by Natasha Deen
“No—no, it wasn’t like he had shots of dead bodies. It was just parts of them.” Good one, Maggie, because that was way less creepy. I was too freaked to do anything but talk to my shoes. “Um, anyway, I thought it was interesting, and I thought I’d do something similar.”
“Did you get permission to for those pictures or did you just sneak into the morgue when your dad wasn’t watching?” asked Serge.
I glanced at Mr. Parks. “I have permission for all the images used.”
He nodded.
I slid the video in and went back to my seat. Mr. Parks shut off the lights and blessed darkness fell. For music I’d used Pachelbel’s Canon in D because everyone had it in their wedding processional. I’d wanted to put the song in a different context. I had put this together to confront the seeming creepiness of being an undertaker’s daughter, and I’d thought, “People already see me as a freak. What could it hurt?” But I sat there in the darkened room, watching the images of the dead next to the living, I realized it could hurt a lot.
The music ended and Mr. Parks flipped the lights, saying, “Very sensitive. Class? Any thoughts?”
A few kids raised their hands and said noncommittal things like good framing and nice use of contrasting colour. I took it for what it was, an olive branch offered by people too afraid to offer the tree. Short of my four friends, no one was brave enough to put themselves in Serge’s crosshairs.
Craig went after me. He did his video with the theme of life as a game and had a stadium rock soundtrack and images of sports battles and victorious players, their faces bloody, their teeth missing, but in their broken fingers, the trophy. Tammy, of course, did an ode to love as the essence of life, and Bruce had taken the project instructions literally. He’d done a five-minute video on one-celled creatures and their evolution into complex animals. A few more kids went and then class ended.
“Don’t let him get to you,” said Craig.
“Easy for you to say,” I told him.
His lips twisted to one side. “We all have embarrassing moments. If you let him get to you then you’re not the kick-butt chick I thought you were.”
My mouth went dry. He thought I was kick butt? “You thought I was—”
But he was on to other things. “Are you coming to the game?”
He was looking at the group, which dashed my hope he was subtly asking me out.
Tammy nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
We dodged kids in the hallway on the way to the next class and talked loudly to be heard above the noise.
“Would you really have benched Serge?” I asked Craig.
He grimaced. “McNally’s a threat and he knows it. If we want to get to regionals he has to play.”
I nodded.
He looked over. “I’m sorry. I would if—”
“Naw.” I brushed him off. “My wounded ego isn’t bigger than the school’s need to get a trophy.” If we didn’t start placing soon, funding would be cut. And if funding was cut then I would no longer get to see Craig wearing nothing but a pair of Speedos and a smile. A bigger tragedy I couldn’t think of.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
I waited for someone else to answer him but then I looked up and realized he was talking to me. Only me. “Uh, nothing.”
“Will you come to practice?”
I blinked. “Um—”
“I think something’s wrong with my technique,” he said. “We video the practices, but I need someone who’ll watch only me and tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
Holy crap. He wanted me to stare at his mostly-naked body. Somebody in the Great Locker Room in the sky really loved me. I nodded because I was drooling too much to talk.
“Great.” He grinned and headed down the hallway. I stood, watched, and thanked every chromosome and DNA strand that made up his firm butt. Too soon, the crowd of kids milling in the hallway swallowed him.
“Keep that up and you’ll turn the hallway into a pool.” Nell came up behind me.
“I don’t care. Mr. Parks says we’re supposed to take in and appreciate all forms of beauty.”
She snorted. “I think it’s a bit more than his beauty you want to take inside you.”
“I wish.” I was too chicken to have sex. Let’s face it, I worshipped the ground Craig walked on, but he was still a seventeen-year-old boy and I don’t give them any credit for being able to put a condom on right or keeping their mouths shut. I didn’t need my virgin lovemaking moves being the top story in the locker room and I wasn’t keen to be known as the “undertaker’s pregnant teenager.”
“I’m not a big fan of Speedos,” I said, “but on that boy, I’d take a thong.”
Nell grimaced. “Thongs aren’t meant for the male anatomy. They’re barely meant for female anatomies. I always feel like an underweight sumo wrestler when I wear one.”
“But on him, wouldn’t you want to see it, just once?” My vision went blurry as my fantasies sharpened. “Something in red, or zebra print.”
Nell choked on her bottle of water.
“You’re right,” I said. “Nix the zebra print. That would just be tacky.” I paused. “Leopard.”
She looked at me, her eyebrows went up.
“I’ll be Jane. He’d be Tarzan.”
She shook her head. “And which vine would you be swinging from?”
I grinned. “His.”
“Yeah, right. You’d never do it.”
She had me there. I punched her on the arm, then turned and headed to my next class, hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with Serge for the rest of the week. Of course, knowing my luck and his immense jerk factor, I was pretty sure it was a vain hope.
Chapter Three
The next day, when practice came, I was on the front lines of the pool, so close my toes were practically in the water.
“Hey, Maggie.”
I turned and saw Craig coming out of the locker room. He’d ducked under the shower before heading out. Beads of water slid down his skin, highlighting every bump and ridge of his abs and chest.
“Thanks for doing this.”
I nodded, my mouth wetter than the pool beside me.
“Don’t hold back. You’ve been to all our games, you know what I should be doing.”
“My eyes will be glued to your form, promise.”
He grinned. “Excellent. Thanks.” He held up his towel. “Do you mind holding this for me?”
I must have been beyond good in my previous life. I must have been a freakin’ saint. Not only was I going to watch my personal Adonis, but I was going to be the first one he came to after practice, when his muscles were bulging from exercise and he was breathing hard. I snatched the towel out of his hand. “No problem. I got this.”
He went to join his teammates and I took a spot on the retractable bleachers.
The coach blew the whistle and the guys dove in. He led them through a serious workout of laps and drills. Craig’s arms pistoned in the water, churning the waves into froth and making me wish I was a drop of water in the pool. The team broke into groups and the practice started. I was so entranced by Craig that I didn’t even care about Serge’s half-naked body occasionally coming into my line of view.
“Miss Johnson.”
I turned and stood. “Hello, Reverend Popov, Mrs. Popov.”
Neither of them moved. The Popovs made me seriously uncomfortable—they always had—and not for the obvious reason of being Serge’s parents. No matter what perfume Mrs. Popov wore, the scent of fermented apples followed her everywhere. And the reverend always wore a blood-red handkerchief in his blazer pocket. There was something about it—maybe the colour, maybe the too shiny, too slippery look of the silk—that left me feeling nauseous.
“I heard what he did to you,” he said, his watery blue eyes seemed to look through me, to a distant point be
hind my head. His face held a stony expression. “I apologize for his behaviour.”
It didn’t sound like an apology. It sounded like he was annoyed his kid was alive and even sorrier that I was, as well.
Mrs. Popov’s skinny, bony hands flapped towards me. “He can be a handful—he was always an over-active child—”
“Your excuses are why the boy’s as bad as he is.” The reverend spoke the words quietly, but the venom in his tone made me flinch.
It reminded me of another reason I’d never liked him—he was a bully, like his son.
Mrs. Popov’s eyes darted from me to her husband, and an apologetic smile trembled on her thin mouth. “I am so sorry he embarrassed you like he did. His practical jokes sometimes go too far—”
“There you go again,” said the reverend. He turned his rattlesnake gaze on her. “Excusing him.” He gripped her by the arm. The movement wasn’t hard but it was possessive. “Your son’s behaviour is shameful.”
He gave her a look that was lost on me but made her swallow and drop her gaze. Strands of her brown-turning-grey hair fell in front of her face.
“This family,” he said quietly to her, “carries enough shame.”
Her cheeks turned red.
I moved reflexively and took Mrs. Popov by the arm, tugging gently so her husband had no choice but to let go. “I accept your apology,” I told her.
Reverend Popov tried to stare me down, but I wasn’t in the mood to be intimidated.
She gave me a grateful smile.
He gave his wife a contemptuous glance.
My father may have taught me to respect authority, but this guy just pissed me off.
I glanced over at the pool. Craig was in the net, but Serge was watching us. He caught my gaze and looked away.
“Is this how you respect our marriage and the decisions I make?” asked the reverend.
His wife flinched.
“That’s enough,” I said. “You’ve apologized and I accepted—”
His nostrils flared; his lips curled back. “This is a private conversation, Miss Johnson. I apologized for Serge’s behaviour. Who will apologize for yours?”
The heat in my cheeks spread to my neck, and the pounding of my heart filled my ears. My eyebrows jerked to my hairline. I wanted to cuss him out, but contrary to what the reverend thought, I did know the consequences of my actions. And telling off a man of the cloth would get me in serious hot water with my father. I gave Mrs. Popov a tight smile and walked away. Taking a spot closer to the coach, I glanced over at where Serge was. Our gazes connected and the fury in his eyes left me trembling.
Chapter Four
“That family is twisted.” Craig wiped his face with his white towel.
We looked over to where they stood in a huddle, pressed to the side of the tiled walls like hieroglyphics coming to life. Mrs. Popov’s beige cardigan swallowed her thin frame. Her arms crossed her chest, held her tight and pulled the worn, wool fibres against her shoulders. The only colour on her came from the—fake, I was sure—peridot and ruby bracelet hanging from her fragile wrist. Serge stood in between his parents, water dripping off his body and pooling on the cement floor. His back was to us, the muscles tight, rigid.
“Do you think Reverend Popov beats them?” I asked.
Craig shrugged. “Abuse can be more than physical.” He turned his warm chocolate gaze on me. “What did they say to you?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “It started off like an apology then ended up with a warning I was going to go to hell.” I kept my gaze on the family, trying to see more, trying to sense…anything. But between the naked demi-god beside me and the terrifying guy in front of me, my emotions would only zip between lust and fear. “The whole thing’s weird. What are they doing here, anyway?” I turned to Craig. “Coming to his practice? That’s not their style.”
“Mrs. Popov comes occasionally, but the reverend…” Craig paused. “The whole thing’s weird.”
His tone made my skin prickle and I waited for him to say more.
He smiled, shook his head. “I know you were probably too pissed off to notice anything after they came in, but did you see anything off in the way I played tonight?”
“Sorry,” I sighed. Until the Popovs had come, I’d been fixating on a more sexy focus and hadn’t noticed anything. “To be honest, you looked perfect to me.”
He smiled, but worry robbed its brilliance. “Thanks. I hope I’m just as perfect at next week’s game.”
“Come on. Go shower and I’ll treat you to pizza.” It wasn’t exactly asking him out for a date, but it was close.
He sighed and rubbed his hair with the towel.
My eyes lingered on his abs. Reluctant to reveal myself as the lech I really was, I dragged my gaze back to his face.
“I’d love to, but it’s my mom and dad’s date night. I’m babysitting Zianna.”
It was plausible, believable, but the rejection stung. And it reminded me that given the opportunity to confide in me about the Popovs, he’d chosen silence. “Oh, right, sure.” I went for a nonchalant shrug. “Another time.”
His full lips pulled back to show teeth that—I swear—were designed for nipping my neck.
“Promise.” He pivoted for the showers. “Maybe tomorrow, after the game?”
Excitement made me hold my breath. “Yeah.”
“Cool. We’ll grab the gang.”
Great. I was getting a too-clear idea of how much alone time he really wanted, but I forced a smile. “The gang. Sure.”
He left.
I turned back to the Popovs. His parents had gone, but Serge stared at the ground like he wanted to beat the tiles until they were dust.
He looked up and his gaze honed on me.
I tripped over my sneakers as I ran for the exit. Serge came at me, hard and fast. His iron fingers clamped onto my shoulder and dug into the muscle. I winced as a moan of pain betrayed me. My knees buckled.
Serge wrenched me upright, spun me around, and grabbing me by the throat, backed me against the wall. I peered past his shoulder, but the place was empty.
The water cut and reflected the lights of the pool, casting forks of yellow and white that danced and rippled along the ceiling. There was no sound, not even the sound of my breathing or of Serge’s. My lack of inhalation, I understood, but the fact that he wasn’t breathing…that was terrifying.
Trying to force air into my lungs, I turned my focus to the boy whose thumb dug into my carotid.
Every crooked edge of his freckles was highlighted by the white fury that mottled his face. “What did they say?” The question came out quiet, hushed.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “I—I can’t rememb—”
The dry heat of his body radiated into my flesh and the smell of pepper filled the air as his fist brushed my cheek. I heard the sick crunch of bone hitting tile. Warm, wet spatters of blood hit my cheek but I was too freaked out to wipe them away.
“I asked you, what did they say?” His voice went quieter, almost a whisper.
He asked the question with a casual tone that set my teeth on edge, sucked the marrow from my bones. “I don’t know—I don’t remember.”
He pushed his face close to mine.
The chlorine evaporating off his body made my nose burn and my eyes water. “I promise—God—I swear!” I could barely push the words past the terror clogging my throat.
“Good—”
His breath was hot, moist, and smelled of stale beer.
“If anyone asks, that’s exactly what you tell them.” He leaned in, so close his freckles blurred into a blob. “I’m apologizing, you hear me?”
I nodded.
His fingers squeezed tight. “You hear me?”
I wheezed my answer. “Y-yeah, I hear you.”
“Good. My parent
s ask and I was truly sorry, hear?”
I grunted, my mouth too dry to speak.
He let go then jabbed me in the chest, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. “You say different, you tell anyone about our conversation, and next time, it’ll be you in that trunk.” He spun on his heel and stomped away.
Chapter Five
I sat on the cold tile so long that the chill spread from my butt to my hips, but I was too freaked to move. Serge was a crazy bastard. However, I’d never counted on him being so close to the line of murdering psychopath. I didn’t know if he was planning on revisiting our talk, maybe adding in some physical persuasion, and figured the best thing to do was wait until he left. Of course, short of going into the boys’ locker room I had no way to find out if he’d gone. The smart thing: wait.
Sixty minutes came and went. I wrapped my arms around my chest and gave him an extra half-hour, just in case he’d decided to blow dry his hair. I’m not a coward, but I’m not stupid either. A hundred and fifteen pounds of freaked-out girl is no match for two hundred and thirty pounds of lunatic. From the boys’ change room, I heard the sound of locker stalls being opened and closed.
Then I heard the footsteps.
I swallowed.
They were coming my way.
I tried not to hyperventilate and to think of three deadly things I could do to protect myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t think smacking Serge with the paddleboard would render him unconscious or powerless. Nor did I know how to make a proper fist. On the plus, my long hair was pulled back in a braid that reached my waist, and I’d seen a Kung-Fu movie where a girl had used her braid like a whip. I jumped to my feet and did a practice head-whip. Instead of helping me find a useful defensive move, it gave me a head rush and whiplash. I winced in pain and grabbed my neck.
A figure appeared.
Fear made my vision blur, but the height difference between this person and my tormentor assured me it wasn’t Serge.
“Maggie?”
The sudden rush of relief left me swooning. I grabbed hold of the wall to stabilize myself. “Oh, hi, Mr. Donalds.”
