by JM Darhower
“They are,” he said. “Or they were. Dom disabled this one from the system so I could pry it open and sneak out at night. It’s been like this for a few years. My father’s never caught on since it doesn’t set off any of the alarms.”
He hadn’t meant to tell her that.
Carmine held the curtains aside, motioning for her to climb through, and she stepped out onto the small balcony that wrapped around the floor. Carmine joined her, and she carefully followed him along the balcony. He stopped where a massive sycamore tree stood, thick branches extending toward the corner of the house. It was so close that Haven reached out and touched some of the green leaves, the tips starting to fade to brown with autumn on the horizon.
Carmine tossed the jar down from the balcony, holding his breath and hoping it didn’t break as it landed in the grass with a thud. Gripping the branch closest to him, he stepped over the banister of the balcony and climbed into the tree. He glanced back at Haven, who just stood there. “Come on, it’s easy.”
“It doesn’t look easy.”
“But it is,” he said. “Besides, you’re already outside. Do you really wanna get this far and back out now?”
She peeked over the edge. “I don’t want to fall.”
“You won’t.”
“You swear?”
He chuckled. “All the fucking time.”
She hesitated for a moment longer before taking the plunge, grabbing a hold of the branch like he’d done and pulling herself over the banister. Carmine expertly navigated his way down the tree, having done it dozens of times, and Haven followed his path. A minute after he jumped to the ground, she landed beside him on her feet.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, huh?”
A hint of a smile appeared on her lips. “I didn’t fall.”
Carmine grabbed the jar as Haven wandered a few steps away, her eyes darting around. Fireflies continued to flash in the darkness, the brief glows illuminating her face. Her smile grew as she reached out for one, but she pulled her hand back quickly as her eyes shot to Carmine’s. “They won’t hurt me, right?”
“Right,” he said. “You’re probably ten times more dangerous than fireflies are.”
Dangerous. The word made his heart rate spike. Something told him that was what this girl was—a danger to his fucking sanity.
She turned back to the fireflies, gently capturing one in her palm. She opened her hand, staring at it with awe as the bug ran across her hand and took off from the tip of her finger. Soft giggles erupted from her as it flew away, catching Carmine off guard. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh.
“It tickled,” she explained.
He realized he was staring at her and looked away. Shaking himself out of his stupor, he handed her the jar. “Here, go catch a few of them.”
Carmine sat down on the ground as she took off, chasing fireflies through the yard. He laughed as she fought to catch them, the little bugs evading her grasp. Soon her laughter mixed with his, her excited cheers sounding out in the night when she managed to get some into the jar. She was spinning and twirling, jumping and running, all the while a smile graced her face.
As he watched her, Carmine thought she looked like a different girl from the one he’d encountered that first day. There was no awkwardness, the tension that radiated from her a distant memory. Out there in the yard, under the shine of the moon, she seemed relaxed and almost carefree.
* * * *
Haven spread her legs out, the lush grass tickling her feet. She breathed deeply, the cool night air a far cry from the dusty shallow breaths she forced into her lungs growing up. It smelled different here, clean and crisp. Everything was green, and she'd never given the color much thought before, but she realized it was much more than something to see. It was a feeling, a taste, a smell. It was the dampness of the grass and the shelter of the trees. It was fresh. It was comforting. Green was happiness.
Green made her belly rumble, and that feeling terrified her.
The few trees she saw in Blackburn were barren, deformed sticks jutting from the ground, but here they were giant umbrellas made of leaves. They towered above her, and she managed to feel safe tucked into their extensive embrace.
She stared at the jar in her lap, the half-dozen fireflies trapped inside of it flickering at regular intervals. She was transfixed, having never seen something so fascinating before. She found it strange the way they blinked in harmony, a silent melody she yearned to hear.
“I wonder what they're saying,” she said after a while, shattering the silence that had settled between her and Carmine.
He nonchalantly pointed at the jar. “I'm pretty sure this one just told the one beside it that it had a nice glowy ass.”
She smiled. “And the others?”
“Ah, well, that one's jealous, because it wanted the one with the nice ass,” he said, pointing to the jar again. “And the other three are just gossiping. You know—who did who, why, where, when, what-the-fuck.”
“I didn’t realize bugs were so scandalous.”
He laughed. “It’s nature. They can’t help themselves.”
She stared at the jar, having no idea what to make of it.
Carmine stood up after a few minutes, brushing the grass from his pants. “We should head back inside before we get caught. You can bring the scandalous little bugs with you.”
Shaking her head, she unscrewed the lid. “They should be free,” she said quietly, watching as the fireflies flew away.
Carmine grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet, and her fingertips tingled from his touch. The sensation alarmed her, and she pulled away. It was like electricity under her skin, running through her veins and jolting her heart. Her pulse raced as she averted her gaze, not daring to look him in the eyes.
His eyes—green, like the grass and the trees.
Haven felt like she, too, was suddenly glowing.
Chapter 6
Evasion became a way of life for Haven again over the next few weeks. Deep down she knew avoidance couldn’t last, and as she headed downstairs on Friday morning to start her work, she realized that time had come.
The television was playing in the family room, although everyone should’ve been gone for the day. Her pulse quickened. Every weekday she’d been left alone until at least three o’clock. She didn’t like her routine being disrupted.
Quietly, she made her way that direction and saw Dr. DeMarco sitting on the couch. He glanced at her and smiled. “Good morning.”
Bewildered, she said, “Good morning, Master.”
Dr. DeMarco shook his head. “Calling me that is unnecessary. I know in your mind that’s what I am, but I’d rather you not address me that way. It makes me feel like you place me on the same level as Michael Antonelli, and I like to think of myself as a better man than that.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“No need to apologize. You can call me Vincent, if you'd like.”
She was shocked he’d request she use his first name and suddenly wanted out of the room. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I was waiting for you to get up. I’ve been putting it off, but I need to have your check-up done today.”
Her eyes widened in fear.
“Don’t worry, it shouldn't take long,” he said. “And on the bright side, you get to leave the house for a bit. You haven’t been outside since you’ve gotten here.”
That wasn’t true, but she didn’t correct him.
Dr. Kevin Morte’s Family Practice was located an hour from Durante, tucked into the mountains in the outskirts of Asheville. It was a plain building, with a waiting room, an office, and two small exam rooms. Everyone in the vicinity was acquainted with the doctor, generations of families going to his clinic. Although he was revered as a smart, charitable man, Dr. Morte held a dark secret that very few knew.
He had a gambling addiction.
Despite his lifelong success, he owed tens of thousands of dollars to a bookie, which meant he was willing to do
anything for some cash.
Dr. DeMarco pulled into the parking lot of the clinic and turned to Haven. Trembling, she examined the scenery outside as he spoke. “I have an associate here who will use the utmost discretion. I could do all of this myself, but I imagine you’d feel more comfortable if I didn’t.”
“What will he be doing to me?”
“Just the basics.”
Haven didn’t know what the basics were, and Dr. DeMarco didn’t take the time to explain.
He ushered her into the building, her nerves growing with each step. They went straight back to an exam room with a brown cushioned table, and an elderly man with salt-and-pepper hair walked in. He smiled at her before greeting Dr. DeMarco as he closed the door. “I’m surprised to see you, Vincent.”
“I'm surprised I'm here.”
The man nodded. “I bet. We'll start so you can get out of here quickly. I’ll run her blood to the lab while you take her vitals.”
Dr. Morte grabbed her arm, wordlessly sticking a needle into her vein. She stood still while he filled a few vials with blood, every second that passed making her woozier. Once he was done, he removed the needle and walked out.
Dr. DeMarco weighed and measured her before leading her to the exam table. “You’re going to have to take off your clothes. I won’t leave the room, but I assure you I have no desire to look.” She stared at him, fear coursing through her, and he sighed with frustration. “It’s going to happen, whether you’re cooperative or not, and I’d rather it be on good terms than from me forcing you.”
Dr. DeMarco strolled over to the window to look out as Haven stripped and climbed up on the table. Her feet hung off the side, nowhere close to reaching the floor as she covered herself with a flimsy paper gown.
She yelped as the door opened again, and Dr. DeMarco spoke without turning around. “Lay back and scoot to the end of the table. Place your feet in the metal stir-ups and try to relax. You’re going to feel something cold down below, followed by some pressure. It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’ll be over quick.”
She squeezed her eyes shut when she felt the penetration, a tear slipping through and falling down her nose. She counted to ten in her head, trying to distract herself, and as soon as reached the number the pressure disappeared.
“She appears fine, as far as I can tell,” Dr. Morte said, pulling off a pair of latex gloves.
Haven felt a hand on her head and opened her eyes. Her vision blurred from the tears, but she could see Dr. DeMarco beside her, stroking her hair. “Good.”
Dr. Morte grabbed a few syringes he’d brought in with him and injected her with them. Once the man left, Dr. DeMarco returned to the other side of the room. “You can put your clothes back on. We’re done here.”
Standing up, she held onto the table as her legs shook, and redressed.
* * * *
Carmine stood in the middle of the roughed up field, glaring at the old scoreboard. The game had gone into overtime, and they’d barely squeaked by at the end. He knew Coach Woods was furious about all the mistakes they’d made, but no one was angrier about it than Carmine. His back and neck were sore from being sacked, Graham having let one too many people past him on the field.
On purpose, Carmine figured. He was dating Meghan again, and she’d made no secret of her encounter with Carmine.
Once again, trouble was finding him around every corner.
He jogged off the field, bypassing the crowd to make his way to the locker room. Stripping out of his grimy uniform, he washed the sweat off before throwing on a pair of jeans and an undershirt. He slipped out, managing to evade everyone until he made it to the parking lot. Lisa leaned against the side of the Mazda, smiling excitedly as he approached. “You played great tonight.”
He grabbed her hips and pulled her away from his car before tossing his duffel bag into the passenger seat. “The game sucked, Lisa.”
Her expression fell. “But you won.”
“I had my ass kicked. It’s gonna take me all week to recover.”
She ran her manicured fingernails down his chest. “I’m sure I could help make you feel a bit better.”
“I have to pass.” A treacherous voice in his mind screamed at him for passing up an easy lay. “I’m just gonna go home.”
Her eyes widened. “But what about the after-party?”
“I can’t go,” he said. “I’m grounded, remember?”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you before.”
True, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Maybe next time.”
She gaped at him as he climbed into his car and drove away. He headed straight to the house and walked through the front door, abruptly coming to a halt. Cold air drifted inside behind him, making the hair on his arm to stand on end as his father’s voice carried through the quiet downstairs. “Let me see your report card.”
It was nearing midnight. Tired and frustrated, Carmine just wanted to go to bed, but instead, he'd walked into an ambush. “My report card?”
“Yes, your report card. I was hoping you’d get home before I left so I could see it. And don’t bother trying to lie. Dominic showed me his, so I know you got them.”
Fucking suck up. Carmine dropped his backpack on the floor and dug through it for the piece of paper. He thrust it at his father, and Vincent scanned it. “You’re failing History?”
“Mrs. Anderson hates me.”
“And that's why you’re failing?”
“Yes.”
“So it has nothing to do with the fact that you rarely do your work, you skip more than you go, and you repeatedly talk back? Because that’s what her comment says.”
“Maybe a little,” he said. “Look, I tried, but no amount of extra credit would bring that shit up. Not that she'd let me do extra credit, anyway. Like I said, she hates me.”
Vincent glanced back at the report card. “You passed everything else. It's a lot better than I expected, to be honest.”
“It's nice to know you have faith in me, Dad.”
“I'm a realist,” Vincent said. “I know you.”
“People change,” Carmine said.
Vincent shook his head, scribbling his signature on the report card to signify he’d seen it. “It'll take a lot more than a bunch of C's and D’s for me to believe you're any different.”
* * * *
Haven lay in bed, listening to the soft music drifting in from the library. It was the same melody as every other night, one that usually lulled her to sleep, but tonight she couldn’t shut off her mind.
She’d kept her distance from Carmine, wanting the strange feelings inside of her to stop. She didn’t get why her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke, why her skin got the prickly sensation whenever he came near, or why she felt dizzy when she heard his laughter. It didn’t make sense that thoughts of him made parts of her awaken that had always been asleep.
She barely knew him—she’d made a point not to—but it didn't make a difference, because the feelings came anyway.
Grabbing some paper, Haven started to sketch a picture of Carmine. Every detail of his face was etched in her memory: the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, and the angle of his nose. She remembered his eyes, the way they sparkled in the light. He had some freckles on his nose and cheeks from the sun, and a small blemish on the right side of his bottom lip. The scar through his eyebrow fascinated her, and the wound on his forehead had also left a mark.
As she lay there, she found herself wondering how she’d noticed all of those things.
After it was finished, she held the drawing up to look at it in the light. Something was off, the rough sketch flat and colorless. It didn’t hold a fraction of the emotion that the music carried as it filtered under her door.
Frustrated, she balled up the paper and tossed it aside.
* * * *
Carmine knew Haven was avoiding him again… he just couldn’t figure out why. He thought they’d had a good time hanging out together,
but she was playing some backward game of hide-and-seek, one where she hid and hoped like hell he didn’t seek her out.
He tried to wait it out, giving her time to relax, but it wasn’t working and he was low on patience. It was around two o’clock in the morning when his frustration boiled over. Insomnia plagued him, so he set down his guitar and strolled over to her bedroom. Debating briefly, he tapped on the door. Her light was on but she didn’t answer, so he knocked again and waited.
After the third time, he walked right in.
Haven lay across the bed on her stomach, wearing a pair of black shorts and a tank top. Carmine could see the rise and fall of her body as she breathed, deeply asleep with a smile on her lips. He wondered what she could be dreaming about to make her look so content but tried to push that thought away. The girl wouldn’t come near him, so why the hell should he care?
The dark clothes made her appear fragile. The marks on her face were gone, but as he stood beside her bed, he could see her skin was riddled with scars. He stared at them for a moment before his eyes drifted to a crinkled piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up and straightened it out, gaping at the drawing. His own face stared back at him, so intricate it was like staring in a mirror.
Haven sighed in her sleep as Carmine balled up the paper and put it back on the floor. Reaching out, he brushed some wayward hair from her face, not realizing what he was doing until it was too late. She stirred and he pulled his hand away, knowing he needed to get out of the room before he woke her.
* * * *
Carmine strolled downstairs the next afternoon, still exhausted and sore from the game. Groggily, he headed toward the kitchen but hesitated in the foyer when Haven stepped into the doorway.