“No. Slow the hell down. I’ll meet you at Shark’s—” I jog down the stairs accompanied with a clacking drumbeat. Portia’s right behind me dressed in these skinny little jeans and my button-down shirt. God. If I wasn’t on my way out to possibly save my brother’s life...
“Little brother, do not sell your gear. Or else everything will be for nothing. Please. Please.”
“I’ll see you soon.” I shut off my phone. “Look, Portia, you don’t need to come with me.”
“Bullshit,” she says. “Shark? That guy is so slimy. He’s a sadist. And my father’s helped him out a couple times. I’ll be able to help.”
“I’m sure we can handle it,” I tell her. But if I’m being honest, having her with me is like having a lucky penny. I’m not superstitious, but I feel miles better when she slips her hand in mine.
“We’ll take my car.”
I’m glad when she goes to the driver’s side door. Because my hands are shaking, like an addict two days sober.
* * *
Shark’s punk joint is disgusting. It wears its refuse and sweat-stained upholstery with pride. I’ve been here a few times on various errands for Sammy. And I hated it every time.
It’s a little before noon, so it’s dead in here. It’s as dark as usual. Maybe more so since the bar is shut down and the stage lights aren’t on. Sammy’s already here. And he’s alone on one side of a booth. Shark’s on the other and three of his cronies are hovering over them menacingly.
“Ah. Good. Your witnesses are here,” Shark says brightly when he spots Portia and me. And I feel sick, not sure what we’re going to be witnessing. “Buzz,” he says brightly to me. As if I were here in a musical capacity. And it makes me want to go ragey and beat him until he cracks and splits open. But it’s pretty clear his thugs would probably kill Sammy and me. Sammy’s not a fighter. And with Portia here...I gotta keep a lid on it.
“And the lovely Portia!” he says. “An honor.”
“Don’t talk to me,” she says, out icing even her coolest moments.
“We are verifying the documents which spell out your brother’s debt. Please, take a look.” Shark beckons me over, and I squeeze between two men to sit on the sticky leather bench next to Sammy.
I don’t want to make him look weak, so I don’t look at him. Because I’m sure I couldn’t hide my concern, which is overwhelmingly intense. The contract slides across the table and I note the latest of Shark’s piercings: studs in between each of his knuckles. They’re still bruised-looking.
The terms are spelled out clearly. The cash was to arrive this morning. Even one minute late was unacceptable. And now I see why Shark offered a loan without interest. He was hoping Sammy wouldn’t pay up. He really is a sick bastard.
The list of experimental body modifications he is allowed to perform is extensive. Which is why I can smell the adrenaline coming off of Sammy in sickening waves. I swallow a bit of bile.
Suspensions. Uncommon and brutal piercings. Implants. Scarification. All to be done in one session. Substitutions for some of the modifications are up for negotiation but it is solely at the discretion of Shark. And noncompliance will be punished by death: in this case a forced drugging that would lead to an overdose.
I have to picture Portia this morning. A nice image. Anything to keep from vomiting.
“Do you agree that the terms are spelled out and that your brother’s signature appears on the line?” Shark asks.
“Is this legally binding?” I ask. “No way you got this shit notarized, right?”
“Nothing legal about any of this,” Shark laughs. His cronies echo. “Go ahead and see how far you make it out the door before I inject your brother here.
“But it’s up for negotiation?” I ask.
“Sure. Tell me what cutting edge modifications you know how to perform and I’ll let you do it yourself,” Shark offers. He grins like a snake. Quite literally, with a forked tongue and filed fangs.
“Can he survive these? Are you using clean tools?” I ask. I mean, the guy does earn some of his livelihood on willing participants in this torture; surely he wouldn’t want someone coming away with a raging hep infection.
“Clean tools, yes. Survivability is likely. I’m not a murder. Well, unless you don’t do as I ask.”
I still can’t look at Sammy. He got his eyebrow pierced once and hated it, letting the hole close over after a few short months. Tattoos aside, he’s not into pain. Why did he ever agree to this? I want to kill him myself, except I love him too goddamn much.
“Can we at least get a couple shots?” I ask.
One of the thugs grabs a bottle of cheap vodka from the bar and pours two shots. Sammy takes both of them.
“No more or it’ll increase your risk of bleeding,” Shark says. He acts like he’s concerned, but anyone can see he’s getting his rocks off. “Let’s begin.”
Shark goes over to the sound systems and puts on the loud punk garbage. As if this moment could be any more painful for any of us. Sammy and I are pulled to our feet. Sammy’s shoved to the middle of the room, and we make eye contact for the first time. He tries to smile. But it’s not reassuring. It just makes me angry that he would put himself through any of this just so I could get a squicking gig!
I’m shoved back down, and Portia is roughly sat down next to me.
“Watch it,” I growl. But Portia grabs my hand. And I get it. I need to pick my battles.
“Man,” she says looking over the contract, “they’re going to do everything while he’s suspended.”
And she doesn’t need to elaborate, because they’re already taking the large de-barbed fishhooks and jamming them under Sammy’s skin. Two over his shoulder blades. Two under his ribs. I don’t want to watch. But I have to. Like it’s a penance.
“We’ll do the ankles as a permanent piercing,” Shark says to the guy who I appears to be his assistant.
Somehow, when the large-gauge needle slides behind his Achilles tendon, Samuel doesn’t scream. I bite down on my knuckles hard, but I watch.
* * *
“Stop!” Portia yells.
Sammy hangs from the beams in the ceiling. He looks like he’s flying. And I can hardly believe he has survived and that his consciousness has remained intact.
Shark brandishes his razor. He’s savoring every moment. The term “sadist” has never, ever, in history and probably prehistory, described someone so wholly as it does Shark. He briefly toyed with the idea of branding Sammy like some sort of cattle. I knew the smell of burning flesh would be awful. But it’s possible this will be worse. He plans on cutting patches of Samuel’s skin right off. Revealing flesh. Inviting infection. Scarring. Marring. My wonderful, loving, stupid brother.
The blade is poised by Sammy’s clavicles. Sammy’s jaw muscles are clenched and popping out, his eyes wild.
“We have to negotiate,” Portia says.
Sammy lets out a sound. I’m sure he wants this over and done with. Every second he hangs here, suspended by skin and tendons and mere flesh, he’s humiliated, which probably hurts him worse than anything.
“What could you possibly offer that would be half as entertaining as this?” Shark laughs.
“Let him down and I’ll let you pierce any part of me you want,” Portia says. No idea if she’s thought this out at all. But I’ll be damned—
I guess I tried to stand up because I’m slammed against a wall faster than I can fathom. And the needle full of a deadly dose of some poison is inches away from my skin.
“Portia,” I gasp. Her name sounds pathetic in my desperation, and I want to suck the outburst right back in. I have to flipping relax or I’m going to get us all poked.
“No thanks,” Shark sneers at her. “Though I’d love to if you think you’d enjoy that.”
“Do it tonight. When the club opens. Certainly that’d be a good marketing move. I could even get some classmates in here. You could benefit from the prep school misfits. They have lots of money to spend. Pleas
e.”
I wish she didn’t sound so desperate. Her reputation is sterling. The veneer is cracking, but condemn us both if it doesn’t make me love her with every pulsing inch of my body.
“This doesn’t change the scarring plans I have. This would just end the suspension a bit earlier,” Shark says.
“Fine. Fine. But maybe we can negotiate for that too,” Portia’s strength returns at Shark’s concession.
“In my office,” Shark agrees. “Let him down,” he commands.
Samuel collapses on the floor. The hooks remain in his skin, but he’s untethered. The henchman lets me go, and I don’t care what happens, I have to get over to Samuel. He’s sweating and shaking, and—shit—I’m not a nurturer and I don’t know what to do to make it better.
“Don’t,” he gasps, “let her. Go in there. Alone.”
I jump up, but it’s too late. The office door closes. I yell. I swear. I am rage incarnate, but I can’t do anything. These guys will jump at a chance to end us.
Longest ten minutes of my life. Portia struts out of the office with a look of triumph. Shark looks satisfied. When she crouches down to Sammy, perched high on her impossible heels, I see a new labret piercing, but it suits her. She grabs Sammy’s arm and the two of us help him to his feet.
“Bring us a bottle of vodka. I’ll pay. Bring us the top-shelf,” she orders one of the men as if it’s her club.
“I’ll let you guys rest. Three hours till show time,” Shark tells us.
We’re given a large bottle of vodka and three shot glasses and some privacy.
Sammy starts to pour himself a shot, but Portia takes the glass out of his hand. “This is just for Ethan and Me. Ethan, you need to relax. You’re gonna get someone hurt. Sam should stick to water. I’m Portia, by the way,” she adds, extending a hand to Samuel.
He takes her hand limply and then closes his eyes and lays flat on his stomach on the filthy bench of the booth. He falls asleep.
“You’re an angel. Is that all?” I point to her new stud.
“Nah. But don’t worry. You’ll like the others,” she says coyly.
But I want to flipping kill that creep. “What is this show?”
“I’m making my debut,” Portia whispers.
“Singing?” Color me confused. How is that a deal?
“Well. Yes. Once a week for the next year. Unpaid.”
“Why would he agree to that? He was about to slice into my brother.”
“Because my father will flip. And who wouldn’t love to piss of the biggest man in the business? And he knows that once word is out, the evening will be hopping. He can’t say no to major money. Which, by the way, is so very not punk of him. With any luck he’ll hook a couple narcotic clients, his bread and butter. But don’t worry. Your brother will be okay. And…you’ll mix for me? I don’t exactly have a backup band, but I could just do a set of fairly standard songs. I mean, ones you could play or find easily and…I’m actually really nervous. And my dad could very well kick me out of the penthouse. He hates Shark. This is like a double betrayal. I could be out on the street.”
“Never gonna happen. Listen, our place is sad, but you’re welcome any time,” I tell her.
“I love you.”
I kiss her. I can’t not kiss her.
* * *
She’s magnificent. I keep an eye on her and my eye on Sammy who’s propped up in a chair next to the stage. Shark’s thugs wouldn’t exactly let us leave. It makes me sick. Sam, a sideshow attraction. Shark’s punk buddies show up and can’t be too pissed about the pop music because Shark is showing off some of his latest, most brutal works. Sammy’s in hell. Shivering. Probably still in shock.
Portia knows how to work a crowd. A few phone calls and she’s got every kid with a decent fake ID and within a fifty mile radius in this club. It’s all by the seat of our pants, so it isn’t fancy. I can’t do the stuff with loops I normally do, and I have to sweat to play the keyboard at an acceptable level, especially given my lack of sobriety. Also, this house equipment is temperamental as a mare in heat, but what can you do?
She does a cover of a famous eighties punk song, but it’s totally pop and kicking. And the old geezers in the place get really hot over it. I just have to ignore the lasciviousness of the looks. This girl would fit anywhere.
The set is finally almost over and we do the song I’ve actually worked on, the one from her room. It just pours out of her. Tumbles over the crowd. Hypnotizes us all.
I don’t know how she does it. Is it possible to fall more in love with her? How can it?
When Shark gives us the nod, Sammy’s torture is done. Some techies clear the stage. Portia and I hop down and start to help Sammy to his feet. But Shark jumps over and puts a hand on Portia’s arm. If I wasn’t so relieved at being able to leave, I’d sock him.
“You were great, Love,” he says with a drunken drawl. “Stay for the next set with the band, won’t you?” It’s not really a question—of course not. “But you lot can leave. Fast. Before I change my mind.”
Say no more. No time to even kiss Portia goodbye before Shark takes her to show her off to his scummy buddies.
I sling Samuel’s jacket over his shoulders, help him to the door, and ease him into a cab. I pat him down. The guy’s always got pills on him. I find a couple that look like they might be opiates and I pop them in his open mouth.
He swallows gratefully. “She’s a catch, baby brother.” Then he goes heavy.
I watch him breathe all the way home. And for a few more hours after that. He shivers with a fever, and I think he must be in shock, but his color returns. I set to fixing him some toast, wishing to God I hadn’t dropped those eggs last week.
* * *
Portia shows up at the front door and eases herself in quietly. And she actually looks happy to see me. Her mascara is smudged. She’s sweaty and smells of booze and cigarettes. But she’s radiant, practically dimming the sun that’s just starting to rise over the rowhomes.
She hands me a coffee. But I put it down and kiss and kiss and kiss her.
When my lips start to numb from kissing and fatigue, she pulls away. She pulls some antiseptic out of her bag and finds Sammy. As fumbling as I was as a caretaker, she’s that brilliant. More so. She kisses his forehead gently, and he gives her a smile.
Then we shower the nightmare night off of ourselves. “I gotta go home and face the music,” she tells me as I rinse her hair.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Putting this off is making me too nervous.”
“He shouldn’t be mad. He should be effing proud.”
She shrugs. She’s letting her guard down. “Are you proud?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t breathe. There’s no room for lungs in my chest.”
“I’ll let you catch your breath. Make your bed. I might need to crash here later.”
But she presses that sleek body to mine. I would do anything for this girl. I will. Anything. And as if she could hear me she says, “And, maybe work on some tracks for me when I’m gone?”
When she’s gone, I’m not sure I can mix. I need to watch after Samuel. I need to process the last twenty-four hours. But I owe Portia that much, so I sit at my gear. I don’t lose myself to the music. Not completely. My thoughts keep drifting back to Portia and her lips and her magnetism and bravery and.… And despite my mind being in two places, it’s possible that this is the best song I’ve ever made.
A Gargoyle’s Prom Nightmare
S.M. Johnston & E.L. Wicker
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Who ever said, “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind,” is an idiot. No one will ever love me looking like this.
If only I could make myself invisible. Or possess the ability to mask my appearance at least. But instead, I can play with other people’s reality. Read their minds, intercept thoughts, and plant some in re
turn. In truth, I could then use this to persuade a girl that she doesn’t see a grotesque gargoyle when I walk down the corridor beside her. A simple invasion of her head and she’d be draping herself all over me. But I would know that her words aren’t her own. That she is a puppet. And besides, the one I desire is immune to my powers of persuasion. Because she is like me—a mutated human hiding in plain sight.
“Puckerman!”
I cringe at the voice ringing out through the hall. Stares of revulsion prickle across my skin as heads swivel from Oberon to me. But he doesn’t care, sauntering along in his blue jeans and white t-shirt. And why would he when he has the body of a Greek god that leaves the girls of Athens High School swooning in his wake. A fake smile plasters on my face as I turn to play Oberon’s fool.
“Yes, my liege.” My tone is mocking. Almost as mocking as the joke at my expense whispered behind the hand of a blonde-haired senior to her friend as I pass them.
Oberon’s grin hides nothing. I don’t need to read his mind to tell he has a plan. “I’ve got it.”
“Got what?” I keep my voice dry and emotionless, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of nerves now playing tag all over my body.
“How to get back at Titania, what else?” He gives me that “You’re an idiot” look with narrowed green eyes. “She flaunts around with that Indian exchange student like we never mattered.”
I cock an eyebrow in response, ignoring the creeping anxiety gremlins that want to gorge on my insides. Not her. Don’t make me do something to her. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”
He slaps his hand against a poorly designed poster featuring an acne cursed lead singer. The poor bugger is almost as ugly as me. Almost. Add in a protruding cave-man forehead, a ragged scar that runs diagonally from ear to chin and a limp that would make Quasimodo proud and he still wouldn’t take the title of Athens High School’s most likely to be mistaken for a gargoyle away from me.
“The Craftsmen are playing at the prom. Must be getting a bit with someone on the prom committee to have gotten that gig.” He squints at the photo. “On second thought a relative.” He waves a hand. “Anyway, ass-face here,” he jabs at the lead singer’s head with his index finger, “is going to be Titania’s date to the prom.”
Never Be Younger: A YA Anthology Page 18