Lost Secret

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  "Great place," Michael said, looking around the living room; it opened into the kitchen, with the old-fashioned pocket doors pushed aside.

  "Thanks, I'll be out in a minute."

  Leaving them lounging on the couch, sipping their beers, I went into my bedroom and dressed quickly—a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. After brushing my hair, I braided it into two plaits, then wrapped them up around my head and secured them in the back with a couple of bobby pins. Sitting on my bed, I buckled on a pair of leather sandals. I pulled my comforter over my pillows before checking myself in the mirror.

  My cheeks were flushed, and I appeared almost fevered. Hunger gnawed at me as I examined my reflection. I decided to change tops because the V-neck of the white shirt was too much. I put on a sports bra and a dark blue button-down blouse with yellow bunnies on it. The buttons strained to contain my chest. Despite my conservative outfit and sweetly braided hair, I still looked wanton. That's what my foster father would have called it. I shook my head, blocking him from my memory.

  Both of the men stood as I came out. "You look nice," Michael said with a smile.

  "Thanks." He was obviously trying to make me feel good, and I appreciated the effort.

  "Yes, beautiful," Emmanuel said, his voice quiet. I looked over at him, and he held my gaze. The way his eyes lingered on me made my throat constrict. I'm starving.

  "Where we headed?" I asked, crossing to the kitchen and filling a cup with water.

  Michael followed me. "There's a parade a friend of mine is in. Should be fun."

  I gulped down the water and left the empty glass by the sink. "Okay," I said, turning to Michael with a smile. Clearly, I've lost my mind, why not join a parade?

  Chapter Six

  As we locked up our bikes, I checked out the small group gathering for the parade. "Not a big showing," I said, eyeing the smattering of people outside of the bar—mostly men, what Megan called "green meanies". Green because they were so dirty that their skin and clothing seemed to take on a brown-green tinge. Mean because they got in your face if you didn't give them money when they begged on the street.

  Megan and I played on the streets when we first arrived—I’ve never worked so hard as that first year in Crescent City. It pissed Megan off when the "green meanies" begged for money without offering anything back.

  "Don't worry, more will join us on the route," Michael said. “People with day jobs don't get off for a while." He came up next to me and offered me a beer.

  I took it and popped the can open. Michael threw his arm across my shoulders. His scent, a mix of sweat from our ride and beer from his breath, swirled around me. His touch warmed my back. That strange hunger clawed at my insides. I'm so empty.

  "Hey, Michael?" Emmanuel said from over by his bike. "This lock you loaned me is stuck again."

  Michael sighed and smiled, giving my shoulder a squeeze before releasing me to go and help Emmanuel. I took a long slug off the beer, trying to shake that empty sensation.

  "Come on," Michael said once Emmanuel's lock was secured. "We have time for a shot before the parade begins." He led the way to the bar, a single-story building with a door that swung both ways and tinted windows filled with neon signs for liquor brands.

  A tingling of awareness raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I turned, my eyes drawn to the shadow under a balcony. A man stood in the doorway, the pale blue of his eyes shining in the darkness. The stranger from the hospital? Hunger struck me like an anvil hitting hot metal, and I stumbled, twisted by the strength of it.

  Emmanuel caught my arm, keeping me from falling on my ass. Super cool, that's me. When I looked back the man was gone. Did I hallucinate him? Craptastic.

  "Are you hungry?" Emmanuel asked, leading me into the dark bar—it smelled of stale cigarettes and spilled beer.

  "I could eat." Understatement much.

  I glanced up at Emmanuel—his eyes with their long lashes flashed purple in the dim space. His shoulders, broad but not bulky, made my mouth water. I dropped my gaze to his hands...shivers of savage want ran down my spine. Starving is more like it.

  "How about a slice of pizza? I'll go grab you one. There is a pretty good place down the block," Emmanuel offered.

  "Pizza?" Michael said. "The breakfast of champions. I'll take a slice too. Thanks, man."

  Emmanuel smiled down at me. "My pleasure." His voice felt like a physical thing, a rough presence rumbling over my skin. "I'll be right back."

  Michael ordered three shots and another round of beer. "But mine's still full," I said.

  "Finish it up then," Michael countered. He leaned against the bar, his T-shirt rising up and showing off his obliques, the muscles defined and skin silky smooth. The hunger churned into nausea. Michael pushed the shot in front of me. "A toast," he said, holding up his own glass. "To our band."

  I picked up the glass and clinked it against his. "Yes," I said. "To the band."

  He downed the drink in one go. I tried to follow suit but could only swallow half. My eyes burned, and I coughed. "You're all right," Michael said and waved the bartender over for another round.

  By the time Emmanuel returned with our slices, I was one and a half shots in. I devoured the cheese pizza without really tasting it. "Here," Michael said, pushing two shots toward Emmanuel. "You've got to catch up." Then he bit into his slice, grease escaping down his chin.

  Emmanuel handed him a napkin and then gave one to me. I wiped at my face. Super cool, take two. Placing the crust on the paper plate, I resisted finishing it off in two quick bites.

  By the time the brass band arrived, I was officially drunk. "Come on." Michael tried to take my hand, but Emmanuel distracted him by passing him the bill.

  "Here." I pulled out my wallet, then remembered I didn't have any money since I'd spent it all at the cemetery. That made me laugh, and both boys turned to look at me. "Sorry." I suppressed my smile.

  "Please don't apologize for laughing," Emmanuel said.

  "Yeah, it's nice," Michael said. "Just what you need. Don't worry about the tab," Michael continued. "It's my treat. I’m making up for being an asshole, remember?”

  "Thanks." I shoved my wallet back in my purse.

  A loud trumpet sounded, and Michael looked up from counting money, a smile on his face. He dropped the cash and grinned at us as he turned for the door.

  I squinted against the setting sun as we walked back outside. Michael was chatting with a guy wearing a tuba; it wrapped around his body like a thick, gold snake. The tuba player laughed at something Michael said.

  "Everyone likes him," I said to Emmanuel. "Don't they?"

  He glanced at Michael. "Sure. He's charming, good-looking, talented. What's not to like?"

  I smiled, the shots and beer making me feel loose and brave. "Sometimes he's mean," I responded.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "I deserve it," I admitted. "I've been sucking."

  "You'll get it back," Emmanuel said. "You've just got to let the music in again." He put a hand on my shoulder—warm and heavy and oh so nice. “And Darling, no one should be mean to you. Ever.”

  I stared at his lips, my body buzzing. My eyes rose to meet his. "Sometimes when I'm talking to you, when your hair falls over your face like that, and you're looking down at me, I feel like no one else can see us." Did I just say that out loud? Egads. I’m a dork of the first magnitude.

  Emmanuel’s eyes brightened, and a soft smile stole over his mouth. "Me too." His voice was a whisper. A grin broke across my face as the band began to play a marching song I recognized from other parades. “Come on,” he said, gesturing with his chin for us to move with the music.

  We all danced down the block—the green meanies, a new collection of girls in short skirts, a family that looked like they might be tourists, two drag queens with a cadre of fans, a man on one of those antique bicycles with the giant front wheel, and the three of us.

  The beers and shots in my system ran roughshod over the pizza, and I danced with
the rest of the crowd, throwing my hands over my head, feeling the beat, like a second heartbeat, as if it was a part of me, something that could not be ignored.

  Michael passed me another beer, the tab already popped. Emmanuel pulled a flask from his pocket and tipped his head back, drinking it in. I reached out for the flask, and he gave me a crooked smile before handing it over.

  Smoky and hot, the liquor burned my mouth and raged down my throat. Handing it back, I did a spin, and danced forward.

  As the sun slipped below the horizon, two old ladies, with big smiles that pushed their cheeks up, making their eyes mere slits, came down their front steps holding their skirts in their hands, swishing them back and forth, reminding everyone that life ain't over till you're dead.

  Young men wearing tank tops exposing their strong shoulders and long shorts hanging low on their hips, held the edges of their ball caps and moved their feet in ways that seemed impossible to me. Watching one, I bounced against Michael; he wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me against him.

  A heat coursed between us, and hunger rose in my throat, my mouth going dry. He grinned down at me, the soft tone of dusk lighting him just right. His hand squeezed my hip, and he began to bend his head down toward me—as if drawn by some unseen force. Fear gripped me and I jerked my head away from him. The hunger tried to pull me back to him but I spotted Emmanuel and it settled at the sight of him

  He was frowning at a woman watching the parade from her porch. She was big—not just tall but also carrying an extra fifty pounds or so. Her breasts were barely contained by the black, low-cut T-shirt she wore.

  She was dancing…in a way. Her feet bare, she shuffled down to the street. The whites of her eyes were clearly visible. There was so much gel in her black hair that it looked wet.

  Emmanuel glanced over at me. His eyes traveled to Michael's hand on my hip and his frown deepened. Michael let me go easily when I pulled away. He continued to dance forward, moving with the crowd.

  "Everything okay?" I asked Emmanuel when I reached him.

  "Yes." Emmanuel glanced over his shoulder at the odd woman, again. She'd joined the parade now.

  "She looks really high," I said to him.

  He bit his lip and nodded. "Sure." Then he smiled at me and brought his flask out from his back pocket. "Let's dance," he said. I nodded, and we caught up to Michael, who was chatting up one of the girls in short skirts.

  I took another swig off Emmanuel's flask, thinking I tasted something herbal in it this time. "What is this?" I asked.

  But Emmanuel didn't answer; he was looking behind us. I followed his gaze. The high woman moved quickly through the crowd, headed straight for the band. Emmanuel took my hand and pulled me to the edge of the parade as she barreled through the center. "Maybe we should go," he said.

  "What?" Michael whined at him. "No way! The sun just set."

  Emmanuel's attention stayed focused on the high woman. She came up behind the trumpet player and raised her right leg high, then crashed it down, her bare foot smacking against the pavement. She raised her left leg and did the same. Letting her head roll on her neck she reached out and grasped at the air. I noticed that the side of her neck looked weird. I squinted through the crowd.

  "Is she hurt?" I asked.

  "Shit," Emmanuel said. "We need to go."

  He took my arm and pulled, but I was rooted to the spot, watching her head loll. Are those her tendons I'm seeing?

  She reached out and grabbed the trumpet player's shoulders.

  He tried to shrug her off, his hat falling askew, but she yanked him toward her mouth. He stopped playing and started to turn.

  She bit down hard onto his cheek.

  The man screamed and the music fell apart, stuttering to a stop. The crowd's gyrations slowed and stopped with the music, their attention drawn to the attack taking place.

  High Woman held the trumpet player tight to her chest. He fought back, striking with his instrument and his fist. A young man pulled a gun from the waistband of his low-slung shorts and held it on the woman. "Let him go!" he yelled.

  Screams rose. Heels clattered on the pavement.

  Emmanuel pulled on me harder but I didn't move—I couldn't. My brain struggled to digest the events in front of me, incapable of doing anything else… including running for my life. There was something horrifyingly familiar about the whole scene.

  The gun fired and I jerked at the sound. The bullet entered High Woman's stomach. She didn't let go.

  The second shot hit her in the back. Chunks of flesh and blood splattered across the sidewalk. She ignored the new wound and stepped into the trumpet player, knocking him to the ground, falling with him.

  Lying on top of him, his trumpet now crushed between them, his arms trapped, legs weighted by her, she reared her head back and drove her teeth into his neck, cutting off a fresh scream.

  Emmanuel pulled at me, but I shook my head. The gunman stood over High Woman and unloaded the rest of his clip into her back but she kept biting, the trumpet player's body shaking beneath her.

  Emmanuel scooped me up into his arms and ran down the block, holding me tight. I could smell the mix of beer and smoky herbs on his breath. I placed my hand against his chest and felt Emmanuel's heart. It seemed to pulse into my hand, each beat throbbing through me. Even more powerful than the rhythm of the music from the parade. And just as fragile…

  Chapter Seven

  Emmanuel lowered me onto a couch. I sank into the cushions, and he slipped his arms from beneath me. Even without his body against mine, I felt his heartbeat thrumming through me. "What the fuck was that?" Michael yelled as he paced back and forth. I couldn't have said it better myself.

  Emmanuel sat in an armchair next to me, his elbows on his knees. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes intent.

  "No," My voice vibrated with the strange energy coursing through me.

  Michael stomped over to Emmanuel. "Dude, what the fuck was that?" he yelled again.

  Emmanuel looked up at him. “What do you think it was?”

  Michael turned and paced away. Emmanuel leaned back in his chair and pulled his flask out of his front pocket. His Adam's apple bobbed as he drank deeply from the small container. Michael came back over and stood impatiently above him until Emmanuel handed it over.

  He took a long swig and then turned to me. "What do you think it was?"

  I swallowed, my head fuzzy. I feel so strange. “I heard there was a drug causing attacks like that."

  "What drug?" Michael asked.

  Emmanuel's eyes searched my face. "It's been on the news," I said. "It causes terrible hallucinations, and there was that attack last week."

  "What attack?" Michael stepped closer to me.

  I shrugged, uncomfortable under his angry scrutiny. "Didn't you hear about it?"

  "Obviously not!" he yelled. "If I had, I wouldn't be fucking asking you about it, would I?"

  "Ease up," Emmanuel said, his voice low and calm.

  Michael took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry." His voice was tight. "Please, tell me about it." Michael's fists clenched and unclenched by his side.

  "I don't know all the details, but a woman attacked a group of friends on their way home from the bar. They experienced seizures afterward and were brought to Mercy Hospital."

  “Fuck." Michael turned away from me and took another sip from the flask.

  I felt Emmanuel’s gaze and turned to him. "I think you should stay here tonight," he said.

  "Here?" I looked around for the first time. I was on a worn couch, under a high ceiling crossed with wooden beams. Across the large room was an open kitchen, the sink filled with dishes. Behind me a row of factory windows, two sheets crisscrossing them, neither large enough to cover the expanse alone, covered the wall.

  "You can have my room," Emmanuel said. "Just stay until tomorrow." He put his hand over mine, and I could feel the steady beat of his heart again. Why can I feel his pulse? What is happeni
ng?

  "I have to go to the hospital in the morning," I stared down at our hands. His thumb ran along mine, sending shivers over me.

  "You shouldn't go to the hospital." His voice was smooth and soothing. I want to agree with him.

  "No." I shook my head, trying to free myself from these odd sensations. "I have to. I'm needed. I'm donating bone marrow."

  "What?" Michael stormed back over. "We have band practice all week. The Bell House Show is coming up." He referred to the booking our manager had made. She assured us that it would turn into a record contract. She was getting all the right people there.

  "I know. I'll be fine."

  "After a bone marrow transplant?"

  “It’s a harvest, not a transplant. Don't worry," I said, my voice lowering. "I've done it before. I'll be fine."

  Michael huffed a laugh and paced away again.

  “Please stay here,” Emmanuel said. "I'm not comfortable with you going home alone, and I don't even think it's safe to escort you."

  "It's that bad?" I asked.

  "Why risk it? The cops are probably freaking out. Not to mention the face-eating junkies." As if to prove his point, a siren began to wail in the distance.

  "Okay," I answered, nodding my head. He smiled and removed his hand from mine. The steady beat of his heart left with his touch. So strange.

  Michael collapsed onto the couch next to me and his hand grazed my bare arm.

  It felt like a deep cut, the kind where you don't feel pain, just the jolt of cold metal slicing through flesh.

  I breathed him in, a thrum rising into a crescendo.

  Suddenly Michael's lips pressed to mine and our tongues met in a desperate dance. A hand pulled at my shirt, another gripped my braids. Stubble grated against my chin, a palm found my breast, heat poured between us.

  Strong hands yanked me back. I was straddling Michael. What the hell? He still clutched my hair, refusing to release me. Emmanuel roared and brought his arm down onto Michael's wrist—it made a sickening crack. Michael's fingers fell away, and he cradled the injured arm to his chest—skin gray and eyes sunken.