Storm

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Michael’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “You don’t find this all a little convenient? Tyler’s twice her size. Go take a look at what he did to Chris and tell me you believe he’d let her drive off.”

  Gabriel lost the sneer and turned to look at his twin. “He’s that bad?”

  Nick glanced at Michael, then nodded. “Pretty bad.”

  Now all three of them were looking at her, and she could feel the aggression in the air.

  “Look, I was just trying to help Chris.” She glanced at Nick and balled up the towel to set it on the table. “I told you who did this. I didn’t mean to get in the middle of some ... I don’t know, turf war, or gang thing, or whatever you guys are—”

  “Save it.” Michael straightened until he filled the doorway, until she became very aware that he blocked the path out of the kitchen. “You expect me to believe you scared off Tyler all by yourself? And he just let you drive Chris home?”

  “Tyler grabbed me.” She swallowed, feeling guilty for absolutely no reason whatsoever. “I jabbed him in the eyes and we jumped in the car.”

  Gabriel smiled, and it stole some of the fury from his expression. “I like this girl.”

  “You jabbed him in the eyes,” said Michael.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tyler.”

  Her mouth was dry, and she had to wet her lips again. “What, you want a demonstration?”

  He stepped into the kitchen. Instinct forced her out of the chair, and she backed away, toward the cooking island.

  But he stopped, his eyes narrowed. “What are you afraid of?”

  She was beginning to wish she’d just left Chris in the driveway. Her key ring was in her pocket, and she felt her fingers curl around the steel, her house key and car key poking through her knuckles. “You.”

  “But I thought you were just trying to help.” The sarcasm came through loud and clear. Michael took another step toward her. “Why would you be afraid of me?”

  She didn’t understand his tone. Some of it felt like concern—but some of it felt like crazy-serial-killer. Becca took another step back, putting the cooking island between her and him, before realizing this felt very much like cat and mouse. “Stop it.”

  He stared back at her. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”

  Gabriel pulled a cookie from the package and sat back in his chair. “My money’s on the girl.”

  My money’s not.

  Michael took another step closer “How about it? You want to try another story?”

  He stood in the gap between the island and the counter now, blocking her path to the doorway. He was close enough to touch, close enough to grab her. She kept hearing Paul’s words in her head, bits and pieces from the class. Eye contact. Target. Control. Balance.

  Then she was doing it. She swung her fist into his midsection, trying to scrape past him into the hallway. He caught her arms.

  “Hey,” he said. “Wait a second—”

  She swung for his face with the keys, but missed and got his shoulder. She tried to kick him, to knee him in the groin, anything. She had no idea if her hits were successful. His fingers caught at her hoodie and she slid out of it. She felt her shirt ride up to her chest, but she didn’t care. The wet fabric pulled free, and then she was loose, bolting for the doorway.

  She felt him right behind her.

  Her feet slapped the slate floor of the foyer; then her hand caught the doorknob. The door swung wide and she exploded into the darkness, slipping on the wet steps, skidding in the grass on the way to her car.

  Thunder growled in the sky, and the grass gave way to mud, clutching her sneakers. Her knees hit the ground. Her hands squished into the dirt. She slipped and slid, struggling for purchase, but couldn’t find her footing. Her fingers seemed to tangle in the grass, as if the roots grabbed her hands and held her down.

  A hand seized her arm and hauled her to her feet. The landscape spun as her eyes tried to keep up. She saw the brightly lit front of the house, the twins on the porch, the frustration in Michael’s face as he tried to get hold of her.

  And behind him, on the second floor, Chris’s face in a window, watching the whole thing.

  Her breath caught. She pulled to get free, but Michael’s grip was secure. “Just wait a minute,” he said. “I’m not going to—”

  Thunder broke again. Rain poured down, slicking her skin.

  She felt stronger suddenly, invigorated by the chill in the rain. She fought Michael, wrestling against his hold. Her arm slid through his hand as if the water pried him loose. Her feet found traction as the mud thickened, and she was suddenly five feet away. Then ten, her feet on the pavement.

  She flung the back door open and jumped into the backseat of her car, grabbing for the handle to lock herself in. Her hand jammed the lock down, and she scrambled over the center console to get into the driver’s seat.

  The key was firing the ignition when she realized Michael hadn’t pursued her. He was already back on the porch, standing in the light of the doorway.

  Chris was no longer in the window. Rain pounded on the windshield.

  Her breath was shaking.

  No one was coming after her.

  He’d grabbed her, right? Come after her in the kitchen?

  Or had she misread a situation again? She watched; they were ignoring her now, filing back through the front door of the house as if she’d left like a normal guest.

  So she put the car in gear and backed down the driveway.

  CHAPTER 3

  Chris lay in the dark and listened to the rain strike the house. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt. He didn’t bother to strip the wet clothes from his body, and he’d left his windows open so he could inhale the dampness in the air. The rain called to him, each drop begging him to join the downpour, whispering promises he didn’t quite understand yet.

  But the house was quiet. His brothers were quiet. Solitude and silence were precious things, and he’d cling to them as long as possible. Experience told him it wouldn’t be long.

  Rain came through the screen, droplets collecting on the wood surface of his desk.

  An invitation.

  “Later,” he said.

  God, was that his voice? He sounded like a ninety-year-old chain-smoker.

  His doorknob turned slowly, and Chris sighed, listening to each click of the knob until the door swung open. A triangle of light from the hallway arced across the back wall of his bedroom, but he didn’t bother to turn his head.

  He knew it was Michael before his brother spoke. “I thought you might have fallen asleep.”

  Chris didn’t say anything. He stared at the ceiling and waited for the reprimand that was sure to come. For the fight, for using his abilities, for helping Becky.

  Becca. He smiled.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  That killed it. “Nothing.” Chris lifted a hand. “Say your piece and get out.”

  Michael hesitated.

  Chris hated this. This distance, this parental posturing. He could still remember the summer he’d turned nine, when Michael had just gotten his driver’s license. His brother hadn’t taken friends for his first drive, he hadn’t taken the twins, who were older and sharper and got everything they wanted. He’d taken Chris. They’d driven fast, clinging to curves on the back roads all the way to Annapolis. Then they’d sat on the hood of Dad’s truck and drunk sodas and watched boats on the Severn River.

  He used to think Michael walked on water.

  Now he mostly thought he was an asshole.

  His brother stepped into the room. Chris felt him move close, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. When Michael wound up for a lecture, it was usually agonizing. Maybe he’d actually sit on the corner of the bed or something, just for effect.

  But Michael remained standing, and his voice was low. “You want to sit out back for a while?”

  Chris swung his head to the side and his vision swam for a moment. When his eyes decided to focu
s, they looked up at his brother. With the light at his back, Michael’s face was in shadow, his brown eyes very dark, the way their mother’s had been. The rest of them had blue eyes, like their father.

  When their parents died, Chris hated waking in the middle of the night, wanting his mother, finding no comfort in his older brother. He’d resented seeing those eyes in Michael’s face, and finding nothing he needed in them.

  Michael was still waiting for an answer. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll sit with you.”

  The rain had formed a puddle along the edge of the desk. Pleading.

  Chris nodded. “All right.”

  The twins sat in the kitchen, textbooks scattered across the table. Nick was working, while Gabriel rocked back in a chair, eating cookies and heckling his brother.

  When they came through the kitchen doorway, Gabriel stopped short. The legs of his chair hit the ground.

  “That son of a bitch,” he said. Lightning flashed in the panels of sky visible through the window over the sink.

  Chris gave him half a smile because a full one hurt. “You should see the other guy.”

  “Oh, I’m going to see him—in a pile of broken bones. Here. Have a cookie.”

  Chris shook his head, and his vision swam again.

  Michael caught his arm. “You need to sit down.”

  Chris jerked away from him. It hurt more than it should have, and he had to grab the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ve got it.”

  Nicholas had set his pencil down and was watching him. Chris didn’t find any pity in his expression; Nick was good like that. “Where’d they find you?”

  Chris looked out the window again. He’d stayed to watch Gabriel’s practice, packing his things when the sky promised rain and the coach called for the players to take a long run. They lived three miles from school, but he’d never minded the walk.

  Or he never had until tonight.

  “Behind the school,” he finally said.

  “They come looking?”

  Chris started to nod, then thought better of it when his vision swam. “Yeah. They said they’re calling the Guides.”

  “They always say that,” said Nick.

  “I think this time they might mean it.”

  “They won’t,” said Michael. “They made a deal. We keep it, they keep it.”

  “They keep it, my ass.” Gabriel rocked back in his chair again. His eyes were on Michael, his voice acidic, full of judgment. “How long are you going to let them keep pulling this?”

  “Don’t start.” Michael gave Gabriel’s chair a good push, setting it straight. He pointed to the pile of notebooks. “Work.”

  Gabriel shoved back from the table, a motion full of promised violence. “What, you only have a pair when it comes to chasing a girl out of the house?”

  Chris sighed and let go of the chair to turn for the back door. No one stopped him.

  The air was cold, and the rain felt good on his bruised face. He gingerly pulled off his tee shirt and eased into one of the wooden Adirondack chairs. If he was patient, if he lay there long enough, the rain would offer to fix his injuries, would pull the bruises from his skin and feed him strength. He usually got sick of waiting and tried to force it. That just left him exhausted and pissed off, and he hurt too much to bother with it now. Michael said control would come, with time.

  If Tyler and his buddies didn’t kill him first.

  Chris didn’t hear the sliding door, but the rain told him when Michael stepped onto the porch.

  He didn’t bother to look over. “Fight over that fast?”

  Michael dropped into the chair beside him. “We didn’t fight.” Chris didn’t buy that for a minute. “You got it all out of your system with Becca?”

  “Who is she, Chris?”

  Chris kept his eyes on the clouds overhead and replayed the events in the parking lot. Becca had been kneeling over him, pouring water across his face. He’d come up swinging, sure they were bringing him around to finish him off. Water was all too happy to lend itself to fury—she’d been lucky he didn’t knock her flat. Or worse.

  Chris shook his head slightly. “She’s nobody. Just a girl.”

  “I think you should stay away from her.”

  “Looks like you already took care of that for me.”

  “You know what I mean.” Michael paused. “I don’t like her story.”

  “Well,” said Chris, turning his head to the side. “You weren’t there.”

  That one hit its target. Michael was silent for the longest moment. “What do you want me to do, Chris?”

  Something. Anything. Chris looked back up at the clouds, keeping his eyes open to the rain. “Nothing, Michael.”

  His brother rolled back in the chair, staring up at the same dark sky, letting the downpour soak him, too. The rain didn’t talk to him, but Chris knew Michael felt something when the drops struck the earth.

  “I hate this,” Chris finally said.

  “I know.”

  “We’re stronger than they are.”

  “That’s the problem. You know that.” Michael paused. “Don’t let them bait you.”

  Chris pointed to his face. “Is that what this is? Baiting me?”

  “Damn it, Chris. They want you to lose control. You know that, right?”

  He did know that. Didn’t Michael know he knew that?

  “I want to leave,” said Chris.

  Michael sighed, a sound full of oh-not-this-again. “And go where? Just how long do you think we could stay hidden? We’re not little kids anymore, Chris. If we move into another community, they’ll report us for sure.”

  Chris scowled. “Then let’s go somewhere there’s no community.”

  “Oh. Great idea. Where’s that?”

  “Shut up. We don’t need them. We don’t need—”

  “We don’t need what? A house? School? You want to move to the middle of the woods somewhere and just live off the land?”

  Yeah. He did. If that was the tradeoff, he’d take it.

  Chris stared out at the darkness and didn’t say anything.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Okay, Chris. Whatever.”

  Some of the tightness in his chest was loosening, making it hard to maintain his anger. He could feel it now, the rain tracing along his shoulders, feeding relief into his muscles.

  “You want me to just leave you alone?” said Michael.

  No. He didn’t. He wanted Michael to sit here and tell him that this time they’d stand up to them, that they would show Tyler and all those freaks just who they were messing with.

  But Michael would never do that.

  “Yeah,” Chris said. “I’m tired.”

  Chris heard him shift to stand, but he didn’t look over. His brother was watching him; he could feel it.

  But Michael just sighed and moved toward the door. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

  Her mom would flip out if she found mud tracked across the front hall, so Becca trudged through the grass to the back door and let herself in through the laundry room.

  Her best friend was sitting at the kitchen table, pawing through a magazine. A half-empty dinner plate sat in front of her. Becca wasn’t surprised to see her—any time Quinn had trouble with her mother, she ended up here. An untouched pile of stuffing and a small slice of turkey were left on the plate, but all the vegetables and most of the protein were gone.

  “Hey.” Becca struggled to kick off her shoes.

  Quinn lifted her eyes from the magazine. “You walk home or something? Why do you look like that?”

  Becca considered reviewing the course of the night’s events. The fight. The drive to Chris’s house. His weird brothers.

  Too complicated. “Long story. Is that my dinner?”

  Quinn speared the last piece of turkey and slid it into her mouth. “Your mom left two plates.”

  Of course she did. “She already leave for work?”

  “Yep. Off to save lives, one dumbass at a time.”

  Qui
nn Briscoe had been Becca’s friend since kindergarten. She was a middle kid, smashed between two brothers: Jake was on a basketball scholarship to Duke University, the kind of son who lived on a pedestal, his name trotted out any time the other—lesser—children didn’t measure up. Quinn’s younger brother, Will, rebelled by refusing to participate in any kind of physical activity—and he had the body to prove it.

  Quinn could have been a female Jake. She’d inherited the same physical coordination as her brother, his same competitive drive. But Jake was tall and lean. Quinn came broad and stocky.

  She’d never been fat—just built like an athlete. Becca used to joke that Quinn could do one push-up and end up with shoulders like a linebacker. Any sports team at the school would have been glad to have her—hell, the football team could probably use her.

  But Quinn wanted to be a dancer.

  She possessed the rhythm and the physical ability, sure. She just didn’t have the grace or the elegance—or the money—to do it well. She was pretty enough. Long hair? Creamy skin? Big blue eyes? Quinn had those in spades. But skinny low-rise jeans never fit her right, and little baby-doll tees looked ridiculous with her biceps. She looked like she claimed she felt: as if she didn’t fit anywhere, and what she wanted never wanted her back.

  And Quinn had a temper. Fights with her mother were legendary. Frightening. The kind of knockdown, drag-out screaming matches that, once witnessed, made Becca want to run home and hug her mother.

  Becca’s mom had told Mrs. Briscoe that her daughter was welcome at their house anytime, no questions. Then she’d handed Quinn a key.

  This year, more often than not, Becca came home to find Quinn in her kitchen. Usually, she was dumping her troubles on Becca’s mom’s shoulder first, then spending the night. It was like inheriting a sister.

  Becca wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  She padded across the linoleum to retrieve the second plate from the refrigerator. Her mom had used green beans to make a smiley face in her mashed potatoes.

  Becca sighed and slid the plate into the microwave.

  “I just took a message for you,” said Quinn.