by Anyta Sunday
Zing! A small shock shot up my arm.
I jerked my hand back and dropped the flyers on the bench. Shaking my hand, I glared at the toaster. I ought to write a report on the dangers of second-hand electrical appliances!
Jill’s snigger came to mind, and it stopped my chuckle short. Why did his words niggle at me so much? True, I didn’t have any friends outside my professional circle. My life consisted of writing, reading, editing, and studying. I was lucky if I remembered to eat. But sacrifices had to be made if I was going to land my dream job. I didn’t have time to waste on getting drunk and making friends at Booze Bangers.
My toast popped, and I carefully plucked it out of the death trap.
A shiver rolled over me. Who would know if I suddenly died? No one would be there to miss me. My mom maybe, but her calls were irregular at best—who knew when she’d figure it out? Most likely it’d be Chief Benedict who noticed something was wrong.
Except . . . if I died today, he might think I didn’t want the party page, that I quit.
No one would know!
I didn’t even own a cat that would meow until the neighbors were annoyed enough to investigate. How long before they found me? Longer than a week? Would only the smell of my decaying flesh tip them off?
I shook my head and, drawing in a steadying breath, unplugged the toaster.
It hardly solved the issue, but it’d do for now.
My gaze dropped to the bright orange flyer on the bench, now covered in crumbs from the toast I gripped too hard. Nightmare on Shady Avenue party. Maybe I should go. Maybe it’d calm me and make me see how good I have it.
Make me see that worse nightmares exist.
Along with deafening music, multiple kegs overflowed.
One didn’t need to see them to know it, either. The run-down Victorian house reeked of beer and something more acidic. I prayed it was vodka and not the regurgitated remains of someone’s dinner, but I wasn’t about to investigate. No, I planned to find my angle for the column, write my notes, and get out of here.
I steered around a large crowd chugging beer from jugs, vases—even a watering can—and perched myself on a carpeted step at the bottom of the staircase in the foyer. Here would have to do; there wasn’t anywhere else to sit. That, and I wanted to avoid banging into Jack and Jill, who I’d briefly encountered fist-bumping each other in the kitchen.
A couple making out against the wall shared the lower steps with me, and their suppressed moans harmonized with the vocalized pleasure of other couples. Seemed the foyer was the place for hooking up.
Taking out my notebook, I scribbled some notes. Rooms large with dim lighting. Half the guys wear black-and-red striped pullovers. Some have fake hands with long, sharp fingers. . . . Nightmare on Elm Street is projected in the living room, and the slashing terror lights up the wall.
I twisted away from the grim images. There was a reason I’d always been sensible enough not to watch it.
A girl in a white dress at the bottom of the stairs twirled. She lit up the dim foyer and her smile lifted with a laugh as she followed her Freddy boyfriend around the corner. Her laugh continued, making me think of Linda. How long was it? A year since she’d broken up with me? Time really flew by.
Doesn’t have a life. How can he give the column life . . .
The pop rock thumped louder. Freddies swam around me and I blinked. Refocusing on the notebook, I slowly let go of a breath. Why couldn’t I get Jill, or the Man Dead a Week in Central Pittsburgh Apartment, out of my head? I struggled to gulp down a fresh lungful of air and push back the vision of myself dead and rotting.
Maybe I should get a cat.
Yes, I’d go to the shelter tomorrow. Then all will be good. Great, even. Perhaps the cat’s fur will help soak up the nasty echo. . . .
I clicked my pen, a habit Hannah found irritating when I did it at the office. But pen-clicking soothed me and brought out the creativity in me. The frustration built until there was nothing left for me to do but make my pen gush everything and anything out.
Click. Click. Click!
Angle. My angle. What could it be?
Click. Click. Click!
A girl in dark pants, shit-kickers, and blue streaks in her chocolate hair walked in the front door.
My stomach clenched and my finger paused at the top of the pen. There it was, over the girl’s shoulder.
My angle.
My pen hit the paper, and the ink flowed.
Jock. Big-boned. Broad shoulders. Tall. Runs fingers through hair as though he’s attractive and knows it. Walks into party like he has all the time in the world, slow but oddly graceful. Ears look like they’ve had a serious clubbing. Lashes like a girl’s, long and dark—suggesting his blond hair is unnatural. Laugh lines around the mouth, a deep crack in his skin where a dimple might be. Casual jeans, dark green T-shirt, beat-up leather jacket. Bag slung over shoulder. Black, non-descript. Wears so much Axe body spray, it’s detectable across the room.
His gaze clasps on a male making out in the foyer. Hurt flashes in his eyes. A raw, pained look. But he swallows it back as if he doesn’t care. Or isn’t entirely surprised by what he’s seeing. He stops in front of the slighter male who has his tongue locked in—
I pushed my glasses further up my nose. Huh.
—another guy’s mouth.
I paused my pen on the page as I stared for a moment. Then My Angle spoke, and I was back to pushing the pen. I shouldn’t have left my recorder at home. And I really should take a shorthand-writing course.
“Wow. I really do always go for the wrong person.” His voice was heavy and creamy, edged with the same hurt his eyes reflected.
The slighter man, long bangs swept over his forehead, pulled out of his kiss, looking to My Angle and then glancing to the side, toward my brown canvas shoes. Reproachfully, as if My Angle were the one in the wrong, he said, “What are you doing here?”
“What are you?”
“I was going to tell you,” Long Bangs said.
The music grew louder, and I slipped down a step to hear them better. My Angle glanced at me briefly, his jaw twitching. Green eyes.
“Well, Chris, seems now you don’t have to.”
I transcribed the rest of the argument, the idea for the column piece articulating in my mind. Yes. It would be about breaking the illusion that college parties are superficial. Raw, real, uncensored emotion lived here. I’d call it University of Party, Lectures in Life.
A thrill rushed through me as I envisioned the column, complete with insignia in the form of a keg.
I clapped my notebook shut and zipped it in the inside pocket of my jacket. My pen went back to my pocket, and I strode out of there, leaving the party, the booze, and the breakup behind me.
I had my angle. I was done.
I sucked in the fresh night air and made my way down Shady Ave. A few drunken students roamed the street, some dressed in black and yellow, cheering for the Pirates; others—like myself—quietly slipped through the shadows.
At the lights on the corner of Shady and Fifth, someone stumbled to my side. He was a guy about my age, with dark coppery spiked-up hair and much higher cheekbones than mine. He smoothed his tight, net T-shirt to his flat stomach. “Could I borrow your glasssses?”
I subtly pulled back from him. “Excuse me?”
“My contact came out. Can’t see the numbers. Looking for”—he lifted his hand and splayed his fingers—“five-twelve Shady Ave. Should be ’ere somewhere.”
The pedestrian signal turned green. I could hurry off and get myself home, but that wouldn’t be particularly Caring Citizen of me, would it? This was just a guy that needed a hand. If I’d lost my glasses, even sober, I’d be half blind.
“I’m keeping my glasses right where they are,” I told him, gesturing him to walk across the street. “But I can walk you home.”
“Shovel-wrist,” he mumbled.
Was that chivalrous? Hard to tell with the slurring. I let myself believe it
was a compliment and nodded. “You’re welcome.”
With an uninhibited sigh, he hung on my arm and we crossed the street.
“I’m Mitch, by the way,” he murmured, tightening his grip and sagging his weight against my side. “I donna usually drink. Donna think I should again, either.”
“I suspect you’ll be thinking that all day tomorrow as well,” I said.
He stumbled so I slowed my pace. Along with alcohol, he smelled like something sweet—like he shampooed with cotton candy. When the brass numbers 512 shone under the lantern light, I steered Mitch up the stairs and to his door.
He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, dangling them in my face. “Got ’em.”
“So you do.”
He chuckled as he fumbled for the right key and opened the door.
“You good from here?” I asked. Surely he’d at least find his apartment inside?
He nodded, and in an awkward—rather flexible—move, he kept the door open with his foot and threw his arms around my neck.
Vodka-laced lips met my cheek, followed by a low chuckle, whispering over my skin as he pulled back. “Night!”
The door shut, and I blinked under the lantern light. Well. Interesting night.
I turned and jogged down the steps.
For a second, I thought I heard my name whispered in the breeze, but the scuttling of leaves over the pavement reassured me I was imagining things.
Liiiiam. I walked faster. My imagination was getting the better of me—
A fractured shadow of Freddy’s sharp-fingered hand stretched long and menacing under the streetlight.
I picked up my pace to a trot. I didn’t like to think of myself as a scaredy-cat, but that didn’t stop it from being the case.
The clanking of steps got closer, and the shadow grew, splitting more under the light. Breath hit the back of my neck. I jumped, looking over my shoulder.
Freddy’s scarred face loomed toward me, and I skedaddled to one side. “Am I a magnet to the intoxicated tonight?”
I steered away from him and his awful mask. Time to get home—
Glittering steel shot out and sliced down the side of my arm, tearing my sleeve.
Pow!
Pain bloomed in my gut. “What the—?” A punch hit my jaw, and I stumbled back. My heel hit something and I fell, slamming the back of my head against the concrete.
Two or three blurry Freddies spiraled above me. A sharp metallic taste filled my mouth and slipped down the back of my throat. Who the hell was this guy? Was he trying to rob me?
“Leave me alone.” My wispy, weak voice didn’t match the intensity of my request. “Take my wallet.” I twisted and spat out blood.
Another jolt of pain ripped up my side, and I curled into it.
Stand up. Get away—
I struggled to push myself up, but no sooner had I heaved myself onto all fours than Freddy kicked my side, and my arms buckled.
The streetlight darkened, shadowed by his figure crouching next to me. Freddy twisted his steel, gloved fingers, taunting me with the light dancing on their sharp tips. “Let’s see how you like this up—”
Wham!
Freddy choked on his words and fell. I scrambled away, wincing at the throbbing, dizzying pain in my head. There were only shades of blue and soft ground under me as I crawled. I made it a few feet before I collapsed.
Blurry, the silhouette of a hooded figure loomed. He hauled Freddy up by his shoulders and kneed him until he crumpled to his boots—
My head throbbed again. Who was that? I strained to make out more, but all the blues around me bled into one, and I lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 2
Two voices swam around me. Male and female. There was a gentle rumbling. I groaned, clutching my head as I peeled my eyes open. I was in the back of a car.
I jerked upright.
Bad move. My head pounded.
Dark hair streaked with blue blurred in front of me, and the female spoke, “We’re taking you to UPMC, just hang in there.”
I rubbed my eyes under my—still intact glasses, thank God!—and let my vision clear.
The voice belonged to the girl from the party, the one who’d come in with My Angle behind her. “I’m . . . fine. Just a bit disoriented.” And confused. What happened? That Freddy guy attacked out of nowhere; if it hadn’t been for that hooded guy showing up . . .
I shivered and shifted my focus. Sitting in the driver’s seat was My Angle—I couldn’t see him well, but I recognized his scent. Axe.
“You’re My Angle!” I said, the words distorted and easy to mistake.
Blue Streaks laughed. “Wow, Quinn, he must have had quite a fall to think you’re an angel.” She turned to me with a cheerful grin. “That’d be Quinn, and I suspect he’s more spawn of the devil than anything.”
That earned her a whack across the arm. “I just found out my boyfriend’s cheating on me,” he said in a deep voice that vibrated in the air and stirred the hairs on my arms. “Just like that I’m apartment-less, and instead of holing myself up in your room with Super Mario and Pringles, I’m dropping this guy off at the emergency room. You can be nice to me, Shannon.”
She laughed as she shook her head, hair falling in waves over her shoulder. “No. Not happening again. Even after cleaning my sheets, I still had crumbs in my bed for weeks!”
“What’s a few crumbs to my grief?” Quinn asked, turning the car onto College St. and passing my apartment; it was the only floor with all the lights out. “Why not think of it as an opportunity?”
“Opportunity?”
“Think of it as a chance to exfoliate or something.”
“Eww, boys are so gross.”
“One person’s gross is another’s creative.” Quinn angled the rearview mirror. He winked at me. Or was it a trick of the light? Maybe I’d hit my head harder than I thought. “Help me out here, man,” he said. “Together we can prove just how damn awesome us guys are.”
Shannon snorted, and Quinn growled, low and playful.
“I think it depends on the guy,” I said, tenderly touching the back of my bruised head. Luckily I didn’t feel any blood.
Shannon agreed and settled a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “This one straddles the line between grossest and most awesome guy in the world.” She gave him a fond smile and swung her gaze my way. “You hanging in there all right?”
I nodded and rested my head back on the seat.
“We’ll be there in a minute.”
I shut my eyes as she continued bantering with Quinn. The sound of their voices comforted me, and I suddenly began to laugh. Quietly at first, but then the bouts got louder and my breathing became more labored. Tears tickled the edges of my eyes.
“What’s so funny?” Shannon asked, and Quinn frowned in the rearview mirror.
Funny? No idea. Nothing. Everything.
I shrugged and burst into another uncontrolled bout that squeezed my stomach so hard it hurt.
“Jesus,” Quinn said with a half-laugh, sending me into another episode. “I think I better drive faster.”
Antiseptic and linoleum, the smell markers of a hospital. The walls were covered with pictures of superhero-doctors that must have been donated by a local school. I took off my glasses and cleaned the lenses with my shirt.
“I’m fine,” I said again to the rather tired-looking Doctor Carter who was scanning her clipboard of notes. “I don’t need to stay here.”
It wouldn’t be the end of the world to be admitted overnight. Hospitals didn’t bother me like they did some. But my laptop was at home and my report needed writing. Ideas gnawed at me, sentences rolled through my mind—and it didn’t help that My Angle, Quinn, was right there. My column seemed to be hanging in front of my nose, but I couldn’t write it with doctors prodding and poking and policemen asking questions.
I slid the glasses back on.
Other than a bit of tenderness and slight headache, I really was fine. Perhaps still a little j
umpy from the attack, but on the whole, I was okay. Certainly good enough to go home.
I smiled at the doctor as she narrowed her eyes and gave me an assessing once-over.
Shannon and Quinn stirred somewhere near the door, talking in hushed whispers. Except, they really weren’t so hushed.
“Lee should stay here,” Quinn said, “to be on the safe side, right?”
“Pretty sure it’s Liam. Let’s see what the doctor says, but we’re not leaving until we know he has a ride home if he needs it.”
“Fine with me. Not like I have a home to go back to anyway.”
Shannon sighed, but it sounded fake. “If you promise there’ll be no Pringles, I suppose you can crash with me and Travis.”
Doctor Carter glanced over my shoulder at the two of them. “If one of your friends here will take you home and keep an eye on you overnight, then I’ll sign the release forms.”
“Oh. No, I—” The urge to laugh overcame me again. “They’re not my friends.”
“Do you have someone to call? To take care of you?”
“Well, I . . .” I pushed my glasses higher up my nose. My shoulders slumped forward. Of course the answer was no. I leaned forward and asked quietly, “For future reference—though I’m hoping this will not occur again—would it be enough to say I owned a cat?”
The doctor let loose a small smile as she shook her head. “Sorry, no.”
There was more shuffling behind me, and then Quinn yelped. I turned to see him rubbing his side and glaring at Shannon. “Fine,” he said, and then looked up at Doctor Carter. “I’ll stay with him, if he wants.”
“You would?” I asked, sliding off the bed and reaching for the notebook inside my jacket.
“Sure—as my darlin’ here just pointed out,” Quinn looped an arm around Shannon, tugging the back of her hair until she jumped. “I’m homeless anyway. Why not crash at your place?”
Of course I said yes to Quinn’s offer. Why not? I had the space in my apartment, and I could finally write my piece.