by Kristie Cook
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Mason stated with hostility in his voice, appearing just in the nick of time. “Sorry, but this beautiful young lady is taken, by me. If you’d like to fight for her, I suggest we take it outside.”
“Perhaps another day.” The stranger stood and sized Mason up. They were the same height. With a nod, he walked away.
“Are you serious?” Skylar gripped Mason’s arm. “What if he took you up on your challenge?”
He arched his brows. “You think I can’t take him?”
“No, of course not. I’m afraid of what you’d do to him.”
“I would fight for you, don’t you know that, Ms. Rome? I’m not a cheater. It would be man to man, not man to my … .” He wiggled his fingers. “And believe me, I would win.”
Indeed, he had been fighting for her. Fighting all the evils they’d encountered so she could live. Even fighting his demons, trying to define what she meant to him. He had been there for her from the moment all the crazy things had happened, and for that she would be forever grateful. Melting inside, all she could do after that was say softly, “I know now.” Then she gave him a long, luscious kiss.
With a grin, Mason turned to the bartender. “Hey Ben, get us the usual. We’ll be in the back room. Thanks.”
“There’s a back room?”
Without answering Skylar’s question, Mason led her through the crowd. “Come on, Echo.”
Music filled the air as the customers laughed, ate, and enjoyed themselves. On the way to the back, she passed by so many bodies. The restaurant was packed, but luckily, they were headed to a private room.
When Skylar entered, the room was dim, and the surrounding candles gave it a romantic feel. With excitement overflowing, Skylar looked at Mason. “I like my surprise.” The room was cozy and there were two round tables set for two. Though the room looked different, it reminded her of the private room at Bella Amore. “Are we expecting anyone else?”
The door flung wider. “Skylar,” Kayla greeted.
“Kayla?” Skylar wrapped her arms tightly around her cousin, her eyes gleaming with happy tears.
Skylar released her cousin and embraced Mason with all of her might.
“Hey, I’m here too,” Nick said.
“Sorry,” Skylar said, giving Nick a hug too.
“This is fantastic. We finally get to do the double date I’ve always talked about,” Kayla exclaimed.
“Are we gonna stand here all night, or shall we sit?” Nick said lightly when the waitress walked in with their drinks.
“I ordered drinks for us at the bar,” Mason said, pulling out a chair for Skylar.
The two couples settled into their seats and ordered their dinner.
“This is cool. Our own private room,” Kayla said, taking a sip of her water.
“Mace’s idea,” Nick grinned, raising his bottle of beer to him.
“Mace?” Kayla questioned. Then she nodded, looking at Mason. “Never mind.”
“I knew Sky would like to have dinner with her favorite cousin.” Mason winked at Skylar.
Kayla blinked multiple times. “Did you just call her Sky?”
“Yes.” Mason looked baffled.
“Skylar let you call her Sky?” Her tone went up a pitch. “Nobody calls her Sky except for her … .” She paused, looking at Skylar with hesitation.
Resting her hand on Kayla’s shoulder, Skylar gave her a serene expression. “It’s okay. I’m okay with it now.”
With a hug and a heartfelt smile from Kayla, Skylar turned to Mason. “Sorry. Kayla knew that the only person to call me by that name was my dad.”
Mason raised his hands toward Kayla as if to surrender. “I promise I got her permission first.”
“Fine. Remember what I said when you came to my house that night,” Kayla warned.
“Yes, I remember. If I mess with Sky, I’m messing with you, too,” Mason said nonchalantly, as if he was saying it for the tenth time.
“What? When did this happen?” Nick’s eyes were wide with curiosity.
“Never mind,” Kayla and Mason said in accord.
As they laughed, the conversation was mainly about school and work. The waitress walked in with their dinners and left. After dinner, they ordered dessert. Realizing how late it was, Kayla needed to get back home. Another double date was set for the next week at another restaurant the brothers owned.
Clicking the car remote to unlock it, Mason opened the door for Skylar. Standing face to face, she couldn’t believe she was there with him. Looking at him with loving, caring eyes, she spoke. “Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for risking your life for mine.”
Mason brushed his hands tenderly on her cheeks. “I told you I would be there for you, and I meant it.” He kissed her lips slowly, tenderly. After he pulled away, he continued to gaze at her.
“You’re staring,” Skylar teased, expecting him to say he wasn’t, but what she heard next tugged deeply at her heart.
“I’ll always stare at you, Sky,” he said softly. His words flowed out like the icing on a cake—so sweet and smooth. “To some, you’re the keeper of death, but to me, you’re the keeper of my heart.”
Peering deeply into his eyes, her heart melted and she practically floated off the ground. Speechless, she leaned forward to kiss him. Just before their lips touched, Mason reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box.
“I have something for you. I had this made especially for you. I want you to know that you’re my girl and I’ll always be there for you.”
“Mason,” Skylar exclaimed with a twinkle in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.” After Skylar opened the box, she held its contents up to the light. “It’s beautiful.”
After taking it from Skylar’s hand, Mason wrapped the silver chain bracelet around her wrist. Turning it to its correct position, he traced the shape with the tip of his finger. “It’s a lightning bolt. You flashed into my life like lightning and gave me strength and hope. You radiated the darkness in me and brought life into my soul. You light my life, Sky. You’re brave, mesmerizing, intoxicating, and dangerous to me in every way, but I can’t help myself. You made me care.”
Skylar’s heart fluttered a mile a minute and she was swooning from his loving words. “I love it. Thank you. I’ll never take it off,” she said, embracing Mason tightly.
“Sky,” a male voice said, interrupting the moment.
Skylar pulled back and fixed her eyes on Mason, waiting for him to say something. He was staring back at her with a glow in his eyes. Obviously, he hadn’t called her name.
“Sky.” Skylar heard again.
There was only one other person that would call her by that name. Surely it couldn’t be, after all these years. Mason turned his body, apparently he’d heard it too. Following Mason’s gaze, she saw a man with a long trench coat and a fedora hat standing tall by the front of the car. It was difficult to distinguish who he was in the dark, hidden behind the glare of a parking light. To get a better look, Skylar took a step forward.
“Sky,” he said in a low tone again.
Skylar’s heart pounded out of her chest. She felt a flood of anxiety in her stomach. Recognizing the voice she hadn’t heard since childhood, she whispered one question. “Dad?”
Find Mary at …
Newsletter
Guardians: The Girl
by
Lola St Vil
Book ONE: EMMY
“I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction
which I have resisted in vain, and which overmasters me.
You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water,
you could draw me to anything I have most avoided …”
—Charles Dickens
Chapter ONE: THE BOY
Okay, it’s official: I’m a coward. No one is in class today but me—and the new twin foreign exchange students from Japan. The boy’s name is Rio. He’s tall, lanky, and on the cutting edge of fashion. His ha
ir is flaming red and falls into a shaggy bob cut that usually covers his face. His lips are plum red and he has eyebrows most girls would die for.
Rio looks like a Harajuku poster boy. This I learned from Wikipedia; it is a fashion trend in Japan where the kids dress in bold colors, patterns and off-the-beaten-path clothing. I find him sexy in a dark, mysterious way.
His twin sister, Miku, is more bohemian. No matter the weather, she can be found in dresses that are usually soft, flowery, and flowing. She has almond-shaped gray eyes like her brother. Her hair is jet black, bone straight and falls down to her waist. Her bangs frame her soft face beautifully. She wears a single honey blonde braid on the right side. But where Rio stands at 6’0, his sister is nearly a foot shorter.
We’ve said hello to each other in passing, but I’ve never struck up a conversation. I wonder what it would be like if I had that kind of charm. Would I take over governments? Start wars? Or maybe, just try to get a date for senior prom?
It didn’t surprise me that the twins are here. They never miss a day of school. Since they arrived, I’ve been fascinated by the way they are with each other. They could be laughing quietly and joking around, but if a student enters the room looking worried or upset, it changes the mood of the twins. Suddenly they are concerned as well. Of course this is all me—having way too much time on my hands to analyze other people’s behavior.
Still, I imagine their lives are somehow filled with adventure. I wish mine were. I’d like my life to be as exciting as Joan of Arc’s or Queen Elizabeth’s. Their existence changed the world. I daydream about being that kind of girl. But those women were brave and defiant. Me, on the other hand, I can’t even cut one lousy class.
The reason for such a low turnout in my last class period is the weather. New York City rarely has temperatures above 30 degrees in January. But here we are just two weeks in to the new year, and it’s a blissful 70 degrees outside. So everyone said a silent “Thank you” to global warming and ditched class.
My friend Sara was trying to coax me to join her, but at the last minute, I chickened out. I never go against the rules. Not because I don’t have a desire to, but because I am afraid of the repercussions. What if I cut class and got caught? They’d call my mom and I’d be grounded. Not that I ever really go anywhere but still.…
It isn’t just the weather that has made people skip Mr. White’s history class, it’s Mr. White himself. He rarely makes eye contact with the class, or even asks questions to see if we are following along with the lesson. It’s as if he’s talking to himself. He’s a one-man show, and we inconvenience the hell out of him by being there.
I raise my hand and get permission to go to the bathroom. I head down the hallway and encounter the Armani- Dior-McCartney parade. Fashionistas come towards me armed with posh handbags, perfect teeth and utter disapproval.
***
I am the only kid at Livingston Academy that doesn’t have old money. Actually, I don’t have new money either. My Grandfather was a janitor here for twenty years before he died. As a favor, the dean arranged it so I could get a partial scholarship. It’s still out of our price range but my Mom won’t hear of public school.
Standing there, I thought I’d get my stuff and make a break for it, but no, I walked right past my locker and into the girls bathroom. Like I said: big coward.
I look at myself in the mirror and sigh. I am so uninteresting. My face is too round, my eyes are too far apart and my cheekbones lack the height needed to elevate me to exotic. The only things that stand out about me are my eyes: they’re as purple as the stupid dinosaur. And, well, that’s just weird.
What’s even weirder is that they go various shades of purple depending on my mood. If I’m angry, they become such a deep shade of purple they appear black. When I’m sad, they lighten up and take on an electric, neon glow. I hate my eyes. They come from my father. He had encountered my mother on her way home from school—and raped her. She went to the police, but they never caught him. She tried to put that night behind her, but then I came along.
My mom, Marla, calls me the one good thing in her life. Funny, I never saw it that way. She had a scholarship to Columbia University and was going to be pre-law, but she had to postpone school to have me. Then my grandparents died in a car accident and she had no one to help support her.
So, she put off school and got a series of dead-end jobs to make ends meet. Law school became a distant fantasy. She poured all her dreams into me. She wants me to be what she would have been had she not had me: a brilliant attorney slash striking social butterfly.
But it takes a full night of cramming to squeeze out a C+ or B- on my exams. That is not brilliance. And as far as being striking goes, as I said, the only remarkable thing about me are my eyes. I always get asked about wearing contacts. I get so fed up with that question.
So here I am, Emerson Hope Baxter, a fifteen-year-old, purple-eyed freak living in New York City. I look at myself in the mirror once again. I smooth out a wayward strand of ink colored hair and tighten my ponytail. I take one last look at myself. I’m 5’4” without a curve in sight. I sigh, again.
I wash my hands and head out the door. The urge to ditch doesn’t last long. Besides, even if I had ditched class, where would I go? Everyone who cut class today had something fun and exciting to do. Their life had urgency and meaning. My life, on the other hand, is routine and ordinary.
So, no ditching, but I’m doing the next best thing; I head to the nurses office, my safe haven. The nurse’s name is Cora. She lets me crash on one of the cots when life at Livingston Academy has gotten to be too much. I run to the safety of the Lysol-scented office until I get enough nerve to face the world again.
As I head down the hallway I hear a moan coming from the janitor’s closet. I walk up and press my ear to the door. I turn the knob half expecting it to be locked, but it isn’t. The person moans even louder.
“Hello?”
“Help!” a male’s voice says weakly in the dark.
I gently drag him out of the closet and prop him up against the wall. I know I have seen him before. I can’t remember his name, but he works in the main office. He’s about fifty or so, balding with dark rimmed glasses and kind eyes.
“They’re coming for him. Must stop them … hurts so much,” he says in barely a whisper.
His face is pale and his lips are pressed together so tightly they form a thin white line. I put my hand on his shoulder to calm him. That’s when I first see the blood. It has seeped through his white shirt and tie and continues to spread its way across his abdomen. By the time I find the origin of the blood, it’s seeped down to the floor. I put my hand on the hole in his stomach but that does little to slow the bleeding.
“Help! Somebody help!” I cry out. The hallway answers back with staunch silence.
“Help me!” I call out again. Nothing.
He’s trying to say something. I lean in closer.
“Find him. Tell him to run.”
“Find who?”
He hands me a crumpled blue 5x7 index card. The kind all the students have to fill out detailing their address and other important information. It’s covered in blood.
“Find him,” the man insists again.
“Okay I will,” I promise, hoping that would get him to stay calm.
I call out for help once again but this time I don’t wait for the silence to mock me. I stuff the index card in my pocket and I run down the hallway as fast as I can. It doesn’t seem fast enough. Should I have left him alone? Can he hang on until I get back? How long does it take an ambulance to come? Stop thinking, just go! My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts. I scan the hallways. Not a person in sight.
As I call out again, something hurls itself at me and throws me down to the ground with the force of a category five hurricane. I hit the floor. I would have thought I were dead save the acute pain traveling from my shoulders down to my ankle. I groan in agony as the thing that attacked me pins me down to the grou
nd. I stare into the face of my attacker.
It’s Rio from my history class. But before I can be sure, he covers me with something. Everything goes dark. I don’t have time to pinpoint what it was because just then gunshots rang out.
I don’t know who is shooting because my attacker won’t let me up, so I fight him. I know in my head that it is a bad idea to stand up, what with a hail of bullets flying overhead, but panic steps in, and I just want to flee. I have to get up and run away. I punch him repeatedly. I kick and scream for him to let me go. It’s hard to tell if he can hear me over the sound of the gunshots. If he does, it in no way affects him. He holds me down effortlessly with his body and what I think must have been some kind of dark blanket. But where did it come from?
I make one last desperate attempt to free myself; I push past the pain running down my side and hurl myself forward to get out from underneath the boy holding me captive. He doesn’t even budge. How can he be so strong? He’s only 120 pounds or so.
Suddenly, I hear the most beautiful song ringing out into the hallways. It sounds like the kind of melody you’ve heard at a funeral. Sad. Haunting. Sorrowful. Tears sprang instantly from my eyes. I’m heartbroken but I don’t know why. It’s as if the melody has etched the saddest possible memories into my heart. The pain is worse than any physical thing I could have experienced. I want to die. My captor looks into my eyes.
“Don’t listen,” he begs as he holds me closer to his chest.
The blanket he has spread over us has somehow gotten darker and heavier. The song sounds far away now. And although I no longer feel the desire to die, I am so saddened by what little melody I can make out; I continue to weep, loudly, into his chest. Somewhere in between the sobs I think I hear groaning, but I can’t be sure.
The shots stop just as suddenly as they had started, and the hallway is silent again. The blanket is pulled off of me. I was right. It was Rio who held me down.
“What the hell is—.” My voice dies in my throat. Lying about ten yards away from us are three bodies. And standing a few feet away from them is Miku, Rio’s twin sister.