by Abigail Cole
This area is dimly lit by a red bulb beneath a tacky frilly lampshade hanging from the ceiling. The only other furniture apart from the sofa I’m sitting on is a leather stool pushed into the corner for lap dance purposes. The booth is one of many with the intention of enticing old, rich men back here. The undercover hooker I picked up must have been thrilled to have a client in the first half of his life for a change. Anyone who comes to ‘Hellhole’ knows this back-alley club is a front for a brothel. That’s the reason I came. Despite having the time of my life lately, keeping up the pretence that I’m carefree is taxing. I wanted to go somewhere hidden where I could let my guard down, just in case this exact thing happened. Lifting my glass of whiskey from the flattened arm of the sofa, I cross my ankles and down the liquid.
I can’t think of a time I’ve ever been alone like this. The day I started Waversea college I met Huxley and the others came soon after, so it feels strange to be here without my boys. From the sounds of the orgy taking place a few cubicles down, Garrett would be in his element here. But I can’t call them. They would be here within the hour, trying to ‘fix’ me. The truth is, I don’t want to be fixed, I want to ride this storm and feel every ounce of self-loathing because I deserve it. I’m twisted in ways I didn’t even realise; I need time to be reckless and banish the darkness within before I hurt someone I care about. Eventually, I’ll be able to return home without looking twice at her.
Standing, I button my black slacks and stride towards the curtain. Shifting the heavy, purple material aside, the crowd of dancing bodies filling the entire space becomes visible, spilling from the dancefloor so they are unavoidable. There were burgundy armchairs surrounding low tables lining the left side of the club when I entered that aren’t visible now. A glint of metal in the flashing lights draws my attention to a fully uniformed police officer in the centre of the throng, his shirt unbuttoned as he spins handcuffs around his index finger.
Shaking my head, I start to push my way in the direction of the bar. Hands grab at my white shirt, stroking my biceps and yanking on my loose tie. Pushing my hands in my pockets so no one can steal my cash or recently purchased drugs, I use my shoulders to barge through the sweaty swarm and find a recently vacated space at the granite surface.
Signalling over to the bartender, a short, fat man in a sharp suit stumbles into my side. His drink splashes across my front, the shirt material sticking to my abs as the clear liquid soaks in. I throw him a filthy look which he blanches at and raises his hands in apology, a Rolex slipping down his chubby wrist. The gothic prostitute that was just on the end of my cock slides her arm around his shoulders and leads him away, glaring at me as she passes.
Turning back, I find the bartender standing eye-level in front of me, drying a glass and looking impatient. His rolled-up sleeves reveal a colourful array of tattoos on both arms to match the one poking out of the collar on his neck. A brunette top knot sits above his head. “Bottle of Jack,” I demand rather than ask. My mood has soured and I’m glancing around for the right kind of pick-me-up.
“You got some ID kid?” He shouts over the music, causing my jaw to clench. I could walk into a store and buy a gun easier than I can get a fucking drink. Pulling a $100 bill free of my pocket, I slam it on the counter deciding this bottle will be to go.
“Sure, name’s Benjamin Franklin.” I sneer. After hesitating for a second, which I give him props for, he slips the note into his pocket and lifts my drink from the shelf. Placing it down with a glass, he removes the cap before sliding it towards me.
“Enjoy, Benjamin.” He smirks, walking off. I lift the bottle to take a long swig, enjoying the spicy burn as it glides down my throat. Setting it down, my eyes find their own reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. The emerald orbs are the only part I recognise of myself, causing me to think it’s some kind of trick of the mirror or my mind. Shifting my face side to side, I realise it is in fact me.
I look drawn, ill even. Deep crevices hang below my eyes, my cheeks looking hollow and pasty. My hair is an overgrown mess, sticking out in all directions from tugging my hands through it. The open-top buttons of my shirt reveal hickeys lining my neck and the glimpse of a scratch across my chest. I look like shit. Like some STD-riddled sleaze who’s crawled out of the gutter in search of my next victim or a hit. What would my mom say if she could see me like this? I’d like to think she’d be disgusted in the way any parent would be, but let’s face it – I was always a disappointment in her eyes and she’d probably been too busy pawing over Avery to even notice. Fuck it, I thought of her name.
I watch like an outsider as the walls slam down over my expression, my eyes harden as my posture grows rigid. It always comes back to her. All my shortcomings and failures. Everything I yearned for and lost. The pulsing vein in my forehead I thought I had learnt to control returns with a vengeance. If I clench my jaw any longer, I’m going to crack a tooth, but I can’t move. It’s as if I’m frozen in place and time as this anger fuelled asshole she turned me into.
My hand tightens around the neck of the whiskey bottle, reminding me it’s still there. Gripping it tightly, without taking my eyes off the pitiful reflection, I launch the bottle across the space dividing us. Hitting its intended target, the image of me multiplies dozens of times over while the rest of the mirrored wall splinters and falls. Shelves filled with countless bottles crash to the ground loudly over the music and shrieks fill the air as chaos breaks out all around me. But I can’t take my eyes off myself, because in this moment I see who I am inevitably destined to be. An unloved fuck-up.
Meg
Huffing, I lean my forearms on the timber railing and stare longingly at the horizon. Another day in paradise, and I can’t wait to leave. A salty breeze tingles my nostrils on a deep inhale as I try to ease the tightness of my chest. Rhythmic lapping of waves in the distance are only broken by the occasional squawk of a seagull hovering overhead and diving into the sea in hunt for its breakfast.
Rounding the porch, I hop down the steps and walk across the golden sand. My bare feet sink slightly with each step towards the shore as I enjoy the cool gentle winds before the sun rises and brings the scorching heat. Too bad I don’t tan like my mom, who looks worlds away from my pasty skin at the moment. The sky blends from the palest pinks to purest blues which has me pulling my phone out to take another photo for the ‘Avery Collection.’ The day I can actually share the images with her can’t come quick enough.
Avery would have loved it here, and I wish for the millionth time I’d begged my mom to bring her along. Every mile that stretched between us had wretched out another piece of my heart, leaving a trail from here to Atlanta. I know we are in California somewhere, but with the days of driving and three motel stopovers, I lost track of exactly whereabouts.
To make matters worse, mom had insisted we left town that very night and conveniently didn’t pack my charging cable. I’d practically jumped from mom’s Land Rover as we pulled up to a red traffic light in a town during the last leg of our trip. After finally arriving at this extremely well-hidden coastal retreat, mom began exploring the secluded beach outside while I was sitting eagerly on the wooden floor of my chosen bedroom, cradling my phone like the most precious thing in the world as the screen finally came to life. And low and behold – no damn service!
Checking my ponytail is secure after I haphazardly threw my hair up earlier, I adjust my sports bra and stop at the water’s edge. Pushing my phone back into the hidden pocket of my black lycra leggings, I roll my neck and start to stretch my arms in large circles. The freezing water laps against my toes, an enjoyable shiver rolling through me since I’ll be sweating soon. Stepping forward into a lunge, I continue my usual lacrosse warm-up routine, making sure every muscle is properly stretched for my morning jog.
Starting the run slow, my feet slap against the recoiling waves as I follow its edge along the darkened sand. Before long, my arms are pumping and breath is visible in heated puffs. My calves burn as I push hard
er, my mind drifting to wonder what Avery is up to right now. Atlanta is three hours ahead of here, so she would be on her second cup of tea by now. I hope she’s managing to hold her own with a house full of men, although even Wyatt had seemed to be softening before I left.
I skid to a halt seconds before colliding with the high metal fence marking the edge of the rental’s property. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, I almost hadn’t noticed I’d already ran the two miles. Looking up, I see a bird fly overhead, having the freedom to travel beyond the fence. Not for the first time, I wonder if this ‘vacation’ is more of a prison sentence.
Grabbing for my phone, the screen lights up with a notification of a voicemail and my stomach plummets. No no no. I’ve trekked up and down this godforsaken beach countless of times trying to find signal, but somehow Avery managed to get through and I missed it. Tears fill my eyes as I desperately tap the screen but I have no bars again, I can’t even listen to the voicemail she left. Falling to my knees in the sand, I hover over the device and pray for a miracle. I just need to know she’s okay.
As the sun peeks over the sea, I give up hoping I might get to hear my best friend’s voice and rise with my mood soured. Banishing my troubles, the only way I know how, through exercise, I push myself to my limits running back towards the house. My feet fly over the sand as the sun rises higher in the distance. Returning to the spot I stood in previously, I bend to rest my hands on my knees, gulping in mouthfuls of air and focusing on evening out my erratic heartbeat.
Glancing back at the house, I can’t help my scowl. No matter how much I’ve tried to enjoy myself, a niggling feeling is keeping me in a constant state of unease. In all of its luxury, something about the house feels off. Mom makes good money, but surely almost three weeks here has amounted to a small fortune, yet she still hasn’t given a clue as to when we might finally return home.
Both stories of the exterior are painted a powdered blue, with the loft bedroom I have claimed poking out at the top. Huge bay windows cover every back wall, ensuites included, to allow all rooms the spectacular views of a seaside sunset. I don’t know why we needed to travel so far for a rental with six bedrooms but maybe it was all that was available at such short notice. Noticing mom’s shadow pass by the kitchen window, I stroll to head back inside.
“How was your run?” Her cheery voice greets me as I walk straight for the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water from inside and downing half its contents. Already in her bikini top and linen shorts under a silk kimono, mom places a frying pan onto the electric hob. The rich glow to her skin from sunbathing blends with her free-flowing brown locks.
“Same as yesterdays.” I answer blandly, leaning against the granite counter and deciding to keep my voicemail a secret for now. With the protective way mom’s been acting, she might confiscate my phone if she thinks I can use it for anything other than photos.
Contrasting with its surroundings, the interior of this place is magazine worthy. Pristine white cupboards line the kitchen wall, a double door chrome fridge matching the shiny appliances covering the counters. A shiny glass table fills the centre of the room with enough chairs to seat twelve comfortably.
“Well don’t just stand there, fetch the bacon and eggs.” She orders, despite the fake smile she’s grown accustomed to wearing lately. Huffing, I take my time guzzling the rest of my water and refilling it from the tap before opening the fridge again. Returning with her ingredients, I hop up onto the counter beside the hob and watch her make our breakfast.
“Mom, seriously, when can we leave?” Her smile falters as she clenches her jaw impatiently. I know she is worried about the break-in at the Hughes’ mansion, but how can we know what’s happened since then? Maybe the intruders have been caught and charged already and there’s no need to stay here any longer.
“I will have to return to work soon, but not yet. You should be having the time of your life. No school, no stress. What more could you possibly want?”
“Erm, Avery mainly. I don’t think you understand the connection we have mom. I feel physically sick we haven’t been able to–“
“Stop being so stupid!” She shouts, her brown eyes flickering furiously at me before she schools her features. Sighing deeply, her smile reappears and she leans over to grip my hand. “I’m sorry. I just want to keep you safe. As soon as I hear word we can return, we will.”
“Hear word from who?” I question, wondering if she has a means to contact the outside world. By the roundness of her eyes, she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Flicking her hand through the air to end our conversation, she busies herself cracking eggs into the pan while I hop down to make some coffee. It’s not like I have anything else to be doing.
Switching on the coffee machine, mom mentions there should be some more long-life milk in the pantry. Opening the glossy white door, I flick on the light and search the dozens of shelves within. Rummaging through the hundreds of tins and cartons, I find it odd there are still enough supplies to last months. Seriously, who kits out their holiday home like an apocalypse bunker and fails to install Wi-Fi?
“What shall we do today?” Mom asks as I return to make our drinks. She plates up scrambled egg and bacon onto bone-china plates and carries them over to the table with a stack of buttered toast. Following with two mugs of streaming coffee in my hands, I sit beside her and shrug.
“I’ll probably chill indoors; I want to start rereading The Secret Garden.” Mom rolls her eyes, moaning I should get some more sun - which would be true if I didn’t burn like a crisp despite smothering myself in factor 50. After we’ve finished eating and taken turns washing up and drying, I’m more than ready to lose myself in my book. Mom slips her feet into her palm tree patterned flipflops and lifts her overly large beach bag onto her shoulder, complete with a stripy rolled towel poking out the top. Retrieving two bottles of water from the fridge, I place them into the bag and kiss her on the cheek.
“Maybe we can play a few board games this afternoon?” She asks hopefully. Keeping my smile in place, I nod even though I’m sick to death of playing board games with Coronal Competitive over here. Watching her leave, I sigh and let my shoulders sag. It’s getting tougher by the day to see the love in her actions and not resent her for them. Jogging up the stairs, I open the door to the mini library/study.
A polished mahogany desk rests against the huge window, a similarly coloured leather chair pushed underneath and facing outwards. A fireplace sits on the right, which I presume is only for display since I haven’t seen a chimney sticking out of the roof. Crossing the spongy cream carpet, I smooth my finger over the various tattered hardbacks lining the left wall. The bookshelves stretch from the floor to ceiling and have been filled with first editions. Whoever owns this place certainly is trusting. Finding the book I saw in here yesterday, I grip the aged cover gently and try to remove it from its dusty spot.
Albeit stiffly, I manage to wiggle the book a quarter of the way out before it jams. Another slight tug releases a click and an unlocking sound behind me. Turning slowly, I don’t see anything out of place to begin with but on a second glance, a faint shadow of a line on the opposite wall is just visible. Glancing out of the window to check my mom is still sunbathing in the centre of the sand, I edge across the room. Prying my fingernails into the grove, a section of the wall begins to move outwards, moving the fireplace with it. I have to use my strength as I continue to shove it open until the inside is revealed.
The inner wall is a metal door, fit with a medieval style steel bar for sealing from the inside. Flicking the light switch on the inner wall, I find a small bunker within. A set of bunk beds with, what I presume are, vacuum packed sheets on the end of each mattress sitting against the left wall. A flimsy curtain hangs at the foot of the bunk, which screeches in protest against the metal pole supporting it as I pull it aside. The sight of my own reflection scares the shit out of me, my wide pale eyes staring back. Beneath the mirror is a compact toilet and sink, reminding me of a portaloo.<
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Stepping back and tiptoeing further inside, I find cupboards filled with similar long-life goods, as downstairs, and a first aid pack. A laptop and landline phone sit upon a small desk with a foldaway chair in the corner, which I rush over to. Lifting the phone to my ear, my heart bursts as a dial tone sounds from the receiver. Without sparing too much time on why a ‘coastal retreat’ needs a panic room or who might be listening in, I quickly dial Avery’s number which I know off by heart. Anticipation thrums within me, causing me to shake slightly as the phone rings for what seems like hours. Finally, a muffled voice sounds through the other end in a curious ‘hello?”
“Avery!” I scream.
Wyatt
A loud bang jolts me from my sleep, the fluorescent overhead lights disorientating me as my head seizes tightly. Trying to sit up, my back aches from the twisted position I was lying in upon a wooden bench. Hands grab my shirt, dragging me upright from the bench and causing me to groan at the swift movement of my protesting body. Attempting to shove the overweight brute away brings my attention to my bound wrists behind me in painfully tight metal cuffs. Shoving me out of the cell, the uniformed dirtbag pushes me along a dimly lit hallway which gives my eyes a chance to adjust to the vice tight grip inside my head.
A guard dressed in black pushes the door open at the end of the hallway, glaring at me in disgust as I walk past. Squinting, I find myself being prodded through a busy police station. Stacks of paperwork rival towers of empty donut boxes on dozens of desks. Officers either scowl or completely ignore me as a strong hand grips my shoulder and pushes me through another set of metal doors. After removing the cuffs, he barks at me to sit down before leaving the interrogation room.
