blush taking over his cheeks tells me otherwise. “He’s kinda crazy about her.”

  “I’m not fighting Xander for anything,” Jude laughs, but his eyes are serious. He takes a swig of his Heineken and coughs into his fist. “Because I’m pretty bloody sure he’d beat my arse.”

  I’m sitting here in my chair, frozen like a slab of granite, because I’m absolutely mortified by the conversation going on about me as if I’m not even in the same room. I start to open my mouth to verbalize the shut-up-or-die sentiment, but Camilla hops up out of her seat as if she’s sat on a thumb tack and had a delayed reaction.

  “Oh shit! I forgot! I have to make a quick call.” She rushes toward the side door, dialing her phone and plowing into annoyed people as she goes. I’m starting to believe that annoying is her defining personality trait.

  Xander gives me a look that says I’ll take care of this, and then gets up and follows her out. I’m guessing he did hear the whole humiliating conversation. Jude looks at me with a curious expression, and I notice the music has stopped.

  “Want a drink?” he asks, as his friends rise from their seats and head toward the bar.

  “Diet Coke, please,” I say with a smile. He laughs and tells me he’ll be right back. I watch him saunter up to the bar as if he’s done it a thousand times, and as if he’s old enough to be there. That’s when I feel a hand on my left thigh. I jump about a foot off the chair and whip around to my left. Christian’s face is just inches from mine. He’s wearing that now-familiar, devilish smile and eyes that are tearing me up from one end to the other.

  He leans closer and whispers into my ear, “Well, hello there, Evie.” His nose is brushing against my curls, and his breath is hot and wet on my ear. He smells of leather, sweat, and something completely animalistic—and irresistible. A shudder shoots through me, not necessarily for reasons that are unpleasant, and I force my body to be still against it. The last thing I need is for him to think I might be enjoying this attention. Although, there’s a slight possibility that I am; I’m just a little conflicted about it right now. “So glad you could come tonight,” he says.

  I notice the slightest bit of emphasis on a particular word, as he moves his hand up my thigh. I yank my chair away from him, and his hand falls off my leg. He purses his lips, and then gives me another wicked grin.

  “Playing hard to get, eh? I dig it. Women are constantly throwing themselves at me: teenagers, cougars—hell, even horny old grandmothers. But I rather like the excitement of the chase. Well played, Evie.” He traces an imaginary pattern down my arm with his index finger, but suddenly it’s gone, because there’s a body between us. It’s Xander.

  “I think it’s time for you to go back to work, Christian,” he snarls, but I can’t see Xander’s face. All I can see is the outline of his broad back through his shirt and the layers of golden-brown waves falling to the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t want Camilla to walk back in just now, would you?”

  “Al-ex-zander. Ever the knight in shining armor coming to the rescue of the damsel in distress. Oh, Evie would be in distress all right, if she were ever to go home with me. But I’m quite positive she’d enjoy it. Just ask Camilla,” he says and leans over to wink at me from around Xander’s massive frame.

  Xander crouches down over Christian, dwarfing him. In a dangerously low, controlled voice, Xander says, “I said get lost, Redfield. You’d better go.” Xander moves aside, showing him the way with a sweep of his arm.

  Christian looks up, and I follow his gaze across the room to the door where Camilla stands, looking like a dark angel in a white-and-silver, strapless mini dress. She’s deep in conversation with a handsome African American man, her head thrown back in laughter. I glance back at Christian and Xander. They’re both staring at her with admiring eyes and slacked jaws, and who could blame them? She belongs on the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, not slumming it here with us in this dank, sorry-excuse-for-a-club in DC.

  Christian must’ve caught Xander’s stare because he says to me, “You know the reason he hates me so much, don’t you? It’s because he wants her all for himself.” Then he gets up and heads back to the stage, leaving Xander red-faced and slumped in his chair.

  “Is that true?” I ask him. For some bizarre reason, I’m feeling the familiar sting of jealousy.

  “I promise you, it’s not true,” he says, looking me square in the eyes. “She is a beautiful girl, no doubt about that, but we’re just friends. It’s all we’ve ever been, and it’s all we ever will be. End of story.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I have the distinct feeling there’s more to the story than what Xander—or Camilla, for that matter—want me to know. But why should I care? I’ve got a handsome man of my own waiting for me back in Spain: Javier! I manage to dig the cell phone out from my pocket, certain that I’ve missed hearing or feeling it ring, but I’m wrong. There are no missed calls. I sink down in my chair just a bit and make a big production of checking the phone’s clock. It’s eleven o’clock, time for me to go home. I look at Xander, and our eyes meet. He seems to read my mind, because he rises and extends his hand to me. I take it just as Jude and his friends return to the table. He places my can of Diet Coke down in front of me.

  “Oh thanks for the drink,” I say, “but I just realized that I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss curfew. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries,” Jude shrugs. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Xander’s hand tightens around mine, and I look up into his face. He’s glaring at Jude with a mixture of wariness and irritation. “Whoa there, big guy, I’m just saying goodbye,” Jude says, flipping his palms up defensively. Xander shakes his head and laughs, his expression easing and his body relaxing.

  “Should we tell Camilla that we’re leaving?” I ask, and our gazes flick in the direction we last saw her. She’s now sitting on a bar stool surrounded by at least six guys, all attentively listening to some story she’s animatedly telling—so much for defending her territory. Xander shakes his head, but his face is strangely void of emotion, as if he’s trying to hide any tell-tale sign of what he’s thinking—or feeling.

  “Nah, she’ll be fine,” he says, then turns to Jude. “Watch out for her, will you? Don’t let her get too wasted. You know what can happen.”

  “All right,” Jude sighs and throws his hands up. Pointing at Xander, he says, “But you owe me, big-time.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure you still owe me for that time in Ibiza,” Xander retorts.

  “No, mate, you owed me for that time in London. Remember?” Jude says. “London cancels out Ibiza.”

  “Oh Jesus! I totally forgot about that,” Xander exclaims, slapping his palm to his forehead.

  “Thought so,” Jude says, triumphant.

  “I don’t know what you two are talking about,” I say, “but can we please go before I get grounded for the rest of my life?” I’m losing my patience, not because I might lose my freedom if I don’t get home ASAP, but because I feel so out of the loop.

  “Sorry,” they chime in unison. I wave goodbye to everyone at the table, and Xander leads me through the crowd by the hand.

  Just before we walk out the door, I pause to look over my shoulder at the stage. There’s Christian, wearing a smirk and waving at us. He says into the microphone, “This one’s for Evie,” and starts playing Slash’s guitar solo at the beginning of “Sweet
Child O’ Mine.” The crowd goes wild, and I catch Xander flipping Christian the finger as we exit the club. But I say nothing, and neither does he.

  On the way home, I profusely apologize to Xander for making him leave the show early as I obsessively check my phone for missed calls or text messages from Javier—still nothing.

  “Listen, Evie,” Xander says, “I want to apologize for what happened back there with Christian. He has absolutely no boundaries.”

  “It’s okay,” I say with a shrug. But his description of Christian has got me wondering. “What do you mean, he has no boundaries?”

  “I mean that he doesn’t care who he hits on, or takes to bed, for that matter. That’s why Camilla doesn’t have any female friends. They’ve never said no to him.”

  “Oh,” I say, and I feel a crumb of sympathy for Camilla—until I remember her own behavior in the club. “I’m not justifying Christian’s actions, but I think the road goes both ways with those two. I mean, Camilla was a little more than just friendly with Jude. She was overly friendly with all the guys, really.”

  “She’s just friends with Jude. I think she likes to flirt with other guys to make Christian jealous, or maybe to give him a taste of his own medicine.” Xander’s voice is a little on edge, and I feel as though I’ve hit a nerve with him. “But who knows, Camilla loves being the center of attention—as if you couldn’t tell—and she doesn’t always command Christian’s undivided attention. So I think she tries to find it elsewhere, especially when she’s feeling particularly vulnerable. Actually, Jude would be a lot better boyfriend for her than that jackass Christian.”

  I’m wondering where all Xander’s hostility is really coming from. Do most teenage guys really care that much about their friends’ love life? Granted, Xander and Camilla have known each other since infancy, but it’s more than a little weird to me.