Heavy footsteps clomp across the floor, too strong to be muffled by carpet, and I sit up in bed, spying Kessler as he makes his way to the door. He's already dressed in jeans and a snug-fitting black t-shirt, his long hair tied into a knot at the back of his skull. Steam wafts over the lip of the white mug he's carrying, and I groggily realize he's made coffee. The smell of it assaults my frazzled senses as I stretch my arms upward, which is a bad fucking idea given the state of my body.
“Is she awake?” The whispered voice reaches me from outside in the hallway.
After wiping sleep from my lashes, I glance up to see Kessler watching me over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows pinched together. Our eyes meet for a millisecond before he looks away. “She is now.”
Before he's even done speaking, the girls are muscling their way inside, making a beeline straight for my bed. As if they've choreographed every move, both Layla and Harper launch onto either side of me and start jumping, jostling the ever-loving shit out of me as they squeal and carry on, much to the dismay of my pounding head.
“You did it!” Layla cries, wiggling her hips from side to side as she fist-bumps the air. “You're a fucking Blacklighter!”
“Hell to the motherfucking yes!” Harper cheers. Her blonde hair is pulled into two messy pig-tails and she's not wearing a single speck of makeup, but she's still beautiful—even with purple hickeys dotting her from jaw to cleavage and fingerprints bruising her upper arms. “Congratu-fucking-lations!”
Panting and giggling like a couple of crackheads, both women eventually fall to their knees on either side of me, still vibrating with uncontrollable energy as they scurry up to sit beside me on the bed. Both still wearing what little clothing they wore to sleep in. For Harper, that's a bright red silk number, and for Layla, a Hooters t-shirt and a pair of what I'm assuming are Eric's boxer shorts.
Knowing how this must look—three scantily clad, full-grown women spread out on a bed—my curious eyes seek out Kessler, thinking he'll be more than enthused with our current state. But when I find him, sitting hunched over in a chair cradling his coffee with both hands, he looks mildly concerned. And he's not looking at my fellow Blacklighters. He's looking at me.
“I'm so damn proud of you.” Layla loops her arms around one of mine and lays her chin on my shoulder, smiling at me like I hung the damn moon. “Not that I had any doubt whatsoever, but still...it's cause for celebration.”
“Which is why we're going out!” Harper screeches. I resist the urge to suffocate her with a pillow. She's always been friendly with me, and I with her, but her voice is so high-pitched, even if she weren't shouting, my head would loathe the sound all the same.
It takes a full minute to finally register what she said, and even longer to take notice of the twin looks of concern coming at me from my left and right.
I look to my former-mentor, finding the will to speak much easier than I did twenty-four hours ago. “Out?”
Layla nods. “We need to spruce up your room. It sucks in here. Plus, now that you don't have to wear that godawful dress, you need some new threads.”
“Clothes,” Harper corrects. “No one says threads anymore. That word died with the nineties.”
Worry rockets through me, but they are oblivious to my clammy hands, my panicked breathing, my racing heartbeat. “Out? Like...outside?”
“Yes!” Harper claps. “Blair flung a credit card at my head first thing this morning and told me to let you go wild.”
Funny. She didn't stop by my room to say a single damn word.
I lick my dry lips, wondering if there's any way I can get out of this. “I don't—maybe...today? I just think—”
“Hey.” Layla places a hand on my cheek and turns my head until I'm facing her. Her eyes are clear and focused, and now that she's looking at me head-on, she can see it—my panic. I know she can.
It's not often that emotion makes itself known within me, but right now, it's there, and there's not a damn thing I can do to snuff it out. “It's okay,” she whispers. “It'll be fine. I promise. I'll be there the entire time. No need to fret. Now, get dressed. We'll meet you downstairs in thirty.”
After Layla kisses the end of my nose—an action I'm not sure I like, but don't entirely hate—the girls make their exit, and I'm suddenly left feeling cold and hot and numb, all at the same time. For as far back as I can remember, my life has been structured, every day planned. I sleep, I eat, I train. That's it. Last night was an exception, but one I've been preparing for ever since Blair moved me out of my room in the basement and left me in the Violet quarters with nothing but a toothbrush, a half-empty box of tampons, and a stack of purple dresses at the foot of a bare mattress.
Nothing surprises me, because nothing changes. But this? This is change. And I don't like it.
“Come on.”
I'm pulled out of my spiraling anxiety by a voice—Kessler's voice—and I finally focus my eyes long enough to see his hands. Both outstretched from where he stands at my bedside, both palms up, beckoning me, offering help. Without giving it much thought, I let him pull me out of bed. Everything hurts, like always, but other than the back of my neck, the pain is bearable. Besides, there's a bottle of pills around here somewhere that will help with that.
Kessler leads me into the bathroom, his face a mask of nothingness that I don't care for. I suppose it mirrors my own mask—the one I wear every day, the one that tells people I'm not a person, but a fixture, a moving piece of furniture with no thoughts or feelings, a weapon without an agenda or any sort of ethical or moral boundaries. Sometimes, I think the assumptions people make about me based on how I carry myself are correct. Other times, like right now, I don't feel like a weapon. I feel vulnerable and uncertain and mortal.
I feel human.
Kessler pulls me to a stop in front of the bathroom mirror, and I'm forced to take in both our appearances as he stands at my back, looking over the top of my head. I'm a fucking mess, but he doesn't have a single hair out of place. Even his beard looks combed to perfection. I wonder if he woke up that way. Wouldn't surprise me one bit if that were the case. He's so out of place here, every time I look at him or touch him or listen to him speak, all I can think is how otherworldly he seems—how alien and foreign.
Parting my hair down the center, he manages to push both sides of the rat's nest away from my neck. While he goes about cleaning and bandaging my brand, I watch his shoulders lift and fall, shifting under the thin fabric of his shirt. He's large but graceful, never clumsy or rushed, careful with his movements. When he begins brushing my hair, I close my eyes and enjoy the tingles spreading out over my scalp, each bristle mimicking a tiny massaging finger.
“When's the last time you went outside the gates?”
My eyes pop open, meeting his in the mirror, and my semi-decent mood vanishes. I hate that he asked that question and I hate the answer. I'm well aware of how it makes me seem, but there's not a damn thing I can do to change it.
I shake my head.
“You've never been outside?” Kessler doesn't look at me, but his eyebrows do inch closer to each other. “Not even when you were little?”
“I've never left.”
I was born on an old pool table in the bar, delivered by a drunk farmer, and for twenty-seven years, I've inhabited the same eighty acres. My secluded upbringing sometimes makes me seem ignorant and uneducated in the ways of the world, but I own it. I've never had the urge to leave. So yes, the outside world is a mystery to me, and although staying here makes me feel itchy and restless at times—like a caged animal—I never spend too long ruminating over it. My life is here. My family is here. My home is here. What outside those gates could possibly intrigue me enough to leave?
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Wow,” Kessler says, “that's a long time in one place.”
The brush gets hung up on a particularly gnarly knot and Kessler stops to cringe, deciding to finger-comb that portion, but he doesn't
get more than a wince from me. “I guess it is.”
“How do you do it?” he asks. “How do you stay here without feeling like you're a...”
He pauses, and I wait for him to find me in the mirror. When he does, I smirk.
“How do I stay here without feeling like I'm a prisoner?” He grimaces, telling me I pulled the words right from his head. “Prisoners are kept behind bars because they're being punished. I haven't done anything wrong.”
Kessler nods. “I get that but—”
“There's nothing beyond those gates that has tempted me to leave,” I say, rather curtly. “People aren't prisoners here. They don't run away. In fact, we're the place people go when they decide life out there is too much and they need to seek refuge.”
He's quiet for a long time as he parts my hair into three sections and braids it down my back. It's been a long time since I've had someone do my hair, and I like it. What I like even more is the fact that I didn't have to ask for it, and I didn't even know I wanted him to do it. He just took it upon himself to do so, which makes me think...maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he will fit into this life of mine. Maybe he will make a good Keeper.
Back in the room, I find an old pair of jeans and a faded black tank top nestled among what little belongings were carted out of my old room, and I put them on. They fit poorly, hanging off my small frame, but I guess that doesn't matter. I'll have clothes of my own soon.
When I stripped off my purple dress for the last time, I didn't stop to wonder what would replace my everyday uniform, but now that I'm staring down at worn flip-flops and denim bunched around my ankles, a subtle tingle of excitement begins pulling at my attention. Blacklighters have very few rules when it comes to their clothes, their hair, their body. As long as they keep winning, they can present themselves however they see fit, and that's an exhilarating notion. Trouble is...I've never been good at making decisions. Everything has always been decided for me; if not by Ice or Layla then by my mother. Now, today, I'll be forced to make decisions I'll have to live with for the foreseeable future, and I'm not sure I'm equipped to handle such a task.
Downstairs, there's a small entourage waiting for us, much as I expected there would be. My mother knows this is a big deal for me, and in the interest of protecting the future of the Blacklighters—and their future Madam—she took precautions. Layla is wrapped in Eric's arms, resting her head against his chest, smiling like there's no place she'd rather be, and Harper has her Keeper on his knees, one foot propped on his thigh, watching as he ties the laces on her bright white tennis shoes. Jordan's fingers move swiftly, but his eyes are on her bare knees, which are scuffed and dry. He points out as much, but Harper ignores him in favor of greeting me. Her makeup is so thick she looks like a painting, but the bruises are thoroughly covered.
“'Bout damn time. Let's go.” She slings a purse across her chest and waves for Jordan to open the door. “We have to be back by eight to get ready.”
Kessler's body casts me in a shadow as we move across the gravel drive, headed toward Eric's black SUV. He leans in, his mouth close to my ear so he can whisper without being heard. “Ready for what?”
I'm not sure if it's the humidity or Kessler's close proximity to blame, but out here under the bright glare of the sun, with a mountain of a man holding one splayed hand to my back, it's harder to breathe. However, the tightness in my chest is a welcome diversion from shaking hands and unease at the thought of coming face-to-face with the outside world for the first time in my life.
“The fight.” I peek up at him through my lashes. “There's a fight tonight.”
He looks confused. “But...you just fought last night.”
“Yes, I did,” I nod, “and tonight I'll fight again.”
Kessler doesn't have to say a single word in protest for me to know that he's opposed to the idea of me getting back in the cage so soon, and that warms me to some degree—his misplaced concern—but it is what it is. This life isn't pretty, not by a long shot, but it is consistent. If there's a fight on the schedule, all Blacklighters are required to attend. No exceptions.
I'll be there.
With Eric behind the wheel and Layla at his side, Harper, Jordan, Kessler, and myself all climb into the back two rows of seats, taking our respective places. They're all perfectly at ease. I remind myself that, for them, this is normal. Riding in a vehicle, exiting the gates, leaving Farewell...they've all done this before, probably a million times over the years, but I haven't, and I don't know what to expect. Dread seeps from my pores as we travel down the stretch of gravel road separating Blacklighters from everyone else, and I glance out the window, taking in everything new once we leave the gates behind.
The further we get from Farewell, the fewer trees I see. They slowly thin out, until they're replaced with quaint houses and brightly painted barns and wide open fields filled with cows and horses. So many freaking cows. Black, brown, red, white...they're everywhere. Why in the hell are there so many cows?
I'm so entranced with the meandering beasts, it takes me a while to realize there are multiple conversations taking place around me. Layla and Eric are whispering to one another in the front, her hand resting on his thigh as he drives, Kessler is half turned in his seat with a stoic expression on his face, listening to Jordan ramble on about his first day as a Keeper, and Harper...Harper is thrusting a piece of paper in front of my face, reading off a list line-by-line.
“Jeans, shirts, dresses, shoes, undergarments, bed linens, curtains. Blair's won't care if we get a few extras, so is there anything else you want? We can make special stops if we have time.”
Anything I want?
Like what? She listed all the necessities. What more could...
Finally, it dawns on me. She didn't ask if there was anything else I need, she asked if there's anything else I want.
Want, as in, something that isn't necessary for survival. Want. Not need. The basic difference between Violet life and Blacklighter life. Violets are given what they need and nothing more. Blacklighters are gifted with the privilege of superfluous items meant for pleasure or personal delight. Which makes me wonder...when I have a million different options laid out before me, what will draw my attention? What will I look at and want even though I don't need it?
“I can't think of anything.”
Harper's smile fades for a moment, then returns with a vengeance. “We can look at jewelry! You can't wear it in a fight, obviously, but for just around the house...you know? Just to make you feel pretty.”
I nod, and that seems to appease her, so I go back to staring out the window. Things pass by so quickly I struggle to take it all in—the hills, ponds, barbed-wire fences, smattering of livestock...they're all so pretty without even trying. They don't need to be adorned with anything to bring light to their beauty. The hills are covered with plain grasses that have been there since the dawn of time. Ponds glisten under the sun, shooting sparks of light every which way, blinding passersby if the water shifts just the right way. Fences aren't pretty, either. They serve a purpose, that's it. To keep creatures contained. All the beautiful creatures. Cows with long swooping horns that look like elephant tusks, goats with long beards almost dragging the ground, chickens pecking at their feet, covered in the most beautiful russet red I've ever seen...
All simple but pretty. All orderly but beautiful. All natural, lacking frilly accessories. Although I envy their easy existence, I know not everything in life is so easily appreciated. Me, for instance. No matter how pretty someone might try to make me on the surface, I will always be scarred, I will always be flawed and imperfect, I will always be just on the right side of mediocre when it comes to my appearance, and that's something I've fully embraced without opposition. Maybe that's why I excel on the mat. Because there's nowhere else on earth a creature like me can be fully understood or appreciated.
Rolling fields and small homesteads eventually give way to clustered houses, which eventually grow taller and taller, until all I can
see are buildings. Steel and glass. Dozens of other vehicles crowd around us on the road, and even though I feel like they're pressing in on us, stealing me of my ability to breathe, I close my eyes and concentrate on the floor beneath my feet, the rumble of engine in my ear, and the air flowing in and out of my lungs. Then, I have something else to ground me.
A large calloused hand touches my wrist, then my palm. Fingers interlace with my own and give a brief squeeze. One thumb brushes against my knuckle, causing my hand to spasm for some insane reason, but I hide it by squeezing right back.
Kessler shifts closer and his breath warms the shell of my ear. “Overwhelming, isn't it?”
I cut my eyes to him. He's grinning, but there's worry in his eyes. No—strike that. Not worry. It's panic. Kessler is just as panicked as I am.
“Eight years in a cement box and I've forgotten what it's like to be surrounded by a million people, all of which don't give a single shit if you live or die.” He winks. “It's a trip.”
Slowly, I nod, never once breaking his gaze. “Yeah...seems that way.”
“Silver lining...” He squeezes my hand again. “At least we can freak out together.”
Something about his words makes the situation a little less daunting, and by the time Eric parks and we all climb out into the parking lot, I feel better. Not great, but better. Looking around, I see the highway to my left, buzzing with all shapes and sizes of automobiles, and to my right, a crescent-shaped wall of buildings, each painted a different color, each bearing a different name.
“Okay, kiddos.” Eric claps his hands, rubbing them together. “Where do we start?”
“There.” Layla points at the very end, toward a building painted red and white, with two golden arches overhead, forming a giant M. “We'll grab something to eat and then work our way around.”
Six buildings. Six different building filled with who-knows-what.
The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 14