Of course I love Gage in the loose sense of the word, but I’m not ready to love, love Gage, am I?
“I do.” My lips feel as though they’re on fire as I give way to a huge grin. I do love Gage. There’s a certain relief in hearing myself say it. It feels right.
The air dissipates around us, suffocates us in the reality of our words. Gage stares back at me with wide-eyed anticipation of what it all means.
He pulls me in, rubs his cheek up against mine. “I’m glad you’re OK. I’m glad you weren’t hurt in the accident,” he punctuates it with a quick kiss.
“Me? I’m glad you weren’t hurt. I’m glad you’re alive.”
“I’m glad you’re alive.” He pecks another kiss. “And I’m alive.” He pushes in another quick one. “And that you and I are alive together standing in this tiny space, right here, right now.”
My stomach bottoms out, and my heart races for Gage. He presses in with a heartfelt kiss.
It must be real if he can make me feel this way—if I don’t want to stop his kisses from lingering.
***
Gage drops me off at home and I find Brielle lying on my bed helping herself to Chloe’s diary.
I snatch it out from underneath her. “What the hell are you doing?”
The window to my bedroom has been boarded up, and it looks like Mom has washed and replaced my bedding.
“Relax. I already knew half that stuff.” She rolls over and stretches out her limbs like a lazy cat.
I open it to where I left off and see that the pages thereafter are still sealed shut.
“What are you doing here?” I try to stifle my insane annoyance with Brielle at the moment.
“Drake is getting ready to take me to dinner. I thought I’d come and hang out. Got his new car today, you see it?”
“No.” I feel like I’ve just been bitch slapped. For sure it’s starting to feel like Drake is the golden child of the family. If the car was in the driveway, I didn’t notice, but then it was dark and I’m still mental from seeing Ezrina.
“Well good for him.” I bury Chloe’s diary in my underwear drawer before plopping on the bed. “Guess what I heard today?”
“What?” Her eyes widen with expectation.
“Michelle is gonna have a baby.”
“Are you freaking serious?” There’s a burst of excitement in her voice.
“I shit thee not. And I suppose you know about Carly now.” I tick my head back to the underwear drawer.
“I knew about Carly, but Michelle?” Her hands and feet pound the bed with excitement.
“Wait, does everyone know about Carly?” I’m stunned by this.
“I don’t think so. I heard Chloe threatening her once in the gym about a baby carriage, plus when she started to sport tents day after day, I got suspicious,” she pauses. “So when she left school early, I figured she was going to lay her egg.”
“Egg?”
“Yeah, you’re full of them. You didn’t know that?” Brielle rolls her eyes then burst into laughter.
“Michelle is going to have Dudley’s baby. Is that freaking wild?”
“Yeah, that’s wild.” Brielle gets up on her elbows and gazes out at the wall in front of us. “So,” her tone softens, “what are you wearing tomorrow night?”
“Gage picked out a French maid costume for me. Only I won’t have to wear that choker thing.” I yank down my scarf.
She winces at the sight of my neck.
“That’s beyond disgusting.” She sticks out her tongue.
“How about you guys?”
“I’m a nun, and he’s a priest.”
“Oh, I get it—Mr. and Mrs. Blasphemy.” I roll over onto my stomach. “So what do you think is gonna to happen to Michelle?”
“Let’s see, she’ll be wishing she were dead in about nine months when she’s trying to squeeze a watermelon out of her ass, then after that, Dudley will wish that he was.” She gives a big toothy grin.
It’s comfortable lying here with Brielle. Strange how she knew that stuff about Carly and didn’t mention it.
I look at her chestnut brown hair falling over her shoulders, her perfect features, that porcelain white skin.
Hanging out with Brielle feels natural, like if she ever did lose her mind and marry Drake one day, I could totally see her as my sister. I sort of already do. There’s no way she knows she’s a Count or understands the fact she’s supposed to oppress me simply because of my lineage. I don’t know how I could have ever suspected Brielle of slitting my throat.
She dips her hand down onto the floor and reemerges with a sickle shape piece of glass.
Brielle locks eyes with me, lost in a cold isolated stare. The light refracts off the shard, spraying pale blue dots and shadows all across the room.
“Are you afraid of me, Skyla?” She asks with a slow whisper. There’s not a hint of laughter in her eyes, nothing that suggests she might be teasing.
“No.” I lie, rubbing my fingers across my stitches. “Should I be?”
“I think you should fear just about everybody.”
20
Boo
Halloween morning on Paragon is dark, damp, and blustery. No game tonight, but I decide to wear my cheer uniform to school anyway, minus the scarf I’ve been wrapping around my neck like a second skin.
Mom gasps as I enter the kitchen.
“What is that?” She makes her way over and taps my stitches with the pads of her fingers. “Looks so real.”
“Like it? Gage and me went and got a bunch of cool stuff at the Halloween store yesterday.” I turn around toward the fridge so she won’t see my face light up like a flame.
Shit! What was I thinking? For sure I wasn’t thinking she was going to touch it. Hell, I didn’t even think she’d notice.
“So what are you?” Mia comes around the corner and ogles at my neck. Her face contorts in a repulsive manner, and she backs off as though it might be contagious.
“I’m a cheerleader who got her throat slit.” I walk over and pull a banana off the counter while considering the irony.
“So how’s the baby making going?” Mia asks as she picks her backpack off the floor.
I hold my hand up and shield my face from Mom so I can retch freely in Mia’s direction.
Why would she ask that? That’s totally disgusting. I’d rather have my throat slashed a thousand times than ever bring up the subject of baby making with Mom.
“You know. It just seems like it was a whole lot less work when you were born.” She starts slicing into a grapefruit.
I can’t breathe. This is sick.
“Excuse me,” I sigh into my words. “It’s neither normal nor healthy to be discussing this at breakfast, or quite frankly at any meal with your children.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Skyla,” Mom’s voice is laden with sarcasm. “Has my desire to produce a beautiful baby brother or sister ruined the digestive process for you?”
“Completely.” I push a box of Drake’s cereal away to prove a point. “You know, maybe it’s just not meant to be.”
Her mouth gapes open, and she stands there staring at me in disbelief.
She stops cutting her fruit and walks over at an uneven clip with the knife still in her hand.
“Just because you’re rooting for this not to happen, doesn’t mean I’m willing take whatever you feel like dishing. I’ve got time and money working against me. The last thing I need is your attitude.”
“What the hell is going on?” Tad scampers over at a brisk pace. “Is she upsetting you again?”
“What do you mean again? I haven’t been upsetting her,” I say taking a giant step back. It’s too late, I’ve lit the fuse—I can feel it.
“I’m fine,” my mother whispers, shuddering in his arms. The drama is so thick, for a moment I think I missed something.
Tad’s eyes hook onto Dr. Oliver’s handy work braided across my neck and his face explodes in a crimson ball of anger.
“I thought I
told you not to expose this family to the graffiti you’ve inflicted upon yourself.” There’s a renewed calm in him.
“It’s for Halloween,” I say, quietly running my finger across the incision.
“You are pushing the both of us to the outer limits.” His voice shakes as efforts to control himself begin to wane. “Is this family some kind of joke to you?” His voice booms across the house creating an unnatural echo. It’s deathly silent in the void.
There it is. The explosion.
I can feel Drake pulling up a seat beside me eagerly anticipating the rest of the show.
“Because if you think you’re too good for us, we’ll be happy to make other arrangements.” There is something more than anger inside of him—it’s as though the aftertaste of genuine hatred is layered just beneath. Then it hits me. Tad really does hate me. He doesn’t want me as a part of this family.
“Mom?” I want to ask if she’s going to stand there and let him talk to me like this, but she cowers into him almost as if she agrees.
“Skyla.” She pushes her fingers into her forehead and closes her eyes. “Just get to school. We’ll start fresh later.”
“Right.” I take off upstairs.
Something tells me we can never start fresh again.
***
Gage is all hopped up on the heels of our love as we stand in the overflow parking lot.
There’s something charming about the way he smiles and gazes openly, but something alarming about the fact that we’ve let a fake relationship get so far while I’m still in the midst of a real one. The good thing about being with Gage is that I made a promise to myself that whenever we’re in public I’ll never pretend my feelings for him. The bad thing is, during moments like this, when it’s just the two of us in the woods and there’s not another soul around, I should feel far guiltier than I do.
“I dreamed about you,” he says. The smile melts off his face ever so slightly.
“Was I naked?” I bite down on my lip and give a playful smile.
“Nope.” He loosens into a grin. “Very much clothed.”
“So, what happened?” I give a light massage to the back of his neck.
“Can’t tell you. It was one of my special dreams.”
“Special? As in code for dirty?”
“No.” His eyes widen into two large pools. “Special as in prophetic.”
“You know something?” I cease all movement and gaze into him. His dark hair lies in thick wet strands—it curls up around his temples and at the base of his neck in neat little coils.
“I know lots of things.” He looks down briefly. “Anyway, I like dreaming about you, seeing you even when you’re not with me.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and sway with him in the breeze.
“I want to know the things you know. Will you tell me what you saw?”
“It’s not important what I saw.” He gives an apprehensive smile as if trying to hide a mild thread of panic.
“It’s important to me. If it concerns my future, I want to know.”
“I’ve done that before, and I swore I’d never do it again.”
“So it wasn’t good—the dream.” My hands drop to my sides.
“I never said that. It was fine, I just…I think we’re going to be late.” He picks up my hand, and we start in toward the English building.
“Just promise me something.” I step in front of him, blocking his path.
“What’s that?” His dimples dig in on either side, and I get the urge to drag him into the thicket again.
“One day you’ll tell me everything.”
He takes in a ragged breath. “Trust me, Skyla, there will never be a day you will want to know everything. Sometimes it’s just better to let life surprise you.”
21
Oh Wicked Night
Drake drives Brielle and me over to Ellis’s party in his newly acquired death mobile. I’m starting to think maybe Mom and Tad aren’t so hot on Drake after all. This thing is rife with engine problems, torn upholstery, stinks like a cigarette burial ground, and I swear it hobbles. It has three-car pileup written all over it.
As soon as we hit the driveway, I bounce out of the car.
I tug at my skirt as I make my way up the driveway. Instead of showing off my French maid costume in front of Mom and Tad, and trying to escape their clutches as they attempt to strangle me with my fishnet stockings, I changed over at Brielle’s.
Brielle’s mom, Darla, lent me a pair of four inch spiked heels with metal studs running down the back. They’re totally cute, but hurt like hell to walk in. Darla kept saying they were her favorite pair of FM’s, and when I asked what FM’s were, both Brielle and Darla laughed.
It’s annoying when I don’t know things. They’ve totally lived their lives cloistered on an island—they’re the ones who shouldn’t know things. I’m from L.A. for God’s sake. I’m almost positive I was exposed to every vile thing possible before I was nine, and somehow an entire group of people sequestered from society know more than I do.
Ellis’s front yard is littered with gravestones, unearthed caskets, and about a dozen groaning corpses that I’m not entirely sure aren’t Fems. I’m expecting anything tonight, and a part of me feels ready—the other part suggests I find either Gage or Logan and hide.
“Knock knock,” I say. The front door sits wide open, so I step on in. The house is empty. The hollow click of my heels creates an echo as I traipse over the glossy marble floor in the direction of the kitchen. The thick scent of something baking permeates the air. It definitely doesn’t smell like Ellis’s house.
I meander on, until I find Ellis himself pulling a gallon of milk from the fridge. It doesn’t take long for Brielle and Drake to wander in behind me and make themselves at home on the couch.
“Wow, what’s this?” A glass pan of brownies sits cooling on the stove. “You bake?”
“Yes, I bake. All good men bake.” He’s wearing a football uniform with a tire track across the front of his chest and things that actually look like bloodied entrails hang out of his jeans. “You want one?” He offers me a brownie.
“Sure, I guess. Hey, wait…” I tilt my head suspiciously. “You put your stash in these.” I think I just nailed precisely why Ellis Harrison bakes—why he does anything in fact.
“What are you on? I don’t share my stash in its natural form, let alone grind it up and waste it on a dozen different people. I just thought it’d be nice to have something around, plus my mom bought the mix.”
I wave my hand over the dish. “Ooh, still warm. They’re so my favorite when they’re warm.”
He pours us each a glass of milk in tall cobalt glasses before cutting long rows several inches thick into the pan. We each pick up a strip and indulge.
“These are really good. You should go into business,” I muse.
“Check out at the nun and the priest.” He flicks a finger over at Brielle and Drake. They’ve gone horizontal and are pushing their faces into one another. “Looks brutal.”
“I think it’s a part of their costume. You know, sort of a performance piece.”
We just sit there stuffing our faces and watch them like it’s some sick show on TV until a stream of people filter in through the main entry.
“I better shut the lights off.” Ellis takes off and starts flicking switches. Rows and rows of candles are set out in various places all over the house that I hadn’t noticed until now.
Ellis’s brownies are really freaking good. We’ve managed to polish off half the pan already, so there’s no point in cutting them up and setting them out. I’m practically doing him a favor by downing the rest. Truth is, I only like brownies and cookies if they’re fresh out of the oven. There’s something about warm gooey chocolate melting in my mouth that I find intensely satisfying.
A swarm moves in. The bitch squad cackles up a storm in my direction. There she is—Mama Michelle. Her hair is curled in tight little ringlets that spring up near her face. She�
��s got on a deep velvet cape that, in this devoid lighting, looks a dark shade of bloody crimson. Of course, she’s fully equipped with a clunky walking cast from that flying leap she took off Devil’s Peak a few weeks ago. Little red mommy hood. I press my lips together to keep the comment from vomiting out.
Emily looks like a questionable Alice in Wonderland, her fake long blonde hair and overdone face makes it look like she’s in drag more than anything else.
Then there’s Lexy. Actually Lexy looks good—too good. She’s supposed to be the queen of hearts judging by the glorified leotard, mini tutu, and a thousand glittering hearts sprinkled all over. A giant heart on her chest cradles her boobs, sort of gives the impression they’re sitting on a tray. She’s got her feet pressed into heels twice as high as mine, and they totally look like FM’s, and…oh freaking shit. I think I just figured out what FM’s stand for, and I don’t like those words having anything to do with Lexy on a night when Logan’s going to try and get some info out of her.
“And what are you supposed to be?” Emily pulls her bloodstained lips into a snarl while examining me up and down.
“French maid.” I point to my neck. “Who just got her throat slit.”
The three of them sit and gawk with their arms folded tight.
“It’s supposed to be sexy with a Goth flare,” I add stupidly.
“You just keep believing that.” Lexy swivels her head over her neck and for a brief moment, I’m hopeful it’s going to glide right off.
“I don’t think you’d know sexy if it walked up and bit you in the face—which I’m sure bears a striking resemblance to your ass.” Michelle high fives Emily.
“So where’s the big bad wolf?” I ignore her quip, looking behind her, fully expecting to see Marshall. Showing up at a student party isn’t beneath him. Apparently knocking them up isn’t either.
“Is he coming?” She fingers the rose around her neck.
“How would I know? I’m not his keeper.”
Lexy and Emily take off toward the cauldron of bubbling liquid that Ellis just set out, surrounded by towers of red plastic cups that act as an inebriation warning system.
Celestra: Books 1-2 Page 46