by Cole Gibsen
I gave him an appreciative smile before walking back to the porch where my mother waited. “Did you need something?”
Debbie frowned. “Rileigh, he’s gorgeous.”
I clenched my teeth. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“He looks smooth. Did you see his car?”
“Yes, Mom.”
She met my eyes. “You’re a good girl, Rileigh. I know you’ll be careful.” She paused a moment before digging into her pocket and pulling out a business card. “On a side note, he has fantastic bone structure. If he’s interested in doing some modeling, tell him to give me a call.”
“Sure thing.” I took the card, careful to not let her see me crumple it in my fist as I turned and made my way back to Whitley’s car.
“Have fun,” Debbie called after me. “I have a date myself, so I’ll probably be home late.”
Without answering, I threw my hand up in a backward wave as I made my way to the passenger side of the car.
Whitley smiled as I slid into the seat. He wore jeans, a blue-striped collared shirt, and a brown corduroy jacket. “You look … ” He stopped and tried again. “You look … God, I can’t come up with anything to describe how amazing you look.” He wore his hair down, styled back from his face, the ends brushing his collar.
I felt the heat of color burn my cheeks to almost painful degrees and quickly turned my head, pretending to study the armrest. Those damn dimples were back and once again wreaking havoc. Quickly, I ran a list through my mind of things that would help me calm down: spiders (ew), picking gravel out of road rash (so nasty), and that colon-cleanse infomercial. (I realized too late that the last one was overkill and I shuddered.)
Finally, with my composure restored, I settled back into the cushy leather and buckled the seat belt. “Nice car.”
He shrugged. “I inherited it.”
I flinched. Real smooth, Rileigh. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged again. “That’s okay, you didn’t know.” He waved his hand dismissively. “So what do you want to do? I was originally thinking coffee … but with the way you look, now I’m thinking we should go someplace nicer.”
“Coffee’s perfect.” And it was. It avoided the awkwardness of an expensive restaurant or the uncomfortable silence of a movie. It was the perfect place to sit and talk.
So we left my house in South St. Louis and ventured deeper into the heart of the city. We arrived at a colorful coffee bar only blocks away from the Anheuser-Busch Brewery. The aroma of roasted coffee beans nullified the smells of hops and barley that filled the darkening night.
Inside, we ordered our lattes and perched next to each other on an overstuffed, stained loveseat. From there, we could hear each other above the music from an acoustic guitar player with enough piercings to skip the rod and line and catch fish with his face.
I learned Whitley had come to St. Louis from Los Angeles to stay with a relative after his dad died. His mother died when he was a baby. Despite these tragedies, he had a great sense of humor. After one particular joke, I laughed so hard that I had to place my hand on his shoulder to steady myself. My heart skipped as the heat from his body and my fingers mixed. Slowly, I forgot how screwed up my life was and actually felt like a normal girl on a date with a cute guy.
We continued to talk and laugh until the coffee bar had cleared out and the employees, wiping the already clean tabletops, shot nasty looks in our direction. I gasped, looking at a clock behind the counter. “It’s a quarter after eleven!”
“Yikes!” Whitley jumped to his feet. “I’ve got an early morning.” He held out his hand. “I hate saying this, but, ready to go?”
“Guess we better.” I smiled, slipping my hand inside of his. He curled his fingers around mine, pulling me gently to my feet and leading me through the door.
Once outside, Whitley released my hand and searched through the front and back pockets of his pants.
I stopped beside him. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
He looked up with a sheepish grin. “Can’t find my wallet. I probably left it at the counter.”
“No biggie.” I shrugged. “If you want to go inside and grab it, I can wait out here.” The breezy summer night felt delicious against my skin.
“I’ll hurry. Promise you won’t go running off with a better-looking guy while I’m gone?” His smile was dazzling. A giggle erupted from my mouth before I could smother it with my hands.
Whitley gave my hands a quick squeeze before explaining his situation to the girl outside cleaning windows. After he smiled at her, she appeared more than eager to escort him back inside, abandoning her squeegee and glass cleaner on the stairs like an afterthought.
Alone except for the occasional passing car, I settled down onto the concrete steps and enjoyed the warm gust that blew in from the river. It carried a sweet smell, like clay and damp wood, and I breathed deeply. The night was quiet, but that was typical for a Tuesday evening. I had visited this Soulard coffeehouse before, but I hadn’t been able to hear the soft whoosh of cars traveling along the nearby interstate like I could now. Come the weekend, I knew no one would hear anything over the laughter and shouts from people leaving the bars and restaurants that stayed open until the early hours of the morning.
I no sooner leaned against the cool concrete with a contented sigh when a shrill voice called out to me. “Oh. My. God. I don’t believe it.”
I tensed. There was only one person who had a voice similar to the squeal of car tires braking at eighty miles per hour. Quentin’s sister Carly.
The five-foot-ten-inch captain of the cheerleading squad marched up to me with two Bratz doll clones in tow. She lifted her hand and made an exaggerated effort to push her curtain of hair behind her back, making sure to call attention to the nightclub band tied to her wrist. The same neon-green band was tied to the wrists of her minions.
“How are you?” She pulled me up into the kind of hug you’d give someone with leprosy. I made a show of returning the gesture. This was how it had worked with us since junior high. It was no secret that she hated me and that I returned the sentiment, but we had an unspoken agreement to never let our feelings show directly. Since Carly was Quentin’s twin and I was his best friend, an out-and-out war would get us both in big trouble with Quentin’s mom. So we relied on cold war tactics like spreading rumors through anonymous Internet profiles.
But now, as I pulled away from the smell of beer and cigarettes, the whole thing seemed ridiculous.
“I’m good.” I forced a toothy smile that I hoped didn’t look too much like a snarl.
“Oh, thank God.” Carly splayed cotton candy pink nails against her chest. “After Quentin told me about your attack, I was sooo worried. We all were.” When the dolls on either side of Carly didn’t move, she shot them a narrowed glance. A moment of silent confusion passed before the dolls recovered and voiced their agreement.
“See?” Carly smiled proudly. “We would just hate it if something happed to you, Rileigh. You’re such a good friend.” She gave me another half-hearted hug.
“Thanks, Carly.” My smile wavered, strained from being stretched over my teeth for so long. “You’re too sweet.”
She opened her Coach clutch and pulled out a compact. “What are friends for?” After studying her reflection for a moment, she snapped the compact shut and gazed at something over my shoulder. “Ugh. Great.” She curled her lip in disgust.
I looked behind me to find a broad-shouldered man in a long jacket lumbering toward us. The first stirrings of a cool breeze blew a flutter through the ends of my hair. I knew what that meant—someone was waking up.
My smile vanished. “Please no. Not in front of Carly,” I whispered under my breath. I could feel each pop and snap of electricity as the message to prepare for a fight circuited through my nerves. My muscles twitched and tightened in response.
The stranger picked up his pace and called out to us, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Hey! You there!”
Bef
ore I could answer, Carly huffed and shoved her compact back into her clutch. “Keep on moving, loser. We don’t have any change!”
He stopped in the middle of the road and pointed at me. I could feel the malice in the gesture as if he had jabbed the finger into my chest. “You there.” The overhead streetlight illuminated two red devil horns that had been tattooed on both sides of the man’s shaved head.
The dolls tensed behind Carly, but she only scoffed. “Whatever, dude. Look, we’re not joining your church of crazy or buying anything you have to sell, so you better beat it before I call the cops.”
She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and held it up, but it vanished from her grip and wound up wedged in the wooden door behind me, secured by a silver-pointed star.
22
Carly’s scream sounded distant as the spirit took over and pushed me deep into my mind. Once again, the ribbons of silk unfolded into my limbs, but this time something felt different. As the spirit flexed each of my muscles and sunk my weight back on my heels, I curled my hand and produced a fist. Though it wasn’t complete, I had maintained some control.
The man threw his jacket into a heap at his feet. “Nobody’s going anywhere, except you.” He locked his yellow-brown eyes on me. “You’re coming with me.”
I descended the stairs and widened my stance on the sidewalk, my fear replaced by eagerness. I wanted to punch this guy’s face in.
But wait. That wasn’t right. I didn’t want to fight … did I?
I couldn’t remember.
It was like I was taking a test labeled Who is Rileigh Martin? And instead of answers there were pictures floating inside my head. Pictures of my skateboard, a katana, Quentin, the hair salon, Kim, Whitley, school, the skate park, the dojo—and the problem was, no one told me if the test was single answer, multiple choice, or essay.
“You can have her!” Carly squealed, pulling me from my thoughts. Two sets of slender fingers grasped my shoulders and shoved me forward. “Just don’t hurt us!”
So much for being friends. I stopped her advance by wedging a heel into a crack in the sidewalk. As she continued to push at me, I snagged one of her wrists and twisted it at the same time I lifted her arm. Carly stumbled to her knees, yelping, helpless to move without snapping her wrist.
The tattooed thug stopped his advance and smirked as he appeared to drink us in with his eyes. “Ladies, by all means, if you’re going to fight, go ahead. I can wait.”
I made a disgusted sound. “Don’t worry, I’ll get to you next.” I turned my attention from him and lowered my lips to Carly’s ear. “Listen carefully. We’re done pretending to be friends. From here on out, you will not look at me, you will not talk to me, and most of all you will not touch me. Got that?”
She nodded, hiccupping through the sobs that shook her body.
“Good.” I released her arm. She scrambled backward and nearly knocked over the frozen dolls. They regained their balance, but still none of them moved.
“What are you still doing here?” I pointed a finger down the street. “Run!”
They didn’t need to be told twice. They bolted, but not before Carly shouted over her shoulder, “Rileigh Martin, you are such a freak!”
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled. Then I turned to face Devil-boy, who stood staring at me with a bemused grin. “Now, where were we?”
The smile vanished as he reached behind his back. When his hand reappeared, he held a strange weapon that looked like two wooden rods connected by a chain.
The voice swirled in my head like a winter fog: nunchaku.
Devil-boy held the weapon over his head and charged. I had only a second to duck to avoid missing the heavy wood as it whizzed over my head. Sneering, he swung the nunchaku again, low enough this time that I could feel the weapon pulling at a few unruly hairs curling around my part. A centimeter lower and I would be spoon-fed lime gelatin in a hospital somewhere as I drooled into a pillow. Not cool.
Devil-boy grinned. “Slippery little thing, aren’t ya?” He licked his lips. “Let’s see you dodge this!” Instead of swinging the nunchaku as before, he bore them down on top of me.
I watched the arc of his arm as it came down and waited until the last possible moment. I could feel the rumble of my heart as it sped up, like a distant train, but it was too far away to distract me. I could see in his eyes that Devil-boy thought he had me, so he added a bit of last-minute power to his blow. And that was exactly what I wanted.
I dodged to his side, but because of Devil-boy’s last-minute power surge, he stumbled forward when his nunchaku swept only air. I had enough time to see his eyes widen in shock before his broad shoulders were in front of me. I pushed as hard as I could.
The combination of his momentum and my added shove sent Devil-boy staggering into the brick wall of the coffeehouse. His neck snapped back violently as his forehead collided into the building. I thought for sure he’d go down, but after taking a moment to regroup, he shook himself like a dog getting out of a bath.
When he finally turned around, I thought I might be sick. A thick line of blood trailed from a gash in his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, where it wound down the side of his nostril and onto his lips. He smiled, his teeth red and glistening. He spit a crimson glob on the sidewalk next to his boot. “It’s not going to be that easy,” he growled.
I sighed and spread my stance into a ready position. “It never is.”
He spun the nunchaku in his hand and thundered toward me again. But this time he moved like a drunken bull, his feet scraping the ground in a clumsy shuffle. The head injury had done more damage than he was willing to let on. He swung the nunchaku wide, and I ducked under them, but this time, when I rose to my feet, I planted my left fist into the back of his head.
We both cried out in pain at the same time. Who knew that punching someone hurt so much? Devil-boy staggered, which was good because I was too busy waving my sore hand in the air to dodge an immediate attack.
He spit several more wads of bloody goo onto the sidewalk before swinging at me again. This time, however, I could tell that he was struggling to keep upright and the strike was easy to avoid. When I righted myself, I answered his attack by planting my knee into his stomach. He doubled over and I used that moment to punch his left temple with my right hand.
He cursed and I bit my lip to keep from doing the same as tears of pain dotted my eyes. I looked down at my hands and noticed that not only were my knuckles red and swollen, but one of my freshly painted nails had a chip in it.
“Dang it!” Anger burst through the numbing calm burning through my blood with enough heat that I wondered if I might spontaneously combust. It was stupid to be upset over a chipped nail—I knew that. But my life was unraveling at the seams and for that, someone was going to pay.
I launched myself at Devil-boy as he staggered to his feet.
Before he knew what’d hit him, I lashed out with a backhand to the base of his skull and followed it with a spinning kick to his spine. Devil-boy took one wobbly step, then another, before sinking to his knees.
He shook his head. “This isn’t over.” Slowly, he rose to his feet.
I knew he would keep coming at me as long as he held the nunchaku. Scanning the street, I looked for something to disarm him with. When I saw the cleaning supplies the coffeeshop employee had abandoned on the steps, I had an idea.
As Devil-boy worked his way to his feet, I dashed up the stairs and grabbed the squeegee. When I descended, he was glaring at me, his face a road map of blood. He held the nunchaku up and began to spin them wildly over his head as he made his charge.
I dug my heels in the ground and waited, fear a thick knot in my throat.
Devil-boy let out an anguished cry as he bore the weapon down on my head, but this time, instead of dodging, I lifted my arms and met the blow with the squeegee. One of the wooden rods wrapped around the long handle. When I pulled back, the flat rubber squeegee locked Devil-boy’s weapon in place. Another tug and
I ripped the nunchaku from his grasp.
Devil-boy stared at his empty hands as if he couldn’t figure out what had happened.
With an expert throw, unlike my usual girlish tosses, I launched the squeegee-nunchaku knot into the neighboring alleyway. Afterward, I dusted my hands. “Are we done here?”
He spit more blood onto the walk. “Not even close.” He reached back into his waist pocket and pulled out a gun.
Oh. Snap.
The ribbons of silk unraveled from underneath my skin, leaving me cold and drowning in fear. Why now? Why would the spirit abandon me when I was staring down the barrel of a gun? I took a step backward and tripped on the stairs, landing sharply on my butt.
Devil-boy cocked the trigger. “You’re going to pay for what you did to me. Maybe I’ll shoot you in the leg. Boss says you’re supposed to be left unharmed, but I can say it was an accident.” He licked at the blood still flowing down his face and spit again, his eyes wild.
I pressed myself against the concrete while my pulse beat divots into my veins. How do you fight a bullet? I opened my mouth to scream, but the sound only knotted inside my throat.
Devil-boy leaned in. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
It was at that moment I learned a fun fact: When a gun is pointed at you, it is physically impossible not to stare at it. Seriously. The closer the barrel moved to my head, the more desperate I became to close my eyes. But they refused to budge. It was like someone had stapled my eyelids to the top of my skull.
The gun moved nearer, the barrel growing larger until its black depths filled my vision.
“Nighty-night,” Devil-boy whispered.
I held my breath and waited to die.
But Devil-boy never pulled the trigger.
Instead, he shrieked and dropped the gun to the sidewalk.
As if by magic I could move again, breathe again. But I couldn’t understand why, and what I saw didn’t make sense.
Where Devil-boy had once been standing, he was now hunched over, pawing at his face as he moaned.
