“You're the only person I know who can tame four burly biker boys and then want to do arts and crafts afterward.”
“What can I say? I'm a woman of many talents.”
Reba's mouth twitches again as we head out of the bright haze of sunshine and into the shady coolness of the lodge. Honestly, it's as nice as any ski resort I've ever seen: vaulted ceilings, a fireplace that's as tall as I am, and brown leather couches covered in teenagers I've never met before in my life.
“This weekend is free for anyone to sign up, whether they're a part of the church or not,” Reba explains when she sees me dubiously scoping out the competition. Several of the girls eye me the same way; the boys look at me quite differently.
“Converting all the lost souls in Lane County?” I joke, but this time Reba doesn't smile. She just gives me another warning look. “Sorry,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. Because even if I'm not here to buy into Wesley’s proselytizing ways, I appreciate the offer of escape. Reba's taking a huge risk by bringing me up here.
There is always—always—the possibility that one or more of the boys will come after me and make a scene.
“Daddy,” Reba says politely, pausing behind the pastor as he leans over a wooden counter and speaks quietly to the girl on the other side. Slowly, Pastor Wesley glances back and notices that I'm standing there, too.
His mouth turns down in a frown, and I smile.
“Reba,” he says carefully, “you're late.”
“I had to make a pit stop,” she replies, raising her chin and daring him to defy her. Although Reba's oddly obedient to her parents, she also has certain things she won't relent on. One of those being passing the word of God along to anyone who will listen. She still believes that one day, I will convert. And I have a feeling that she'll never stop trying.
“I see,” is all that he says, giving me a once-over with eyes crinkled in disgust and a mouth that's turned into a thin white-pink line. Fine. Pastor Wes doesn't like me? I don't give a shit. I'm just here for the scenery and the peace and quiet.
Feminist steps forward and sniffs the man's knee, the edges of his lips pulling up in a snarl. Hmm. Maybe he just doesn't like men in general? I wouldn't blame him. What happened the other day with Gaz was not the first time. Both my father and his son have been known to land a punch or a kick on my dog.
Told you.
They're fucking cruel.
“Well, I need your help organizing the bonfire for tonight. There are brand-new boxes of hymnals in the back that need to be passed out. And we need to get some of the boys on chopping wood.”
“Oh, I'm excellent with handling wood,” I chirp, just because I know it'll piss him off. “I'll round up some people and get right on that.”
Wesley just stares at me like I'm demon spawn (which, technically, since I'm Cat's daughter, I am), and then watches as I turn and snap my fingers, calling Fem along behind me.
It doesn't take long to gather up a bunch of boys (guess sexism runs strong here and none of the girls want to help) and head outside to the wood pile. It feels good to pick up an axe and sever phallic objects with it. I could psychoanalyze that desire, but why bother? There's no doubt in my mind that I've got issues.
About halfway through the pile, I realize that Trevone's arrived—posse in tow—and is making his way over to me. Tina looks pissed.
“Hey, Gidget,” he says, leaning against a tree and watching me for a moment. I can't decide if I like him better for not trying to step in and take over … or less. Does that make me a hypocrite?
“Hey,” I reply, raising the axe over my head and severing another log. Splinters fly and I feel this little tingle run through me. It feels good to be doing something with my hands, something productive. Or maybe I've just been cooped up so long that chopping firewood's become fun to me. How sad is that?
“Didn't know you were religious,” he tells me, coming over to stand on the opposite side of the stump.
Trevone's eyes trail the length of my body, from my black combat boots all the way up to the black tank with the mesh neckline—and the bright red bra underneath. His smile is slick and polished, like he's aware that he's the hottest guy at the high school.
But like I said, me and high school boys … it's just not right.
I want men.
Note to self: see a fucking psychologist.
“I'm not,” I respond evenly, rubbing the back of my hand across my sweaty forehead. “I just needed to get out of the city for a while.”
“You mean away from Cat?” he purrs and I grin, nice and sharp.
“Out of the way, Tre.” He steps aside and I bring the axe down—twice as hard as before.
If I imagine that particular piece of wood as Cat's head, well, who the fuck's gonna know?
Dinner that night is fucking atrocious, but I try to enjoy the bonfire, singing at the top of my lungs and making sure that Wes can hear my every word.
After that, that's when the real fun starts.
“Never in all my years at camp …” Reba starts as I drag her down the hill towards the river. There's drinking and pot and make-out sessions galore—as usual—but there's also some skinny dipping and ghost stories that I'm showing up for.
Plus, Trevone's going to be there and at this point, I'm pretty sure he's into me. I wonder what it’d be like, to try dating someone my own age? I mean, to really date someone at all. Even with everything that happened between the guys and me, I'm quite sure that I never actually dated a single one of them.
Imagine that: dating someone who actually attends high school. Someone who's really fucking good at it: perfect grades, a sports star, on track for college.
All of that instead of men dressed in leather and bathed in debauchery and depravity.
Wouldn't that be nice?
“Sneakin' out after curfew …” Reba continues, tsking under her breath. “All these years I felt like I was a good influence on you, but maybe in reality, you were a bad one on me.”
My mouth curves up at the corners as we push our way through the brush and into the real party. This is the main reason most of these teens are up here. Sure, maybe some of them—like Reba—really are into the good Lord's word, but over half the camp is here and dressed in bikinis and swim shorts.
“Miss Gidge,” Dena says, handing me a beer and not bothering to offer one to Reba. We all know she doesn't drink. I stare at Dena for a minute, her lipstick so pale she looks like a drowned girl, and force my mouth into a smile.
“It's Gidget,” I say with a flirty hair toss, moving past her and leaving Chardou and Amiya to gossip behind my back. “Hey Trev.”
I pause next to Trevone and notice that at least for the moment, he's separated himself from Kellen and Tina. Good. Because I'm in the mood to flirt tonight.
He glances back at me, mouth splitting into a big grin. Firelight dances across the dark ebony color of his skin, little flames playing in the deep brown depths of his eyes.
“What's up, Gidget?” he asks, taking me in again and trying to gauge the reaction on my face. I make sure to give him a warm smile, a licentious one. Why not? What do I have to lose anymore? My life's already been broken into a million little pieces. What's left of it … not worth fighting for.
“So you jumping in or what?” I ask, nodding my chin at the long stretch of dock sitting in the darkness. Moonlight dances on the surface of the water, little silver puddles of light that somehow make the darkness seem even more ominous. But I was raised in the dark: I know there's nothing about it to fear.
No, the real monsters aren't bound by light. They're as likely to strike in a warm, sunlit afternoon as they are in the velvety blackness of night. Just as likely to spill blood during the day. Just as likely to kill.
I blink the memories back and tip the beer to my lips.
“I was thinking about it,” he says, licking his lips and stepping back, gesturing with an arm for me to step onto the dock. “Why? Think you're brave enough to take the
plunge?”
I raise both my brows and try to hand Reba my beer. She refuses to take it, so I pass it over to Trevone and move across the splintered wood boards in my boots and bikini, taking my cover-up off at the end and tossing it onto the ground.
“Holy shit,” I hear him exclaim behind me as I put my hands together and leap into the water. Perfect swan dive. Even though it's been years since I was on the swim team, I've still got it.
“Fucking Christ, that's cold!” I scream as I break through the water. It feels like I've dropped myself into an Antarctic lake. Or the space inside my father's chest that holds his heart. It's so cold in there, I wouldn't be surprised to find I was swimming in his blood.
Trevone's laughing at me from the dock, but I've drawn a crowd, and in just a few minutes, there's a good two dozen people in the water with me, screaming and splashing and kissing with lips frosted in ice.
I join them just a short time later, putting my arms around Trev's neck and pressing my mouth to his, tasting him and trying my goddamn best not to compare him to Sin. To Grainger. Beast. Crown.
It's impossible.
Trevone's a good kisser, but holy shit, he's a boy and not a man.
That much is obvious right away.
Stop it, Gidge, I tell myself, pressing myself harder into him, ignoring Fem as he swims circles around us. Stop thinking about those assholes. What do I think could ever come of that? The best I could hope for is that one of them would take me as his old lady, marry me, and drag me into club life for the rest of my miserable existence.
I'd rather die.
I should just graduate and get out the fuck out of here, I tell myself, wrapping my legs around Trev and wondering if I should take it further, if I should have sex with him. I mean, why not? I've already gone to the edge of sin and watched the sun set on any last shred of innocence or guiltlessness I had left.
“You want to go back to the cabin?” Trev asks, moving his lips from my mouth to my neck and pressing hot warmth against my cold skin. It feels good, touching him like this, but only as good as a hug from a friend or a pat on the back.
His kisses don't incinerate my spirit, smother my logicality, smash my heart to splinters.
And I want that.
Some wicked, dirty part of me is addicted to that emotional pain.
I want to hurt.
No, I need to hurt.
“Fuck,” I gasp, pushing away from Trev and scrambling up on the beach, moving across the wide, flat surfaces of rocks slippery with mud. I almost fall twice, but manage to make it back down the dock to my cover-up.
“What the hell, Gidge?” he asks me, turning around in the water and folding his biceps on the surface of the dock. “What the fuck's the matter with you?”
“It's Gidget,” I tell him, snatching up my discarded beer and moving back down the deck, the warm evening air a balm against the coolness of my skin.
“You alright, sugar?” Reba asks me, but I just shake my head and trudge up the dirty riverbank to the dark stretch of green lawn that takes up the center of the campground.
I'm not alright.
I haven't been alright in years.
And it looks like this poison might just finish me off after all.
The cabins are segregated based on gender (of course they are), and lined up on opposite sides of the lawn. The church and mess hall sit in the center, silent partners in the night. I see a couple of church volunteers with flashlights taking on the night guard, walking around and trying to prevent teenagers from doing what it is we do best: get into trouble.
“You're doing a real shitty job by the way,” I mumble as I walk up the ramp to my cabin and open the door, glancing over my shoulder and flipping off the guards who have yet to notice that there's a huge fucking party down by the river.
The entire cabin is dark, the bunks filled with peacefully sleeping girls. The pastor in all his infinite wisdom decided to grace me and Reba with separate sleeping assignments (not a surprise), so I'm here by myself.
Well, me and Fem.
“Come on, boy,” I say, tapping the top bunk and watching with amazement as he launches himself up with ease. Huskies are fucking boss, you know that? I crawl up after him and try to resist the urge to turn my phone on. The second I do, they'll find me here; I know they will.
Instead, I get to lie there on my back, staring up at the ceiling and doing my best not to notice the musty smell and the cobwebs collecting in the corners. Moonlight filters in the skylight above and turns the webs silver, these brilliant little clusters of light. The one directly above my bed has a spider in it, carefully rolling up its prey.
It's fucking fascinating, watching it happen like that, like I'm staring at my past written in silk. Some fucked-up Charlotte's Web where the spiders are the officers in my father's club … and I'm the moth, wings straining against their wicked threads, desperate to fly.
Sometimes I wonder if Cat will ever really let me leave, if he'll sit back and watch me go off to college, let me live my own life. Or if, like the moth above my head, I'll be trapped forever, just a silken mummy with broken wings.
Drifting off, I start to remember bits and pieces of that night, how some simple flirtations escalated into a moment I'll never be able to forget, no matter how hard I try.
I roll onto my side and do my best to fall asleep, letting the soft breathing sounds of the other girls lull me into a false sense of security. It's so peaceful out here, the night sounds of crickets and frogs drifting in through the open windows, the breeze rustling the branches of the trees.
If it weren't for Feminist, I'd have never known that something was wrong.
Two years ago …
I hate funerals.
All the black clothing, the shiny coffins, the parade of bikes to honor the dead.
The dead.
My sisters.
“I hate you,” I tell Cat, a veil covering my face to hide the tears. I’ve been crying nonstop since it happened. It feels like I’m still in that pantry with blood leaking under the door, like I’ll never escape that dark, closed space. Every time I close my eyes, I relive it. Even the smallest blink, the simplest flutter of lashes flashes me back to that space, that moment.
There are so many things I could’ve done differently.
If I’d grabbed the gun from the rice bag right away, maybe I could’ve defended Queenie?
If I’d pushed her into the pantry and locked the doors, maybe she’d be alive and it’d be me lying in that coffin on that stupid pink silk that doesn’t matter because she’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
Nothing will ever change that.
“Shut your trap, Gidge,” Cat grumbles, staring across the cemetery toward the forest beyond it, like he, too, wishes he were anywhere but here. “I’m not going to take shit from you in front of the club.” His hands tighten into fists on his jeans, but that’s the only sign that he’s suffering. Or hell, maybe he just doesn’t like the light drizzle settling on his head? That’s how upset Cat looks right now. As in, not at all.
Maybe he doesn’t give two fucks?
“Why? Because then they might start to think about what a failure you are?” I growl, interrupting the monotonous drone of the priest. We’re not even Catholic, so I don’t give a crap about some guy in white robes spewing quotes from a book I don’t believe in. Any chance I had of believing in God went out the window when my sisters died. No loving creator would allow that sort of thing to happen to such sweet souls.
“I’m cutting you slack because of the circumstances,” Cat growls, dropping his dark gaze on me. “This is your last chance to quiet up.”
“A motorcycle club president who can’t even protect his own daughters,” I snap, and Cat lunges up and out of his chair. He grabs my wrist and yanks me up, only to pause when a big, warm hand lands on his shoulder.
“Prez,” Crown says, his voice both soft and hard at the same time. He’s protecting me from my dad? This is a first. Usually, nobody bo
thers. My father back-handed me once in front of his crew and not a single man raised a fist to defend me. Some badass bikers they are: must take huge balls to throw around a sad, confused teenage girl.
Anyway, if anyone were to stand up for me, it’d be Sin.
And yet … he’s nowhere to be seen. I think he’s taking Queenie’s and Posey’s deaths harder than Cat.
“Let me handle her,” Crown continues as Cat throws him off with a scowl, giving me a look that’s equal parts love … and hate? Anger? Resentment? I have no idea. When he stormed in the front door with his posse behind him, toting guns and tattoos, cigarettes and scowls, he found me kneeling in Queenie’s blood, petting her hair back from her forehead.
I was crying when they ripped me away from her body.
And then Cat was screaming at me, demanding answers that I didn’t have.
How could I let this happen? Didn’t we know where the guns were? Why were my sisters gone when I was still standing?
Questions I couldn’t answer, questions that he had no right to ask me.
Years later, I’d realize that, and my hatred for him would morph from antipathy to violent, transcendent rage. It would burn so hot, it would turn me to ash from the inside out, just like the gray flakes floating through the cold, cemetery air like dirty snow.
Forest fires, burning far away, drifting down and poisoning everything.
Not that it matters: everything here is dark, tainted, unsavable.
“You fucking better,” Cat snaps, curling his lip at me, the double coffins behind me laden with white roses and covered in ash and drizzle. “Before I lose my temper.” He stalks off with my brother trailing behind him like a trained dog. Two seats over, Nellie puts her face in her hands and weeps, smearing mascara behind her veil.
“Come on, Gidge, let’s take a walk,” Crown says, gesturing for me to follow along behind him. He turns, flashing the logo on the back of his cut. I stare at the eclipse for a moment before I get up, pausing next to Queenie’s coffin and tickling my fingers against the shiny, wood surface. They buried her with her unborn baby. I wonder sometimes if I’d called 911 instead of Cat, if maybe the paramedics could’ve saved her child.
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