by A. E. Rought
He stops the DVD and retrieves it while I stand yawning, with my eyes watering. I can’t fight the pout when he pulls on his jacket. “Don’t worry,” he promises, “You’ll see me soon.”
At the door, Alex cups my face in both hands and pours his gaze on me.
“What does this make us?” I blurt.
The stairs creak, and Mom says, “Time for your boyfriend to go home.”
“There’s your answer,” he says, all soft. “You’re mine.”
“I like that.”
One more light kiss, and he says, “Me, too. Sweet dreams, Emma.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mine. The word vines through my mind, wrapping sweet nettles around it. The way he said it, the way I feel it, on a level deeper than easy emotions. It cuts to the heart, and through. Things haven’t been easy from the first day to this. Bring on trouble. Bring on the rumors.
“Never invite trouble,” my mom likes to say.
Standing outside Mugz-n-Chugz on a chilly Friday morning, I can understand why. The rumors once flocking around Alex swoop in on me, blacker and sharper-clawed than the crows in his gossip murder. Tiny’s Walk-Up line has morphed from zombies to wide-eyed whisperers. Josie Cummings and Faith Lewis take on the task of trying to humiliate me with a special zeal.
“OhmyGod,” Josie says in a whisper meant to be heard, “Can you believe how fast she moved on to Alex Franks?”
Of course she can’t, because the hypocrite harpy squad wasn’t all over him the first day. Josie wasn’t drooling over him, and her friend Ally wasn’t claiming him. They mock and throw stones in my mourning, but I move on and they crucify me.
“I know,” Faith agrees, skewering me with a bitchy glance. “Daniel must not’ve meant anything if she’s hooking up with Alex already.”
Some sophomore acolyte of the harpies even pipes in with, “Pretty pathetic.”
The words hurt, biting and mean like they’re meant to be. They won’t get the reaction they want out of me. I might not know why Alex has so many of Daniel’s traits, but I do know he’s mine, and whispering isn’t going to change it.
“Pathetic?” I stalk up to them. “You wanna know what’s really pathetic? Your lives are so damn empty you have to fill them up with what’s happening in mine.”
A volley of “You bitch,” and “How dare you?” shoots from the trio and peppers me. But, right now, I’m beyond them hurting me anymore. I’ve given them that honor too many times. Instead, I give them a bright, wide smile when they walk away. Tiny must’ve heard it all. His normally happy demeanor is flat and stale as day old coffee. He doesn’t flirt, suggest, hint, just takes my order and delivers the drinks.
Bree’s on the bench and waiting for me. The pink of her jacket matches the pink in her cheeks and nose from the cold. Few things can warm her up quicker than what I’m carrying, both in the Mugz-n-Chugz cup, and in my heart. I drop on one knee, holding the cup up like Alex had offered the drinks at the dance, a holy chalice.
“Is that chai tea?” She blinks, her pink glitter eyeshadow winking light back at me.
“Extra whipping cream and cinnamon,” I add.
“Gimme that.” Chai sloshes in the paper cup when she grabs it. Steam curls through the hole, wraps her nose and she inhales. The sniff is followed by a long sip. “Oh, yummy.” Then she lifts a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “What has you in a chai tea buying mood?”
“Oh, you know, plenty of sleep, Mom made me an awesome breakfast…”
Another sip. “And…?”
“And I may have a boyfriend.” I wish I could keep the smile off my face. It would be easier to joke around if I didn’t look like a total fool for Alex. And it’s easier to be excited when I don’t think about Daniel.
“Yes!” She thrusts a fist into the air and jumps up. Heads swivel our way, and a light goes on in Bree’s eyes. The mischief kind of light I know is bringing a public embarrassment my way. Her skirt flips up and shows way too much thigh before gravity yanks it back down when she jumps up onto the Bree Bench.
“What are you doing?” I flick a quick glance around the quad. “Get down before someone thinks I’m worshipping you.”
“Honey, you already do,” she teases. Then she stands straight, cupping one hand by her mouth, and shouts, “Attention Shelley High Ravens! Alex Franks is off limits! My friend Emma—”
I yank the chai cup from her hand.
“What the hell?” She huffs, then jumps down to the walkway again. “If it’s official, then the whole school should know.”
“Maybe he wants to perpetuate gossip,” I suggest. God knows it’s flying around.
“Whatever.” Bree snatches the cup and guzzles her tea. “That boy’s been into you since day one.”
“So you’ve said.” Grabbing her by the elbow brings no complaint. She’s too busy sucking down the sugary sweet tea. I drag her toward the door. Before stepping inside, I chuck my coffee cup into the garbage.
“What are you love birds up to tonight?”
“Um…” Does she know about the accident? His injuries? It’s not my place to tell her about Alex’s weekly treatments. Heck, I’ve just learned about them myself. “He’s fighting a relapse of whatever he had last week. His dad’s keeping him home tonight.”
“Bummer.”
Tell me about it.
The morning passes in a long slow drag of painful clarity. Days of skating by and day dreaming and worrying about Alex have me way behind. Fighting hand cramps and broken pencil leads, I take notes, ask questions, fight to get caught up. The Ugly Room and my gym class are a welcome break from the thinking marathon. Nothing the harpy squad says can touch me—they already tried. The haunting echoes on the catwalk still scrape my nerves raw, but in minutes I’m past them.
I check my cell phone at lunch, hoping for a text from Alex. Nothing. Does the booster and shot make him too sick to text? Does it knock him out completely? Whatever the case is, I don’t hear from Alex the rest of the day. Somehow, being his girlfriend seems tainted, or hollow, being at school without him.
“What’s up for you tonight?” Bree asks me at my locker. “Nice door, by the way, is that new?”
“Nothing,” I say, stuffing my backpack one-handed. “And yes.”
“Care to clarify that?”
“Nothing’s up tonight, and yes it is a new locker door. Alex ordered it for me.”
“Wow.” Bree drags out the ‘o,’ and I know something sassy is coming next. “Most guys just give their girlfriends their class rings. Maybe a necklace. Yours gets you a new locker door. How romantic.”
“Actually, the note accompanying it was very romantic.” I hunt on my top shelf and can’t find it. It’s not in the clutter in the main section, either. “He had the new door installed Monday morning because he couldn’t be here to open the old locker for me.” I struggle into my backpack one-handed. “I thought it was very sweet.”
“It is when you say it like that.” Bree’s phone warbles some Top Forty tune in her purse. She pulls it out, flips it open and has a really short conversation. “Okay. That was Jason. We’re going to DarkHouse tomorrow night. You’re bringing Lover Boy.”
DarkHouse. The busiest teen hot spot in the West Michigan area. Also the place with the worst reputation. Drug raids in the parking lot. A stabbing. One guy was mugged. Another went missing. I’d have to lie to my parents—there’s no way they’d let me go to the scene where one of the guys disappeared from last spring.
“Well thanks for informing me.” I roll my eyes, and check my phone again. Still no text. “I’m not sure Alex’ll be up to it.”
“He’ll just have to be. He looked great on Saturday after being sick on Friday.”
“Okay, okay. You’re so bossy!” Her curtain of hair swishes, and she stumbles a little when I nudge her from behind.
“What was that for?” Bree snaps, brown eyes wide when she whips around.
“I don’t know… You’re being so pushy I figured it was okay to
push you too.”
She shakes her head, mouths, “Good one,” then flags down her mom’s car.
“Wanna spend the weekend at my house? Then you wouldn’t have to try sneaking out on Saturday…”
Bree knows my mother well. The lure of DarkHouse, with Alex, is huge. Not just because most of Shelley High goes there. Because I want to be wrapped in his arms, buried in darkness and drenched in rhythm. DarkHouse is square, cement, with blacked-out windows and horrid, rancid green neon signs outside. Inside it’s all black, floors, walls, chairs—everything—and lit with blacklight so anything light, white, or acid-washed glows. And Bree’s hair. Something about the bleach she uses does it.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them…” she urges.
Sneaking, lying by omission, and drowning in Alex…
“Okay, fine. You win!”
“About time you just cave and let me have my way.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I wink and wave to her mom when she pulls up to the curb. “I have to keep my arguing skills sharp.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to just be agreeable every now and then.” She opens the passenger side door and sits. “See you tonight! Bring clothes for two days.”
I wave, then watch them pull away from the curb. Bree’s the best, but I can’t believe how easily she railroads me. Alex knows how to push my buttons at a distance, Bree knows how to push them and wring a tune from me. Yes, yes, yes, and suddenly I’m roped into going to the biggest nightclub in town with my new boyfriend.
Hopefully, he’s up to the challenge.
#
The factory setting ringtone on my phone wakes me in the middle of the night. I roll off Bree’s trundle bed, wade on hands and knees through a deluge of clothes and shoes and accessories toward the outlet. My right hand aches, I’m so fuzzy from sleep it takes a moment for my brain to catch up and realize it hurts because it’s broken and I’m crawling on it.
I grab the phone, snap it open and whisper harshly, “Hello?”
The alarm clock above me reads 2:00 AM. My foggy brain and dead-weight body agree.
“Hey!” Surprise kicks Alex’s voice up a notch. His voice has the same affect on my heart rate. “Um…You caught me off guard. I thought your phone would be off and I was going to leave you a voice mail for the morning.”
“Aw. That’s so sweet.” Waking and hearing Alex’s voice… It is very sweet now and would’ve been a wonderful surprise. Bree’s snores choke off and I shoot a glance at her bed. She rolls over, teddy bear in a stranglehold, and mumbling in her sleep. “I’m glad you called.”
“You are?” I’m sure the scar is tugging his left eye from the smile I hear in his voice. “Me, too. I…missed seeing you today.”
“Technically it’s tomorrow now.”
His laughter is as warm and cozy as the quilts I was under. “You are picky and persistent. Okay, so I missed you yesterday.”
“Then let’s not let that happen today. Bree and Jason want us to go out with them tonight.”
“Where?” A quizzical and mistrusting tone darkens his voice.
“DarkHouse.”
“Really?” The mistrust plummets to dislike. “I’m not fond of the nightclub scene, Emma. Bad things happened there.” He’s silent a moment, and makes a decision. “I’ll go. Someone has to be your bodyguard.”
“Mm. Guarding my body—I like the sound of that. I’ll text you when I know more, okay?”
“Definitely.”
“Sweet dreams, Alex.”
“They’re always about you.” And he disconnects the phone.
Alex has been the lead character in every dream I’ve had since I met him. Mine have all been nightmares. Just once I’d like to look at Alex and see him the way he sees me, a waking dream, the person who is and you never thought would be.
Shutting off the phone this time, I crawl back through the remnants of Bree’s Pick Emma’s Outfit marathon, and then climb under the blankets. Looking down, I see the empty spot at the end of the bed where Renfield would be sleeping if I were at home. Sure, he can be rotten—I still miss him.
Despite Bree’s snores and the lump in the mattress from the support bar underneath, I fall back to sleep. Dreamless. No graveyards, no dead boyfriends, and no white cats.
#
A line of people stretches at least a third of the way down the city block. Faces turn toward the building, hands come up to shield profiles that might be seen in headlight glare. The reaction affects at least half of them, twitching and turning every time a car drives past. Which, being in the downtown district, is quite often. How many kids are here without their parent’s permission, dreading the sight of a familiar car? How many are waiting in line, saving a spot for their Significant Other?
That would be me.
“Where is he?” Bree asks, her jaw chattering in the cold. Jason Weller unzips his neon green hoodie and invites Bree inside with him. A flash of a genuine emotion crosses her face, and it’s obvious that she likes him, likes him. She backs into Jason’s jacket and shivers in his arms. “You told Lover Boy nine o’clock, right?”
“For the third time, Bree. Yes, I told him to meet us here at nine.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how to get here,” Jason suggests.
“Everybody knows how to get to DarkHouse,” Bree says, then executes a spin inside the jacket and buries her face in his neck.
“Jeezus, woman!” Poor Jason’s eyes go wide as coffee mugs. “You’re freezing.”
“Duh.” Bree squirms closer, and Jason wraps his arms around her. The emotion on his face isn’t a flash, but a slow build to something deep, and much warmer than the West Michigan night.
“If she’d just wear something bigger,” I nag, “than that miniskirt and flimsy blouse…”
Sure, the black skirt and tank top with the white lace overlay will look amazing under black light… I missed out on the Style versus Substance gene. Chilly air bites into my face and hands, but only nibbles elsewhere. My jeans, tank top and clingy white thermal hoodie might not be sexy, but I’m not freezing my butt off, either.
“Well, look who it is,” Jason says, inclining his head behind me.
I spin. Alex saunters up along the vein of people bleeding into obscurity around the corner. Tall, unbelievably gorgeous in jeans, a black t-shirt and a white knit hoodie—hood up, sleeves down. His eyes fall on me, and the same flicker of amazement washes his features, then the smile tugs at his scars. Girls up and down the line turn to him, cleavages and boobs lifting and tracking, like indicators on radar.
“Hey, Jason,” Alex says, with a guy-to-guy nod, then adds, “Hi, Bree.”
“Hi,” comes in stereo, one part clear and strong, the other muffled like a voice in a fog.
With pleasantries over, Alex focuses on me.
“Hey,” he says. He steps close, electricity dancing across my skin, streaking through me. His skin is a healthy, vital shade, his eyes bright almost glowing hazels. A gravitational pull hits me when he opens his arms, and invites, “Com’ere.”
I slide into his embrace, the last puzzle piece clicking home. I’m vaguely aware of a dozen crestfallen girls, and Bree turning around inside Jason’s hoodie again. When Alex slips two fingers under my chin and tilts my face toward his, we could be the only two people on earth.
Taking the invitation, I pop up on my toes and press my lips to his. His little gasp of surprise is a sweet reward. Then things slip past sweet and into blood-warming savory when he deepens the kiss, parts my lips with his and slides his arms around my back. People watch and I don’t care. I fling up both hands, and slide my left into his hood to touch his hair. Alex smiles against my mouth, and kisses me one more time.
“Yep,” saves Bree. “It’s official.”
“You guys really only known each other a couple weeks?” Jason asks.
“Yeah.” Alex winks, and says, “We’re just getting started.”
He twirls me around and tucks me back-to-front in hi
s arms. The chilly, breezy night takes on a magical air as if nothing can touch us. We walk as one group in the long line, and finally meet the doorman. He’s as tall and wide as a door, with brutally short hair and a bull ring in his nose.
“IDs,” he grunts.
The four of us are proclaimed LightBringers, and given white wrist bands. DarkBringers are the 21-and-over crowd and get black wrist bands. Once past the doors, DarkHouse earns its name. When the interior is black, and lit with blacklight, everything loses dimension. Only the bar, the sunken pool room in the far corner and the bathrooms on the opposite wall are lit with normal light. The bar’s lighting is recessed, hidden behind the bottles of alcohol and tucked into overhead canister lights.
Music pumps from speakers, the bass deep and reaching into my chest. Alex pulls me tighter to him, no air left between us, taking his bodyguard duty very seriously, as we follow Jason deeper into DarkHouse. The guys find us a table close to the pool tables, then leave to hunt down a waitress or fight the rabble at the bar for drinks.
“He is so into you!” Bree shouts over the music.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” I yell back.
“Blazing?” she yells back, misunderstanding me. “He is hot…”
I shake my head and shout, “Nevermind.”
She gives me a smile and a thumbs-up. No one wants to think in DarkHouse—too much dim-lit eyecandy to entertain heavy thought. Beyond the edge of our table, DarkHouse becomes a churning cauldron of light and shadow. Shirts. Shoes. Occasionally, gloves. Acid-washed jeans. Alex looms into view, black within his hood making him look like a ghoul as he glides through the crowd. Jason’s annoyingly green hoodie isn’t far behind.
They tuck into the seats, both smelling of hot skin, warm cologne and the incense pumped into the air system. Added to Alex’s smells of leather and lightning, it’s...exciting.
The guys lean over the table, talking loudly. Jason shoots me a quick look then pats Alex on the shoulder. Even I can hear Jason say, “Awesome, man!”
Alex sinks to the seat beside me, trailing his fingers along my arms. I don’t know if he’s aware of the tingles he’s causing, but I feel like a wind-up toy being cranked, and cranked. When he pushes my hair from my ear, his breath sends hot shivers down me. “He asked what was going on. I told him you were off the market.”
