by S. K. Kelley
His smile widens. “Well. You’re more than welcome to come over. Surely, I can work something out. Pick up some fireworks. Buy some drinks. Fruit. Convincing Night to stay home will be easy.”
Oh, thank god.
“I’m down. That sounds fun.”
By the time Mrs. Bunmi brings out our food, we have a plan worked out. He’ll get everything ready tomorrow and pick me up in the evening. I’ll spend the night—I insisted on sleeping in the den even after he wryly suggested I have another sleepover with Night—and then we’ll do Fourth of July festivities and shoot off fireworks once it gets dark.
He laughs at a dumb joke, and my face grows hot.
“Do you still want to try the pad thai?” he asks.
I blink, glancing from his face to his plate. He twirls noodles onto the fork, stabs a piece of chicken, and offers it to me, holding his arm—and the fork—across the table.
“It’s very good,” he says.
“Oh, sure!”
I take the bite.
The pad thai is good. Sweet and spicy. The noodles firm, and the chicken tender. It might be better than the chicken satay—though, it turns out peanut sauce is awesome.
“Do you like it?” he asks. When I nod, he grins. “If you ever want to come again, let me know.”
twenty-nine
~ ∞ ~
WHERE AM I?
I can’t see anything, but...
Wait.
Someone’s there—
~ ∞ ~
thirty
I SIT UP, COLD SWEAT beading on my forehead.
It’s dark.
My breath comes fast and shallow. Still gasping, I reach for my neck. My fingers touch clammy skin.
Where am I?
I scan my surroundings. A faintly illuminated doorway to my right. A sliver of light to my left. Oh. That’s right. I’m at Ice’s house. I’m safe—on the loveseat in the den, where I fell asleep. But a hint of anxiety remains.
“A dream?”
Hearing my own voice is a relief.
I touch my cheeks with shaky hands and feel warm tears. I’m crying? That’s new. I rub my arms, hoping to calm down further.
What the hell did I dream about?
I lie down facing the back of the couch and try to fall asleep again, but inky shapes swirl around my eyelids every time I close my eyes. I know it’s not real. It’s irrational—fear from a dream I can’t even remember—but the lingering unease is enough to keep me wide awake.
This is stupid.
I roll over and reach for my phone on the TV stand. The screen brightness blinds me. When my vision clears, I check the time. It’s just after 5AM.
Really?
The curtain over the sliding glass door is truly impressive. If I hadn’t checked the time, I would have guessed it was well before sunrise.
I leave the couch and wander into the quiet great room. Soft light streams in through the skylight in the kitchen, but I pull open the thick curtains over the bay window to fight off more of the darkness left behind by my mystery nightmare.
What was it?
Outside, perfect houses with perfect lawns sit across the road. It’s so early, the streetlights are still on, and the street itself is empty. Westbrooke looks like a normal upper-class neighborhood, but is it really? How many immortals live here?
Hm...
A prickle on the back of my neck. I scratch my wrist.
Then I glance over my shoulder, and my heart nearly stops. Ice is standing behind me. A shiver runs up my spine as something inexplicably dark flashes through my mind, but I can’t pin the haunting afterimage down before it slips away.
Aah— He isn’t wearing a shirt.
My cheeks flush hotly, and I avert my eyes.
“Ice.” I swallow and try to fix my hair. “Good morning.”
“This seems early for you,” he says.
I struggle to make eye contact—and fail, so I’m stuck looking just off to the side of his face instead. Maybe it’s close enough he won’t notice.
“But not for you?” I ask, still messing with my hair.
Why am I so jumpy?
He smiles rather uncertainly. “This is normal.”
Waking up at 5AM is normal for him? How? When does this man find time to sleep?
In my confusion, I manage to make eye contact. Though, his smile fades as he studies my face again, and he glances around the room.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“Oh, no.” I laugh. “I had a nightmare—or whatever. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I got up and came out here. That’s all.”
“A nightmare?”
As I stare into his shockingly blue eyes, he watches me with a level expression. Honestly, I can’t recall a single specific detail about the dream, but something about it has me on edge, and I don’t want to talk about it. The thought feels wrong somehow.
He quirks an eyebrow, trying to prompt an answer.
I wish I had one to give.
“I don’t remember. What are you doing up this early, anyway?”
He smiles hesitantly and gestures toward the lower half of his body. My eyes skim over his bare chest before taking in his track pants and worn sneakers.
“I’m going for a run,” he says.
How on earth did I miss that?
“Right... Duh.”
I try to keep from staring, but his body is perfect and right in front of me. I indulge in one last glance at his lean, muscular torso before meeting his gaze again.
“Do you run every morning?”
“Generally.”
Well, it explains a lot, though I can’t tell whether he’s amused or irritated that I’ve been ogling him. His posture is casual and unconcerned, but his face is more-or-less unreadable.
I clear my throat. “I shouldn’t hold you up then.”
He offers me another half-smile before heading out, and I watch through the bay window as he puts earbuds in and takes off down the sidewalk. He’s a quick jogger and looks so at ease while running. He reminds me of a professional athlete—lithe and agile.
When he disappears from view after turning down another street, I leave the breakfast nook. I take a few steps, but I pause.
My eyes land on the brightly colored package of department store fireworks on the glass dining table. Then the small, cardboard box containing the three larger mortars Ice mentioned last night—real skyrockets.
Something...
The sound of fireworks...?
A flash of white?
If I could remember the dream, maybe I would understand why I’m so uncomfortable. It just feels like something is off. Like...I shouldn’t be here, or someone might be watching me from just out of sight—from just around the corner.
Relax, Jayde.
It was only a dream.
ALL DAY, THE FEELING has lingered.
The sensation of being watched. A prickly, itchy sort of hyper-awareness, as though my privacy was invaded by some malevolent force during the night, and my subconscious is trying to warn me of the danger I missed out on. Even as I took a shower, it followed me, prickling down my spine.
But no one else feels it.
I stay at the breakfast nook after lunch. Ice and the twins move on to do other things—I didn’t pay attention to what—but I don’t move. I look through the bay window for a long time.
It’s a beautiful, sunny day.
A few children play in the street, running or riding scooters and bicycles. They laugh and shriek loud enough I can hear their voices through the glass.
I’m not watching the children, though.
I’m not really watching anything. I’m just gazing through the window, trying to remember anything from my stupid dream. It was dark. Empty. I heard breathing—or crying, maybe. A...sound. And then I woke up with tears streaming down my face.
That can’t be it... That’s not even scary.
After a while—maybe ten minutes; maybe a half hour—Ice joins me at the ta
ble. He asks if I’m alright. This is the third or fourth time he’s asked today. My unease makes him uncomfortable.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
He stares at me, his eyebrows raised. All I can do is shake my head and smile. I may want to remember the dream for myself, but I still don’t want to talk about it.
“Do only immortals live around here?” I ask, hoping to distract him.
He glances out the window. “No, I don’t believe so. Why?”
“Night told me that immortals make up half the population in Riverview. She said you guys like to group together, and this is a gated community, so I wasn’t sure.”
“I see. She’s not wrong. Plenty of immortals live here, though not exclusively by any means. The cost of living in Westbrooke is high, but there are humans who manage it.”
Immortals tend to have more money than humans too?
Why am I not surprised?
That said, I can only imagine the cost of living here. My family would never have been able to afford it. Sure, the house I grew up in was nice in its own right, but this place is almost too nice—and it’s not even the nicest house on the block.
“How long have you lived here?”
“In this house?” He focuses on me for a long moment before turning to the window again. “Night and Smoke grew up here—the house was built before the twins were born—but I was adopted into the family as a child. It’s been about eleven years now.”
Only eleven years? Aren’t most kids adopted younger?
Well, I suppose it explains the lack of childhood photos around the house. But he has no idea that Night already told me he was adopted, does he?
“Really?” I ask, hoping my voice carries enough surprise to convince him.
His eyes narrow, and his lips form a thin smile as he meets my gaze. “Don’t tell me you thought the twins and I were related by blood.” When I shrug and laugh, my embarrassment genuine, he rolls his eyes. “In any case, Westbrooke is an ideal community for children. I was fortunate to come here and live with this family.”
“That’s great.”
I want to know more about his past. He was adopted into an upper-class family as an older child. His life before he was a Monroe could have been anything, but... I don’t want to push my luck or make him more uncomfortable than I already have.
“So... When are we doing fireworks?”
“The skyrockets? After nightfall.” He sits up straight, his shoulders relaxing. “The darker, the better for those. We can set the others off earlier.”
“I’m excited for the big ones,” I admit. “I’ve never seen skyrockets up close before.”
“They’re very loud. Very bright.”
“Do you shoot them off every year?”
He flashes a crooked grin. “No. I picked them up just for you.”
“Oh.” I smile, feeling my face warm. “Well. Thanks.”
He shoots me a cool glance with bright eyes and stands from the table. A moment of hesitation. Then he pats me once on the head and walks away.
What on earth is that about?
thirty-one
TWO HOURS TO SUNSET.
Small, whistling fireworks already sound off elsewhere in the neighborhood. I sit on the raised patio with my feet dangling over the edge and a small plate of cubed watermelon in my lap.
The sliding glass door opens to my left.
Ice steps out onto the patio with the unopened package of department store fireworks under one arm. Night and Smoke, carrying a pitcher and stack of drinking glasses respectively, trail out after him. The three gather near the round patio table, and Smoke’s mild expression shifts to a small smile as he observes the fairy lights I helped Night set up earlier.
“Festive,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder.
“It’s nothing special,” she says. Then she pauses, glances up from the pitcher in her hand, and turns to me. “Oh, Jayde— Do you drink? I didn’t think to ask.”
Alcohol? I really don’t, but...
Leaving my plate behind, I join the others around the table.
Night fills a tall, clear glass with pale pink liquid. Spherical ice cubes, quartered strawberries, and several lemon slices float inside the elegant glass pitcher.
“What is it? Spiked lemonade?”
She nods. “Would you like to try a glass?”
I have a couple years to go before I’m of legal drinking age, but the illegality of underage drinking does nothing to stop most people. I’ve only tried alcohol a few times, though, and I never drank much at once.
What if I have a low alcohol tolerance? What if I throw up? Or black out? I hate to think I might embarrass myself while under the influence, but I don’t want to feel like the odd one out either.
Aah...
Night frowns. “It’s fine if you want something else. We have cola, San Pellegrino, and ginger ale in the garage. Or I could make an Italian soda.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll try it.”
I take a glass and turn to Ice. He’s done removing the fireworks from their packaging, and they’re now neatly arranged by height on the table.
I smile as he hands me a steel sparkler, but I turn away to hide my face before I taste the spiked lemonade. The drink is citrusy and syrupy, but the astringent flavor of hard liquor is not subtle. I suppress a cough.
“Do you like it?” Night asks, her eyes still carrying a touch of concern. “I made the syrup using berries from the garden.”
She mixed the drink herself?
It’s not bad, but alcohol is definitely an acquired taste. I’d prefer something sweeter—something less obviously alcoholic.
“It tastes like lemonade,” I say.
This is fine.
I return to my spot on the edge of the patio and set the glass down, so I can hold the sparkler in one hand and eat watermelon at the same time. Ice sits rather close, holding his own sparkler and glass of lemonade. I watch as he takes a generous drink, but the taste of alcohol doesn’t seem to faze him.
He catches me staring and smiles.
“You don’t drink much, do you?” he asks.
“Not much, no.”
His smile grows wry. “You’re a good girl, huh? Not used to this sort of thing?”
As always he can see right through me.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Painfully,” he says with a laugh.
The twins descend the patio stairs and walk out into the center of the grassy yard. Night holds two drinks while Smoke carries an armful of fireworks. They speak and giggle in hushed tones. Smoke’s playful smile is wide, and I imagine he’s not as serious as he often makes himself out to be.
“Here,” Ice says.
He holds up a lit pocket lighter. I dip my sparkler into the tiny flame. Sparks shoot from the tip as it catches, and I angle it over the river rocks bordering the patio below.
The bright light is mesmerizing. Beautiful. I haven’t played with sparklers in years. It’s nostalgic and a little sad.
Being with Ice’s family like this...
I take a drink, wincing again, but I persevere. Hopefully, the alcohol will help me lighten up. It’s like Rose said; I need to take matters into my own hands. Be more assertive. Make a move?
That’s easier said than done—
With a sharp hiss, Ice’s sparkler bursts to life. We sit in relative silence as our sparklers burn, flinging white sparks in all directions. Red embers fall to the rocks and grass below, losing their glow as they fade and die.
The twins play in the yard with more energy. They move and dance about, waving their sparklers to form shapes and letters in the air. They’re having a blast.
Why can’t I get in the mood?
I glance at Ice out of the corner of my eye. He takes a slow drink from his glass, his attention focused on the tip of his sparkler. A soft frown forms on his face as he stares into the sparks with narrowed eyes that reflect the bright light.
What is he thinking about?
<
br /> Me? The twins? His childhood? Should I ask?
As my sparkler’s smoldering tip goes dark, a shrill whistle fills the backyard. The noise startles me, but it’s just a firework Smoke set off. Sparks fly a couple feet into the air as the twins stand only a few strides from the screaming thing in the middle of the yard.
I take a more determined drink of lemonade.
Setting my spent sparkler aside, I study the drink more closely. The ice cubes and lemon slice. The condensation forming on the outside of the glass.
How much do I have to drink before I feel any different?
I have never drunk enough to get tipsy before. Just...half a lite beer I later abandoned on a kitchen counter. A shot of cheap liquor washed down with an entire can of soda. A couple homemade jello shots that barely tasted of alcohol.
Is this a good idea?
When the first firework falls silent, Night sets up another, and Smoke lights the fuse. The small, cardboard tube erupts into a series of hissing, blinding flashes. The light is so intense, I have to look away.
All the while, I continue nursing my drink.
The cold liquid feels strangely warm in my throat as I swallow, but the sweet strawberry with a sharp bite is growing on me. Either that or it’s easier to tolerate now that I’m used to it.
Ice takes the remnants of my sparkler and mumbles something before standing. I glance up and notice the empty glass in his hand.
Wait—
I turn as he walks to the patio table, where he sets the spent sparklers down and pours himself a second glass. How much is he planning to drink? I’m not even halfway through my first cup.
As he returns to sit beside me, I ask if he knows what kind of alcohol Night used in the lemonade.
“Vodka and triple sec, I believe.” He looks up from the glass in his hand. “It’s not good vodka, though, and Night knows I don’t care for citrus.”
“Oh.” I have no idea what triple sec is. “Do you drink a lot?”
He tips his head, his smile soft and curious. “Have you seen me drink before now?”
Only once—I think.
“I guess not,” I admit.
We return to gazing out over the yard, watching the twins as they laugh and set off more small fireworks. I steal another glance at Ice. His smile softens as he watches them.