When he saw Michael, Reggie’s handsome face went tight, the smile disappearing completely.
“Isn’t he a little young for you?” Reggie crossed his arms, disapproval apparent.
“Oh, um”—Michael put up his hands—“no, it’s not what you think.”
“Shut up, Mike,” Dominic said before smirking at Reggie. “You look good. Been taking care of yourself, I see.”
“I’m vegetables and meat only now,” Reggie said, patting his flat belly. “No more bread or sugar. Lost about twenty-five pounds since you last saw me.” He ran his eyes over Michael. “Can I get you something to wear, young man?”
Michael stared at himself in the mirror.
He was wearing a bright blue, short-sleeved shirt with a collar—a “boat-boy” shirt, Reggie called it. For pants, he wore a pair of clean brown slacks that appeared new. His shoes were brown leather, polished to a high sheen.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Michael said.
“I think he looks handsome,” Reggie told Dominic, who rolled his eyes.
The next outfit they chose was more appropriate to the Eastlands—a long-sleeved beige shirt with no collar, with three buttons below the neck that could be undone when it got hot. As for pants, they allowed Michael to choose what he wanted. He went with good old-fashioned jeans and a pair of rugged boots made for hiking. It wasn’t his usual style—he almost felt like a forest ranger, mostly because of the boots—but he looked good, and Reggie agreed.
“Are we done?” Michael said, utterly bored with shopping. “It’s almost lunchtime, right?”
Dominic glanced at his watch. “Not even close. It’s only ten-forty.”
“Damn,” Michael said, clutching his stomach.
“Forget about food,” Reggie said. A sly smile crossed his face that made Michael uneasy. “That’s not why he brought you here.”
Michael tensed. There was something about Reggie and Dominic that struck him as odd. Why exactly had Dominic brought him here? And why had Reggie kissed Dominic like he thought the other man would accept such a thing?
Reggie put a hand on Michael’s shoulder, making him jump.
“You like guns, kid?”
With a shrug, Michael waited to see what would happen next. Reggie led him across the room into a dark storage area full of boxes piled shoulder high. They proceeded toward a door in the far back, on which a sign read: Caution Electric Shock Without Proper ID.
It was obviously a hidden door customers weren’t supposed to find. Its gleaming surface looked heavy, apparently made of steel. But what was a steel door doing in the back of a clothing store?
“Here we go, boys,” Reggie said.
After pulling a glossy ID card out of his back pocket, he held it against a small panel. A green light blinked three times, and Michael heard a bolt retract with a snap. Reggie turned the handle, a room flickering into view as fluorescent strip lighting came on overhead.
There were guns everywhere, of all different makes and models. They rested on tables in the center and racks lining the walls. A gun-cleaning station took up one corner. It was a desk covered in rags and bottles of cleaning solution, with rods and brushes of different lengths standing in an aluminum canister.
“I’ll be damned,” Michael said, taking it in. Each gun had been polished and lay gleaming under the lights as if fresh from the manufacturer. The room smelled of oil and concrete, exactly how Michael thought a gun locker should smell. “Why are you showing me this?”
Reggie turned on his heels like a soldier to face Michael.
“Boys here learn at a young age how to use rifles to hunt game and defend the town. So will you.”
“What about the pistols?” Michael said, raising his eyebrows. “What are those for?”
Reggie chuckled. “Those don’t exist. You never saw those. Understand?”
Dominic clamped a hand on Michael’s shoulder, squeezing harder than necessary.
“Yeah,” Michael said, wincing. “I got it.”
Dominic paid Reggie’s deeply discounted prices for the clothes, since Michael had no money of his own just yet. He made sure to tell Michael exactly how much he owed, down to the cent. His time in Gulch would be no easy ride, Dominic informed him, to which Michael grumbled, “Yeah, yeah.”
They emerged into the gathering warmth of late morning. Michael had to squint against the sunlight bathing the mountains. When he became aware of the men standing in the road, he dropped the shopping bag containing his clothes.
The men chuckled at his reaction. Michael recognized them as the ones he’d seen in the Cold War Café the day before. One had thinning hair, angular cheekbones, and an emaciated body. He flashed a cruel, lopsided grin at Michael like he meant it to be a challenge.
The apparent leader stepped forward, dressed in a long-sleeved plaid shirt tucked into his jeans. The fading on his clothes and boots indicated years of reusing the same outfits. His creased red face spoke of long days out in the sun.
“You girls have fun shopping?” he said in a voice thick with contempt. If he was amused at his own joke, he wasn’t showing it.
Michael glanced at Dominic for help. Dominic stepped forward.
“Warren Jones. Glad to see me?”
Warren’s face was like a board of wood. Only his eyelids moved, and that was to narrow ever so slightly in disgust.
“You wish, you spiteful queer. What’s this”—his eyes flicked over to Michael—“your new boyfriend?”
Michael let out a quiet sigh. He was sick of all the insults. This place was started to remind him of home, where all the guys on his block had something to prove.
“You’re not getting a rise out of me today, boys,” Dominic said, approaching the group. The men visibly stiffened. “I’m on this new program, you see—ignorant rednecks like you can say whatever they want, and I don’t react. Want me to prove it?”
Warren’s nostrils flared. Not much else about his face changed, though it was clear he was holding in a tremendous amount of rage.
“Bulldangles,” he said, and Michael almost snickered in disbelief. Was this guy serious? “You should’ve stayed in New Sancta with all the other motherless commies and queers.”
“Unlike you,” Dominic said, “I knew my mother.”
“I knew your mother, too. I knew her standing up, lying down, and bent over the hood of my truck.”
His buddies chuckled. Dominic remained calm.
“Come on,” he said, sauntering toward Warren until they were only two feet apart. The other men braced themselves. “You can do better than that. You mean to tell me it’s been five years and you’re still using the same jokes?”
Warren’s upper lip rose, revealing yellow-brown teeth. “This is a waste of my time. I come here to tell you I’ll be watching you and your boyfriend. Any illegal ment training, and I’ll sniff it right out.”
“Go back to Meacham,” Dominic said. “I think his ass needs sniffing.”
Warren swung his fist at Dominic’s face. Dominic didn’t move. He didn’t even blink as the fist stopped an inch before his eyes.
Warren turned to his friends.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s give these girls some privacy so they can change into their pretty new outfits.”
They swaggered down the street, glancing over their shoulders now and then to sneer at Michael and Dominic. It wasn’t until they rounded the corner that Dominic began to speak.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
Michael didn’t move. “When do I start training?” he said, staring down the road where the men had been a moment earlier.
Open your throat, he’d told Boyd, and Boyd had done it…
“Take it easy, Mike.”
“When?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Now move your ass.”
Chapter 8
Water drops sparkled in the sunlight as Arielle sprayed the boys with the hose.
She laughed as William and Aidan da
nced around the yard, their bare chests gleaming with water. Jabbing her thumb into the tip, she sent the water knifing out. Screaming, the boys lifted their arms into the air as if in celebration. William tried to jump as high as Aidan, but couldn’t. His clubfoot, turned inward as though someone had folded it against his ankle, kept him mostly in place.
“Come on and jump, cripple,” Aidan said.
“Hey,” Arielle shouted. “What did you just say to him?”
Aidan, with his perfect feet, hands, and his girlish mop of curls, smiled sweetly up at Arielle.
“Nothing, Ms. Casmas. We’re just boys being boys.”
“Friends don’t call each other names like that.” She pointed the hose at his face. “Understand?”
“But he’s not my friend. We’re just—”
A burst of water nailed him squarely in the eyes.
“Acckk!” Sputtering, Aidan tripped over his own feet and fell against the grass.
William burst into laughter. “He tripped. Now he knows what it feels like.”
“All right, boys,” Arielle said, hurrying over to the nozzle and cutting off the flow. “Let’s get ready for lunch.”
Some of the remaining water splashed against her bare feet. It was so cold. She didn’t know how the boys could bear to bathe in it. Yet, part of her wanted to strip down and dance in it herself.
With a wistful sigh, she slipped her sandals on. The boys had already pulled on their clothes and scurried off, William limping after Aidan as usual.
Behind her, a man let out a forceful grunt. Arielle spun to see Elkin Twomore standing before her, his angular cheekbones and skinny neck giving him a starving-bum appearance. His hair was a thin, stringy mess, matted with sweat.
He stretched out his arms. “How ‘bout a bath for old Elkin?”
He certainly needed one.
“Leave, Elkin. It’s not even lunchtime, yet.”
“Aw, come on, honey. Gimme a cold shower. Pweeease? I can be a six-year-old boy, too, if you want.”
Throwing the hose down, Arielle made for the back door of the café. Elkin moved to block her path. Up close, she could smell his lingering morning breath.
“You know, Arielle, I always thought you’d make a great mother. Too bad you don’t open your legs for nobody. I’d love me a taste of that—”
“The only thing you’re getting a taste of is an empty stomach,” she said. “Don’t even think you’re walking into my café talking like that.”
“Your café?” he said, taking a step toward her. “Only a matter of time before your little café becomes Meacham’s property. For the good of Gulch.”
Arielle remained silent.
“Say it,” he said. “I gots to make sure you’re being a good girl.”
She reached for the door handle. Elkin grabbed her arm.
“You have to say it,” he said, pouring his nasty breath all over her face.
“For the good of Gulch. Now let go of me.”
Once she was free, Arielle opened the door and disappeared into the cool, still air of the Cold War Café’s storage room. She immediately locked the door behind her, breathing out a sigh of relief.
“Spiteful jerk,” she said, kicking aside a box.
As soon as the boys were out of Arielle’s sight, any illusions of friendship or summer fun fell away, and Aidan once more became the bully William knew and loathed.
“Dumb little cripple,” he said, glaring at William. His eyes were still red from the splash Arielle had given him. Moving with surprising quickness, he lashed out his right arm and grabbed hold of William’s ear. William squealed and struggled as Aidan, who was much stronger and didn’t have a lump for a foot, twisted.
It was a common punishment. William didn’t like to be touched, and everyone knew it. But that didn’t stop Aidan and some of the other boys from torturing him at every opportunity. They were just waiting for William to give in and tell his mother, a woman much feared by the boys of Gulch since Charlotte didn’t shy away from slapping and spanking other peoples’ children. Often her spankings were worse than their own mothers might give. If only William would rat them out, they’d have a real reason to hate him. Even he, at six years old, understood the twisted psychology behind their bullying.
But William was no rat. He would endure the painful noogies, wedgies, and squashies—the last of which involved Aidan squashing his you-know-what—until he was older and stronger, then he would fight back and they would be sorry.
Aidan pushed him to the pavement.
“Squashie time,” he jeered, pressing the bottom of his shoe against William’s testicles.
William clenched his thighs together in agony. The inside of his swim trunks was scratchy and uncomfortable, and the rash he would certainly develop later in the day was already prickling his skin.
He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. This wouldn’t be like the first time, when Aidan and his friends had done this to him—when he’d wailed like a baby, hoping they would spare him out of pity for his “devil’s foot,” as his mother liked to call it when she was angry.
Kicking Aidan in the shin with his good foot, he managed to break free. As William crawled away on his hands and knees, Aidan landed a kick squarely against his backside, sending him sprawling across the sidewalk. His chin scraped the pavement, drawing blood that felt like a cold kiss.
William lay curled up, waiting for more abuse. But instead of stomping on him like usual, Aidan backed away, eyes pointed straight ahead at a tall, solemn figure approaching along the shady sidewalk. Turning, he ran without a moment’s hesitation.
“You okay?”
It was the man William had seen outside the house, the one who had walked with his mother down the street. He stood over William, tall and skinny with straight black hair that rippled across his forehead as the wind blew it this way and that. His face was narrow and serious, and he had thin, dark eyes drawn into a squint.
He helped William to his feet, brushing the dirt off him.
“My name’s Michael. You’re William, right?”
William glanced around to see if his mother was watching. The street was empty. “Uh-huh.”
Michael smiled. “You’re pretty strong, you know that?”
“What do you mean?” William said, gazing up at him.
“You didn’t cry or say anything to that kid. He’s bigger than you, but up here”—he tapped his own forehead—“you’re much stronger. What’s his name?”
“Aidan.”
“Well, if I did that to Aidan, I’m sure he would cry like a little girl. But you took it like a man.”
William’s face warmed. It was true. He’d cried once, but after that, he never did it again. And he never would, either.
“Come on,” Michael said. “Let’s get some lunch in our bellies.”
William lifted his right hand. Then, realizing how childish he must seem, he lowered it. Michael gave him a warm smile—it was William’s lucky day, apparently—and took his hand. Together, they walked like that all the way to the café.
Stick around until everyone has left…
Arielle’s instructions the day before had been clear. Michael ate lunch with Peter and the other boys, feeling like an imposter as they ignored him—and as his mind burned with his secret plan to meet with Peter’s girlfriend after lunch. If Peter found out, he would most definitely beat the living wrath out of Michael. But then, it wasn’t like they were doing anything wrong. Arielle helped lots of people out with their emotional problems. This was meant to be a healing session, not a date or anything romantic or scandalous…right?
“You coming?” Peter asked as they all stood from the benches, leaving empty plates for Arielle to clean up.
“Uh…where exactly?” Michael said, remaining seated. He had barely cleared half his plate.
“Afternoon hunting. Someone has to score all that meat you devour like it’s your last day on earth.”
I have to meet Arielle, Michael thought to s
ay. Your girlfriend and I are going to get really deep…
“I can’t,” Michael said.
“Why not?”
Ian was now suspiciously watching Michael. Peter also narrowed his eyes, as if to say, Pick your next words carefully.
Holding his plate, Michael stood, ready to use it as a shield. “I’ve never used a gun before,” he said. “Dominic told me I would have to get trained up first. He doesn’t want me shooting one of you,” he said, quickly adding, “by accident.”
“Is that right?” Peter said.
Eli said, “Only thing you want to shoot us with is your dick, you homo,” after which he broke into tumultuous laughter.
“Careful,” Ian said, acid in his voice. “He might stick it in your mouth while you’re asleep. Been hanging around Dominic since he got here.”
“Hey,” Peter snapped at Ian, flashing him a warning glare. “Don’t talk shit about Dom. He never did anything to you.”
Michael found himself standing awkwardly in place while the others headed toward the door. Should he stay and meet with Arielle as instructed? Or would Peter get suspicious Michael was hanging around his girlfriend’s establishment, apparently waiting for everyone else to leave?
Go with them, a girl’s voice hummed inside his head. Come get me later, at my house.
Michael flinched. He had to get used to that—to telepathic voices that could fill his mind like a needle injecting ice-cold water into his brain. He tried to respond—Whatever you say—but found the effort as futile as trying to talk with his mouth sewn shut.
“Wait up,” he told Peter.
He followed them into the dusty street, where they had parked their bikes.
“I guess I’ll walk,” Michael said.
“Ride double with Eli,” Peter said.
Eli scoffed. “You ride double with him, Rivers. Who gave you the right to order us around?”
“It’s fine,” Michael said, heading toward the house. “I’ll walk.”
“Spiteful wrath,” Peter said. “Just ride double with me.”
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