by J. A. Huss
She was just finishing up eighth grade in public school when I applied to the Parson School for Girls. I really didn’t expect her to get in since it was so late in the year. But the documents my parents left us included her SSAT results and glowing letters of recommendation from teachers at an East Coast boarding school.
So she did get in. I used the rest of the cash from my care package to pay the tuition and I worked hard so I could pay it again the following year.
I never finished high school and I never went to Harvard. But Oliver didn’t know that. I don’t think he looked too hard at my excuses. He liked me. I liked him. But our relationship was nothing but a diversion from the reality we lived with.
He had secrets, which was fine with me, because I had secrets of my own.
He went to church every Sunday, he explained that first weekend. And if I ever wanted to see him again all I had to do was show up for the eleven o’clock mass, wait in my pew for ten minutes after mass was over, then walk outside and get on the back of his bike.
He took me places almost every Sunday that summer. We went to the river, or the mountains, or down to Denver for lunch and a walk through a museum. Afterward we’d end up at his place fucking like we’d never see each other again.
After a few Sundays like that I’d show up on that bench across the street from his garage, dressed up like a makeshift schoolgirl. He’d pull up and I’d get on the bike. Then he’d drive us across the street and we’d… have fun. We had so much fun.
I allowed myself until August to enjoy a normal life and then, under the pretense of Harvard, I escorted my little sister to her dorm at Parson, told her I’d call every Sunday night, and I left town.
It had to be that way. I had to set things straight. I had to get my true freedom back if I ever wanted to stop this constant cycle of struggle.
And I had no choice. So I went. I left.
Oliver was part of someone’s plan, but it wasn’t my plan. He was never a plan to me. He was just… Oliver. The guy who wanted to save me, but decided to fuck me instead.
I’m glad he stopped trying to fix my life. Stopped offering money. It made it easier to keep him at a distance that summer.
I could not afford to drag an innocent person into my plans. I could not afford to fuck things up for Lily. She was the good that came out of all of my pain.
There is this thing artists have about pain and misery. One cannot create anything worthwhile unless it comes from hardship, or fear, or stress.
It’s stupid. I knew it was stupid. But I believed it as well. My struggle started with a sick man carving a threat across my throat. But that led to so many good things. A way out, a way forward, and the determination to make it all happen.
So I took that pain. I captured it on film and turned it beautiful. I showed it to the world so they’d all look at my work and think about the pain in their own lives and we’d commiserate until they opened their wallet because they needed my art to remind them of their own misery.
It’s stupid.
But I believed in it. Artists are delusional like that.
Unknown Number: Answer me.
I look at the phone until it goes dark and then pick it up and reply.
I can’t.
I won’t.
This is a mistake.
I erase it all and type… I’ll see you in fifty-seven minutes.
Chapter Thirteen - OLIVER
“Oliver?”
I look up from the message on my phone and try to concentrate on what we’re talking about in the here and now.
“Did you hear me?” Mac says.
I nod. Then shake my head. I haven’t heard a word since they all followed me into Ariel’s office.
“He’s dead,” Mac says. Pax reaches for the remote on Ariel’s desk and flicks on the TV mounted on the wall.
“Who?” I ask, still preoccupied with Katya.
“Brutus,” West and Mac say at the same time.
“Who the fuck is Brutus?” I’m still behind. Can’t possibly catch up right now.
“Allen,” Mac yells. “The rock star. You know, the guy you took the fall for back in school? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Jesus Christ, Mac. No need to scream like a bitch. And I didn’t take the fall for anybody, let alone that asshole.”
Mac just shakes his head at me. “You’re a liar. You call West a liar?” He huffs out some air. “You’re still lying. At least the rest of us have come clean.”
As if Mr. Perfect ever had anything to come clean about. I’ve never seen him pissed off before. Mac is cool, calm, and collected every moment of every day.
Except this moment right now.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Oliver,” Pax says, pointing at the TV. “Look.”
I glance up at the newscast. Brutus’ face—Allen, whatever he’s called these days—is on the screen. Video of people outside his Santa Fe compound—mourners and fans all gathered there to be sad together.
The headline says, Rock Star Dead After Execution-style Shooting.
And then another face we all know well is flashed beside his.
“What the fuck is she doing on the TV?” I look at Pax. He shakes his head and exhales a long, tired breath.
“She was his girlfriend,” Mac says. “Do you get what’s going on right now? The media has just tied Claudette Delaney to Brutus. And now everyone is looking at you and Pax, because you two were there. Pax shot her, Oliver. Do you fucking understand where this is all going? They have connected us. Us,” he yells again. “To the murder—”
“It wasn’t murder,” Pax interrupts.
“—of Claudette Delaney. And Allen connects us to the Mr. Brown case.”
I scrub both hands up and down my face for a few seconds, realize I badly need to shave and try to focus.
But I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
Katya is the only thing I think about right now.
“Nolan is pissed off,” West says.
“At who?” I ask. “Me? Pax? Because his piece-of-shit sister was some kind of secret society killer? Well, let me just fill you assholes in on something you don’t know, OK? My sister was invited into the Silver Society—”
“What?” Mac says.
“And you never bothered to mention this?” West says, slamming his fist down on the desk next to me.
“Just calm down,” Pax says, pushing West back with a flat hand to his chest.
“You knew?” Mac asks Pax. “He’s part of this Silver bullshit and you knew?”
“My mother told me—”
“Your mother told you?” West is about to lose his mind.
“Look,” I say, standing up, ready to make my getaway. “My sister was invited in. Five—”
“And just where the fuck is Five?” Mac asks.
“They killed her, OK?” I don’t want to think about this right now. Ever, actually. Everything about my family changed after Rory went missing. Everything. My parents were so sad. My sisters. And Five. God, it kills me to think about Five and Rory. Everything he did when he was younger, he did for her. “They killed her.” I say it as bluntly as I can just to get it over with and out in the open. “My sister was killed by these people. I’m not part of them. She wasn’t part of them.”
“You don’t know if she’s dead, Oliver.”
“She’s dead, Pax. I get that Cindy has high hopes, but Five told me she was dead, OK? Why would he tell me that if he wasn’t sure?”
“We need to get Nolan here,” Mac says. “You need to call him up and assure him that everything is fine and Ivy will be safe. And they need to get their asses here right the fuck now.”
“Why the hell would he listen to me? He doesn’t even like me. Hell, I don’t even like him. Goddamned pervert is what he is.”
Mac actually steps towards me, grabs my shirt by the collar, and tries to take a swing.
Pax pulls him back before
his fist connects with my face, and then everyone is yelling.
A sharp whistle makes us all stop and look at the open door where Ariel, Ellie, Cindy, and Tori are all standing there, mouths open.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Tori asks.
“Oh, my God,” Ellie says, her hand over her heart as she stares at the TV screen. “What?” She looks at Mac. “He’s dead?”
“Nice secret meeting,” Pax mumbles under his breath. “They won’t suspect a thing,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Ellie,” Mac tries to explain. “Just go back out there and let us sort this out.”
“Go back to the kitchen?” Ariel snaps. “I don’t think so.” And then she looks me dead in the eyes. “I want to know what’s going on, Oliver. And you’re going to tell me right the fuck now.”
I look at my watch.
“Why are you looking at your watch?” West asks. “You got something more important going on right now? You got somewhere else to be, Shrike? Because let me tell you something. You don’t. Your place is right here, right now, until we get your version of events that night.”
“Fuck you,” I say. And then I look at my sister. “And fuck you too. I’m not a little kid, Ariel. I’m not your baby brother you can just order around. I don’t need to explain myself to any of you, OK? None of you. And as far as I’m concerned, this meeting is adjourned.”
I only get a few steps towards the door when Mac pushes me against the wall and grabs my collar again. His face is pressed up right into mine and he spits the words out between his teeth. “You’re calling Nolan,” he growls. “You’re calling him up and you’re gonna tell him you’ve got everything under control. That he and Ivy are safe here. That Five is coming, OK? And all this shit will be dealt with. Because if you don’t, and anything happens to Nolan or Ivy out there in the motherfucking middle-of-nowhere desert resort they live in, I’m holding you responsible.”
He lets go of my collar and I look around at each of them in turn. West is glaring at me like I’m filth. Pax looks sympathetic, but he’s nodding his head, which means he agrees. I’ve never seen Mac so angry. And all the girls look scared out of their minds. Even Tori. Even Ariel.
I don’t say a word.
I just walk out.
Chapter Fourteen - KATYA
I left town in the middle of the night four years ago. Not because I was hiding or escaping. I was, in a way, doing both of those things. But that really wasn’t the reason I left town at four AM.
I was on a deadline.
It was a Sunday, so it was a day Oliver and I had spent together. We hung out at his place, just chatting and making lunch, then dinner, in that makeshift kitchen. Most of the building was a total construction zone. No workers were there, but they didn’t exactly clean up when they left on Friday, so the only place to really relax was up in his makeshift bedroom loft that still smelled of old tires.
Looking back now on the state of his home, and having become accustomed to the finer things in life as the years have passed, it makes me laugh. Picturing myself up in that loft surrounded by dust, and dirt, and industrial things that weren’t pieces of outsider art created by a local artist or ordered from some high-end catalog.
Isn’t it funny? When you get all the things you thought you wanted, and you look back on how it all started, it feels much sweeter from the end of the road than it did at the beginning.
I loved his place, even back then. And I’ve driven by it recently, so I know that my last memory of it is just that. A memory.
The brick exterior, which was white back then—covered in grime, and oil, and filth after having served its purpose as a six-bay automotive garage for decades—is now a trendy dark gray with white trim around the windows. The door has been painted a glossy red and the asphalt parking lot has been turned into a manicured lawn, the perimeter lined with pine trees. There’s a brick wall surrounding the property with an impressive iron gate that has a sign out front near the intercom proclaiming it’s protected by ShrikeSafe Security. Which I know is co-owned by his sisters—one of their many (many) side businesses.
But I’d love to go back in time. Be back in that loft that last night smelling those old tires. Be filled with angst about what was coming, what I was leaving behind, and then make a different choice.
Would we have stayed together if I had stayed? I wasn’t even eighteen yet. Oliver was twenty-four.
I had a promise to keep and Oliver… well, he was still stuck in his past back then.
We never had a chance.
I look at my watch as I gaze down to the street below. I can see the tattoo shop, still open, down the block.
That’s where Oliver and I ended up that last night. That was the last place I saw him—machine in hand, dipping the needles in the dark ink, squinting down at my skin in concentration as he inked his words onto my body.
He erased my scars that night. Replaced them with promises.
I will kiss you here…
And he did. He kissed them all away.
Well, that’s the past and it can’t be changed. The rules of the game state that you get one chance for every moment. Make the wrong choice and it stays wrong forever.
Did I make the wrong choice?
I have to believe I didn’t. I have to keep telling myself that all my choices and all my lies had a purpose that led me right to this moment in time.
Right where I’m supposed to be.
I might not like the circumstances and I know I won’t like the outcome—at least as it pertains to Oliver. Once he finds out why I’m back he will make his own choice in his own moment and I already know how fast he will walk away.
But I made my choice a long time ago and I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
The next time that disposable phone rings all the pieces will fall into place.
I turn away from the window and walk to my front closet, pulling my light green coat from the hanger and slipping it on over my jeans and sweater. I cinch the belt tight at my waist, grab my keys and everyday phone off the little table near the entrance, and slip them in my coat pocket as I pull open the front door.
It’s an eight-minute walk to the church where we will meet up, but I can’t find a reason not to go a little early. Maybe peek into the tattoo shop as I walk past. Catch a glimpse of Oliver’s family members as they work this evening.
No one is in the elevator as I take it down to the ground floor. The doorman smiles at me as I enter the lobby, and greets me by name as he opens the door and I pass through.
I like that about this building. That they know my name. I’ve been hiding for so long it’s nice to be out in the open for once.
I don’t peek into the tattoo shop as I walk by. I don’t even cross the street to be on the same side. I just put my head down into the biting wind and mind my business.
I guess some habits die hard.
The light is in my favor when I get to the intersection of College and Mountain, so I cross quickly, hands in my coat pockets, and then slow down as the church comes into view two blocks up.
I listen for the sound of his bike, anxious, and fearful, and filled with longing. I am minutes away from experiencing him again. His hard body and strong arms. Will he kiss me? Will he wrap his arms around me? Will he be angry that I never got back in touch? Or will he be indifferent?
Hey, what’s up? instead of, God, I missed you.
I can’t know until it happens. Until he makes his choice in his moment. Only then can I make mine—to go through with this or turn back before it starts.
The front entrance to St. Joseph’s has three Gothic arches that form an outside vestibule and lead to the tall double doors. That’s where I waited for him four years ago and it’s where I’ll wait for him now.
I walk up the four steps and hide in the shadows, ears straining to hear the sound of his bike. I know he’s at Ariel’s house, only two blocks away. But there’s only the sound of people on College Avenue mixed in with the
wind.
My legs feel weak and I lean further into the darkness, my back pressing against the hard stone. My mind racing with the possibilities before me tonight.
He did say meet me. That’s a good sign. At least he’s interested.
But I know what’s going on in his world. My timing here isn’t coincidental. I didn’t just happen to post that video to that site. I posted myself to his site.
The roar of a custom Shrike Bikes motorcycle erupts down the street.
That’s him. He’s coming. He’s seconds away. My heart is out of control. Galloping like a horse as I breathe faster to supply it with oxygen.
I have to swallow. I have to clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking. I have to turn away from the street and lean my head against the church to keep my legs from buckling underneath me.
I count to ten as the engine noise builds, gets closer, and then… and then he’s there. His engine revving once, twice, until everything around me goes silent.
Look at him. Turn around and look at him.
But I can’t.
I want to keep hiding as the deep thud of his boots walking up the stairs fills my head. I want to disappear and pretend none of this is happening. I want to go away, come back, and try again. Making different choices, creating new moments.
“Kat,” he says, just a few feet away from me.
I am breathing so hard, he must surely hear it.
A hand on my shoulder, trying to pry me away from the building. Trying to force me to turn… to see him.
“It’s you?” he asks. “Why can’t you look at me?”
“It’s a good question,” I whisper back.
His grip tightens on my shoulder, forcing me to make a decision. I turn, lifting my chin so I can see those blue-gray eyes first.
“Kat.” He laughs, a huge smile on his face.
“It’s me,” I say.
“You came back.”
“I said I would. Didn’t you believe me?”
His fingertips are tugging on the collar of my coat, pulling it away from my shoulder, then slipping it down, along with the collar of my sweater, so he can see the mark he left on me four years ago.
