Black Iris

by Leah Raeder

  “Truth or dare, Laney?” she said.

  “Truth.”

  “How dull. I already know everything about you.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Oh, but I do.” She stretched one leg, a ring of amber light rippling over honey skin. Her hand trailed up the inside of her thigh. “I know exactly what you like. Exactly what you want.”

  “Fine. Dare.”

  “Good girl.” She leaned forward, fire snapping in her eyes. “Show me how you get off.”

  The air sizzled. She’d dropped the spark into the powder.

  “Blythe,” Armin said, then addressed me. “She’s not serious.”

  “She’s dead serious.”

  Blythe’s smile became full.

  “Laney,” Armin said, more nervously, “you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  The tequila pumped my veins full of molten gold. “Do you want to see me do it?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I—”

  “Simple yes or no question. Do you want to see me do it?”

  A stitch climbed his throat, catching a burl of candlelight. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. Everything you do is beautiful to me.”

  I stood on shaky legs.

  Armin jumped to his feet and we swayed into each other. Blythe watched from the floor, eyes shining.

  “Don’t touch her,” she said.

  His hands fell.

  I peered around the living room, my brain trailing a couple seconds behind my vision. Couch. Tumbled onto it, lank-limbed and warm. My skinny jeans were way too tight for this.

  Armin and Blythe watched me like hawks on a rabbit, tracking every movement. The drag of my hand to my fly, the rose blush blooming in my cheeks, teeth meeting my lip. His expression was hazy and enchanted, hers fervent and sly. I operated on autopilot. Puppet girl. My skin just another costume, my face a mask. Someone else unbuttoned her fly, shrugged out of her jeans. Goose bumps flashed over her bare thighs. The chill was a shock.

  “I feel like I’m on fucking stage,” I said. “Come over here. Both of you.”

  They glanced at each other, approached together. Against the dancing candle flame they barely looked human—they were Artemis and Apollo in their burnished skins, hunter and healer. Blythe sat beside me but Armin hesitated. I called him closer with my eyes, the shyness gone. The cushions dipped toward him as he sat on my other side.

  Nothing for it but to let the alcohol take control.

  Everything was intense now: the scent of berry and pine, the tickle of tweed on the backs of my legs. The gravitational pull of these bodies so close to mine. My hand slid up my thigh and felt like it belonged to someone else. To Armin. To Blythe. I thought of the scrape of his stubble and the graze of her teeth and my hand slipped between my legs, the other tangling in my hair, as if fighting for control of this body. I sensed Armin tensing, Blythe uncoiling. Heard his breath coming fast while hers slowed. And I let go. Let my body do as it wanted, my fingers finding heat, my mouth opening in a desperate gasp. The agave on my breath smelled like sex. I arched against my hand, gritted my teeth. Pressed my finger hard against my panties, touching the wetness that seeped through, then under the hem to the wetness itself. Armin hovered at my side, his heat washing over me. I stiffened my finger and ran it along the inner edge of one lip and for a moment honestly believed it was his. Something cool and silky curled against my elbow, Blythe’s hair, and seamlessly my mind switched over, imagining those slender fingers tracing me, her fingertip brushing my clit, teasing, maddening.

  My left hand fell onto Armin’s thigh and his muscle jumped under my palm. I gripped hard, kneaded the coarse-haired skin. Before he could react I cupped his erection through his briefs. Stroked my thumb along it, riding the ridgeline of a vein. He thrust involuntarily into my hand. As I held him I tossed my leg across Blythe’s, settling it between hers, and her thighs tightened and she let out a soft gasp, eye-flutteringly girlish. If there was any inhibition left in me, that destroyed it. I was gone. I took my finger inside, just a little, not too much not too much control yourself, pulled out and circled my clit. Then again. Again. Each time a little firmer, deeper. Armin was thrusting into my hand, Blythe grinding against my leg, and where my skin touched theirs a current surged through me, two electric arcs meeting and colliding inside my body over and over, a fountain of sparks frothing higher, higher. I took my finger all the way inside. God, I wanted them. I wanted to fuck them both. I wanted his thick cock and her graceful fingers, his rough face and her warm tongue. I wanted to kiss her until I was light-headed and feel the weight of him crushing me to the ground. I cried out at the ceiling, not caring how animal I sounded, how raw. My head was a kaleidoscope of sensations and when I came there was no clarity, just a whirl of color and touch, fiery red and smoky blue overlapping and blending and blinding me with ultraviolet bliss.

  I stared at the wall across from us, a watercolor painting of shadow and flame. My mouth hung dumbly. He was still hard and she was still tight. I pulled my hands into my lap, drew my knees together. Kept facing that wall.

  “Holy fuck,” Blythe whispered.

  The candle at the center of the room pulsed like a heartbeat. There was something church-like about it—the throbbing light and hushed voices, the air heavy with sin.

  Blythe broke the silence again. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my bloody life.”

  I laughed self-consciously. My hand was still wet. God.

  “You win,” she said. “Forever.”

  Armin’s gaze traveled the side of my face. “I’ve never seen you like this. I’ve never seen you so . . .”

  “Confident?” Blythe said.

  “Vulnerable.”

  Funny how they saw the same thing so differently. The hint of epiphany in his voice was troubling. I hopped to my feet, arms wrapped around my chest.

  “What a tease.” Blythe looked minxish, eyes half-lowered, lips red and fleshy as watermelon pulp. “Who do you think she was thinking of?”

  Armin hesitated. “I don’t know. Are you okay, Laney?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Come back here, then,” Blythe murmured. “You look cold.”

  It was true. But I stood fast in my T-shirt and underwear, my shadow piercing the wall behind them. “It’s my turn now, right? I truth myself. Who was that guy in the parking lot, Laney? The one you freaked out over?”

  Armin straightened, suddenly alert, but Blythe sank into the couch, light touching her eyes like the flicker of a serpent’s tongue.

  “He—” I closed my mouth, opened it. “His name—” Curled my hands into fists, relaxed them.

  “Laney,” Armin said, “you don’t have to do this now.”

  “Now is the only time I can.” I stared at his long hands, the elegant lines of his bones. “I feel so close to you right now. Both of you.”

  “Come here, sweet girl,” Blythe said.

  I went and sat between them. Armin tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. Blythe’s hand braceleted my wrist. I wished I could disappear, dissolve myself into their skin, their scent. My summer gods.

  “His name,” I said, my voice creaking, rusty, old, “is Brandt Zoeller.”

  And then I started to cry.

  DECEMBER, LAST YEAR

  I’d been crouching so long my knees had stopped burning and gone numb. Before us ice spread across the asphalt like ground-up glass, the cold so clear and sharp it hurt to breathe. All this poignancy was fitting. Very bad things were about to happen. At least the world knew when to wince.

  I was reaching for another cigarette when the burner phone buzzed.

  Armin and I glanced at each other, anxious. Even after hours of waiting, when it finally came it felt too soon. I pulled the phone out and we read the screen together.

  Phase 2.

 
“Help me up,” I said.

  He gave me a hand. I almost fell, blood thawing my frozen veins too quickly, that awful hot lifestuff gushing through me. Nothing hurts more than being alive.

  I strode down the alley, Armin trailing behind. He kept trying to drag it out, feeding me chances to second-guess myself, renege. If he really knew me, he wouldn’t have bothered. There was no turning back.

  I ducked into the lee of a Dumpster and signaled him to get in position across the alley. He paused in a long fang of moonlight, that white wolf face solemn, fixing me with an eye pure as a drop of liquid midnight.

  “Armin . . .”

  He stepped into the shadows.

  This was it. God, this was it.

  My high was gone. The tingle in my hands and feet was sheer adrenaline. I couldn’t feel the cold. I was colder than anything in this world.

  I heard her first: that Roman candle laugh, the snarky Aussie drawl. Before I could hear him, I saw him. Two blond heads above heavy wool coats. Blythe’s dress shone in the streetlight, a slit of red running down her chest like a wound. She held her shoes by the straps and walked barefoot on the ice, impervious. Zoeller ambled beside her, listing, overcorrecting his steps. Drunk.

  Good girl, I thought.

  “Just up the lane here,” she said, smiling. The closer they got, the more canine that smile looked.

  Zoeller stumbled into a trash can and knocked it over.

  “Come on, then. I drank more than you.” Blythe hauled him up by the elbow and he leaned on her heavily.

  His gaze brushed my hiding spot as they staggered past.

  “You’re fucking beautiful,” Zoeller mumbled, and for a terrifying second I thought he was speaking to me. But his hand slid down Blythe’s back, curving against her ass. “I’m gonna fuck you till you scream.”

  A small crack popped in the ice inside me.

  “Hands off, mate,” Blythe said, twisting free. “Let’s get to the car first, yeah?”

  Zoeller came to an abrupt halt. Something snapped through him like a whip. Then he straightened and took a few steps toward her, fast. His hands clamped onto her shoulders. Blythe spun, fist raised, and he caught it like a viper.

  My heart went hard and still.

  “Let go of me,” she growled.

  He wrenched her arm, forcing her to turn. “Where are your friends?” No slurring now.

  “My friends are at the chapter house,” she said loudly, “and if they don’t hear from me in five minutes, they’ll call the fucking cops.”

  Call the cops was the code we’d given her for I need an escape. My hand drifted toward the small of my back.

  Zoeller beamed at something in the distance. “Call them. Then I can tell them how you tried to drug me.”

  I met Armin’s eyes across the alley, two faint white rings. Shit.

  “The fuck are you talking about?” Blythe said.

  “GHB?” Z smiled. “Please. You’re dealing with a master.”

  “You’re crazy, arsehole. Get your fucking hands off me before you regret it.”

  He just kept smiling. Waiting.

  My phone vibrated. Armin’s text: Abort?

  Rather than reply, I stepped out into the alley.

  Zoeller released Blythe as soon as I appeared. Armin came to my side, the bat against his leg. We faced off in pairs. Blythe skirted us all warily, but Z slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and relaxed his stance.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now we can have some fun.”

  Blythe sized up the situation and improvised. “Oh, I see. You and your mates think you’re gonna have a go at me. Cops are on their way, fuckwits.”

  I made my voice harsh. “Get out of here, bitch.”

  Even though she knew what I was doing, she blinked.

  “I said get the fuck out.”

  Tell Donnie, I thought. Be ready. This is about to go horribly wrong.

  Blythe turned and walked rapidly out of the alley.

  As she left Armin and I moved toward Zoeller, positioning ourselves to either side, rotating. Z pivoted, keeping us both in view. Mostly he focused on me. The speaker. The leader.

  “The wolves are circling,” he said, and chuckled.

  In my peripheral vision I caught Armin’s hands flexing on the bat.

  “Little alpha wolf is bold.” Z ignored Armin and turned with me. “She doesn’t even carry a weapon.”

  “Shut the fuck up, faggot.” The word passed my lips like a blade, slicing me on the way out. Laney Keating would never call anyone a fag. Laney Keating was terrified she was one, so Kenosha Tech girl had to say it. “Get on your knees.”

  Zoeller grinned. “Want me to suck your dick?”

  “Drop him,” I told Armin.

  Armin hesitated. Of course he did. When it came to inflicting pain, his instincts were all wrong. I’d warned him not to hesitate. Zoeller had reptilian reflexes. Any softness, any exposure, and he’d strike.

  “Now,” I barked.

  Armin winced and swung the bat at the backs of Zoeller’s knees. Z dropped, but the grin stayed on his face. He’d sensed our disunity.

  I slapped him as hard as I could.

  He wasn’t expecting it. His head jerked to one side and a jet of blood flew out. Where it hit the ice it congealed instantly, like red molasses.

  My gloves retained a trace of paint and left a white stripe on his face. Blood marbled it, seeking fissures. I thought of the spiderweb cuts on my hand after I punched the window to reach Mom the morning she died and I hit him again, harder, as he looked up at me. Then once more. A nerve in my wrist sparked and burned like a fuse. That tiny fire worked toward my brain stem, toward the stack of dynamite piled at the back of my skull.

  “Easy,” Armin said.

  The rage dispersed. I was cold and in control. “It’s time someone taught you Corgan pussies a lesson,” I said, reciting the script.

  “What lesson is that?”

  “How to keep your mouth shut, you stupid cunt.”

  “Misogyny and homophobia.” Zoeller smiled with bloodstained teeth. “You are one messed-up little girl, aren’t you?”

  I almost hit him again. I almost said, You’re the one who was always spouting that shit. I should have seen what he was doing.

  “Big words,” I said, maintaining the persona. “Your boyfriend teach you those?”

  “I learned them from women.”

  “What else you learn from women? How to bend over and take it?”

  “How to get inside their heads.”

  Armin stepped next to me. He didn’t say a word, but his expression beneath the wolf paint was poised on the tense wire between dismay and acceptance. He pressed the bat into my hands.

  Good boy, I thought.

  Zoeller watched my hands on the grip tape, the way I stroked the barrel that would soon destroy his flesh. I ran a hand up and down the aluminum shaft deliberately.

  “You’re not from Ken Tech,” he said.

  I slipped the head of the bat beneath his chin and made him look up at me.

  “This is something personal,” he whispered. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Good guess.”

  I swung right through the cloud of my breath and connected full force with Zoeller’s throwing shoulder. It sounded and felt like hitting a side of beef. He didn’t scream, but an animal sound tore from his diaphragm. He fell forward, balancing on one palm, and I swung again at the same shoulder, overhand. This time something cracked and he collapsed to his elbow, coughing, and looked up at me.

  “Again,” he said hoarsely.

  I obliged.

  It felt softer, wetter, when I hit this time, and he screamed now, high-pitched. When it petered out his voice crumbled into rasping laughter.

  I walked a circuit
around him, the bat light as air in my hand. On a whim I slammed it into his elbow. He moaned. I aimed for a kidney and he doubled over, dry heaving. My feet moved faster. The bat was a silver blur. Each breath I took felt like a bump of meth.

  “Fight,” I said.

  Zoeller wheezed. Blood drooled out of his mouth.

  “Get the fuck up, pussy.” I swung at his ear, the first head blow, and he toppled to one side. “You weak piece of shit. Get up. Take it like a man.”

  “Stop,” Armin said.

  I wedged the toe of my boot beneath Zoeller’s chin. “Look at me, you pathetic fuck.”

  His eyes had closed. He grasped feebly at my foot.

  I kicked him square in his perfect mouth. A tooth snapped and rolled across the ice like a loose pearl.

  “Stop,” Armin said again, grabbing my arm.

  I almost swung at him. It was as if he interrupted me jerking off, that burst of hatred for ruining the purest pleasure.

  “That’s enough.” Armin took the bat. Blood candy-striped the shaft. He knelt, feeling for Z’s pulse, as I stood in a trance and watched him lift the coat, palpate the bones gently. Zoeller didn’t even groan. His breath made a soft, moist sound. “I think you punctured a lung. He needs an ambulance.”

  I stared rapturously at my handiwork.

  “Are you listening?”

  Z peered up at me through a bruised eye. “Didn’t work,” he said haltingly. “Did it?”

  I stepped closer.

  “You’re still. Hollow.” He smiled, grotesque with blood and missing teeth. “The hollow girl. The stuffed girl.”

  T. S. Eliot.

  “Get away from him,” I said to Armin.

  Armin shook his head. “Call 911.”

  “ ‘Between the motion and the act,’ ” Z said, “ ‘falls the Shadow.’ ”

  My hand slipped into my waistband. That hard, cold weight shaped itself to my palm as if it had been made for me. To fill the hollowness. To complete me.