Petting Them: An Anthology of Claw-ver Tails

by Tate James

  “He tried,” Luke says, his voice almost a whisper. “They de-armed Dutch and kicked his ass. The guy thinks he’s a superhero, but he’s only human.” Rhythm makes a face, but doesn’t say anything, glancing over at me with hard, dark eyes.

  “Do you need help getting in the van?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or if he’s genuinely concerned.

  “I’ll be just fine,” I whisper, turning away and climbing into the backseat.

  Syxx watches me as I go, his green eyes glittering in a strange, unearthly sort of way. And the gold and white floaters? They’re everywhere now, swarms of them. I must have a concussion.

  I must.

  Because when I look back at the man passed out on the grass, I swear he’s got six fingers.

  5

  “Unicorn Panties”

  Dutch barely speaks to me on the ride to the hospital. Hell, he barely speaks to me in the hospital or on the way back either. Good news: I don’t have any broken bones. Bad news: the doctor thinks I may have a concussion and wants me to stay up the rest of the night.

  I’m freaking exhausted.

  “Did you know that almost half of all concussions go unreported?” I blurt out when we pull into the Fifth Street driveway and Dutch shuts off the engine. He leans forward and puts his head on the steering wheel for a moment while I stare at him. He took some pretty gruesome hits, too. Dutch is lucky that his nose and jaw weren’t broken in the fight.

  A long awkward silence follows while I sit there bathed in the gold light of dawn.

  “Do you think the police believed our mugging story?” I continue, and Dutch finally looks up at me, his gray eyes tired. There’s absolutely zero glitter left in them. He looks at me, and I stare back at him with my one good hazel eye. The other is swollen shut now.

  “X,” he starts, and his voice is so painful and ragged that I almost run. Seriously, I almost throw open that door, take off up the stairs, and hide under Dutch’s mom’s quilt. I’ve never heard him like this, not once in the six months since we met. He sounds … human. And Dutch … he’s supernatural, right? The only preternatural thing I’ve ever seen. He’s practically immortal.

  “They de-armed Dutch and kicked his ass. The guy thinks he’s a superhero, but he’s only human.”

  “On the bright side,” I choke out, babbling even though all I really want is to stop talking, “I bet those jerks don’t bother the Nowakis ever again. I mean, how could they? Knowing they got their asses kicked by a couple of twenty-something kids …”

  “X,” Dutch repeats, his cheek lying on the steering wheel, his gaze laser-focused on mine. It’s probably the most direct attention he’s ever given me. “I shouldn’t have put you in that situation. It’s one thing for me to take risks with myself, but not with the girl I …” There’s a really long pause, and I can feel that norepinephrine pumping through my veins again, making my heart race, my palms sweat. “Employ.” Right. The feeling of excitement fades as quickly as it came. Of course that’s what he’s thinking about, me as his employee. What else did I expect? “I shouldn’t have put Luke or Tate in danger like that either.” Dutch sits up suddenly, but his head is still slumped over. He looks like the puppet version of Dutch Wylde, controlled by the hands of a sad, sad god.

  His glasses are askew on his face, reminding me that mine are ruined.

  The lens I’m looking out of is okay, but the other is broken into tiny, fragmented pieces.

  I don’t really have the money for new glasses right now.

  “Do you want to sleep in my bed again?” Dutch asks, and even though I want to say no because he’s acting so damn weird, I’m cold again. Freezing, really. My temperature was normal at the hospital, but my teeth are chattering and all I want are warm blankets, a roaring fire, and … some scrap of affection or friendship from Dutch Wylde. “I’ve got to get back to the Nowakis, so …”

  I realize he wants me to get out of the van, and my cheeks heat with color.

  He’s kicking me out, so he can run off and make sure the TCPS reputation stays intact.

  Figures.

  Oh, and I almost forgot … I have school today.

  Being eighteen sucks.

  “That’s what’s most important, right?” I choke out, throwing open the door and taking off for the house. I feel like I hear Dutch call out to me, but by the time I turn around, he’s reaching over to shut the passenger door, and backing down the driveway.

  I’ve never been particularly happy attending Marist Catholic High, but my mother prepaid my tuition for the entire four years with my father’s life insurance money. That’s how important it was to her that I get a good education.

  My pleated skirt swirls against my thighs as I make my way up the front steps and do my best to ignore the pointed stares. On a good day, I get looks and whispers. Today is not a good day.

  “Did your pervy old boyfriend finally lose his temper and knock the shit out of you?” one of the girls asks. I don’t have to look at her to know exactly who it is that’s taunting me: Geneva June. As much as I crush on Dutch, I hate on Geneva. In my own mind only however as it’s not really in my personality to start fights or antagonize people

  It is, however, in Geneva’s.

  “Which one?” one of her friends asks, and the whole group giggles. I tell myself they must be pretty desperate to be picking on a girl with a black eye that’s so swollen, it’s sealed shut. After a good thirty minutes poking at my tired eye in the mirror, I got a single contact lens in. The thing is, I’m so exhausted that my eye is as dry as a desert, and every time I blink, the damn lens moves around.

  If the school didn’t have such a strict attendance policy, I wouldn’t even be here today. I’m running on about an hour of sleep, I’m still cold, and the floaters are worse than ever. Usually, they hover at the edges of my peripheral vision, always just slightly out of reach. Right now, they’re front and center, and I can barely see through the swarm.

  “That’s right: Alexiah lives with three dudes. I wonder if she takes them all at once, or if they take turns?”

  I could point out the bare facts about slut-shaming, about how stupid and misogynistic these girls are being, how the sort of peer pressure they’re putting on me drives innocent young girls to depression, drugs, or suicide, but … they won’t care. They won’t listen.

  Instead, I walk right past them with my bag slung over my shoulder, pink unicorn patches and pins catching the sun, and head inside for a miserable day of learning. Normally, I like school. But today … today is gonna be hell.

  I end up spending about half the day in the nurse’s office, giving the same explanation I fed the police about a mugging gone wrong, and lying on one of the crisp, white hospital beds they keep in the infirmary. The school even calls the precinct to verify that the crime’s already been reported, and then after that, they leave me alone.

  After school, I head out, expecting to walk home like I always do when I catch sight of Rhythm on his motorcycle, smoking a cigarette, and surrounded by a group of girls that include Geneva and crew. How exciting. She’s mercilessly cruel to me because I live with three guys over the age of twenty-two, and yet … she’s hitting on one of them right before my eyes.

  “Hypocrite,” I mumble as I cut across the grass, avoiding Rhythm and his new fan club for as long as I’m able. I figure, if I get off campus without him seeing me, I can text him when I get home and we can meet up there. He’s never once picked me up from school on his bike before.

  Obviously, I don’t make it out of there that easily.

  “Alexiah,” Rhythm calls out, and I pause. I could make a run for it, but the damage is already done.

  Bouncing baby unicorns, spear me now. Slay with me your horn of rainbow-y, sugary goodness. It’d be a much more pleasant death than the social suicide I’m about to commit.

  It’s doubtful that Geneva knew Rhythm was one of the guys I lived with.

  She found him hot, zoned in on him, and now �
� not only is this going to confirm her idealized slut-shaming schemes, but I’m also going to be ‘stealing’ a guy from her. It’s a recipe for disaster, and I’ve brought all the ingredients to make a hateful little dish.

  She watches me with blue-gray eyes as I step off the curb and cross around to the other side of the bike, away from the gathered clique.

  “Hey,” I say, and since I haven’t seen Rhythm since last night, he of course has to reach out and take my chin in his hand, lifting my face up for inspection. I feel annoyance tint my cheeks with hot pink, and push his hand away. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dutch should’ve never let you leave that house; you should be resting.”

  I narrow my eyes on Rhythm’s brown ones and refuse to accept how good he smells. His face is a little swollen, but nothing like mine. And unlike in my case, where my puffy cheek and sealed black eye make me look like a character from one of Picasso’s paintings, Rhythm’s injuries just make him seem rugged and cool. Jerk.

  “Let me? Believe it or not, Rhythm, I make my own decisions sometimes.” The words plop out of my mouth before I manage to remember that Geneva and her friends are standing right there, listening and watching. The smirk that crawls across her plump lavender painted lips—she looks a little nineties, if you ask me—is terrifying.

  “This is one of your boyfriends?” she starts, and my mouth opens to eject the usual protest.

  Rhythm beats me to it, slinging his jacket off his shoulders, and wrapping it over mine. His tattoos stand out in bright contrast against his tanned skin, and his dark hair wafts in the breeze, revealing the ink on the side of his skull.

  “The only one,” he says, dropping the helmet onto my head and gesturing for me to climb on the bike. At that point, what choice do I have? Walk off with his helmet and jacket while Geneva gapes at me? Tear the items off dramatically and make a run for it? Knowing myself, I’d probably trick on a crack in the sidewalk and go down hard.

  So, before my classmate can shoot off another insult, I swing my leg over the leather seat … just as a gust of wind comes roaring down the tree-lined street. The other girls squeal as their skirts billow in the breeze, but they all manage to clamp a hand over the back and front to keep the show PG. Since my hands are on Rhythm’s shoulders and one knee is propped on the seat … my reveal is much less time.

  My red pleated skirt comes all the way up in the wind as Rhythm glances over his shoulder. I see his brows go up as he takes in my sparkly unicorn panties. Pretty sure all the other girls get a good glimpse of them, too.

  “Cute knickers, Harcourt,” Geneva says as I drop down hard on the seat and tuck my skirt—and whatever dignity I have left—under my bottom. Crap. I said it again. Ass. For fuck’s sake, I can curse! “Nice to know you shop in the kids’ department, but date from the geriatric ward.”

  “Nice to know you’re in desperate need of someone to tell you to the shut the fuck up,” Rhythm says, kick-starting the engine and giving Geneva the most dismissive look I’ve ever seen in my life. He looks at her like she’s garbage. I’d feel bad for her if she didn’t look at me that way five days a week. “Get a life and then maybe you won’t be so interested in desperately digging into everyone else’s.”

  Rhythm takes off so fast that I squeeze my eyes shut, squeezing his midsection for dear life.

  The wind stings my injured face as we zoom down the street and take the corner much faster than I feel is prudent. The thing is, I’m too nervous to even talk while we’re moving, so I keep my gaze shuttered to the world and press my cheek to Rhythm’s warm, sturdy back. We’re so close together that I have to wonder if the racing heartbeat I hear is his or mine. Maybe a combination of both?

  We head into the downtown area with its massive oak trees, brick sidewalks, and old-school charm. It’s my favorite part of living in Whispering, Oregon. But … what are we doing here? Not to be rude to Rhythm or anything, but all I really want to do right now is sleep.

  He pulls into a space next to the fountain and kills the engine.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask, just before I spot Dutch, staring into the fountain’s basin. My heart shudders, and my throat constricts. Even if he’s rude to me, dismissive, uninterested … I can’t keep the feelings I have for him tamped down. There are just too many of them; they’re too powerful. As I watch, he reaches into the pocket of his gray military trench and pulls out a handful of coins, chucking them into the water and leaving nothing but ripples in their wake.

  “Picking out clothes for the Claire House thing on Friday,” Rhythm says. He glances back at me, notices my focus is on Dutch, and scoffs under his breath. “He really fucked-up last night, you know that, right?”

  “We all make mistakes sometimes,” I say, climbing off the motorcycle and handing over the helmet. I keep the leather jacket on because I’m still freezing. Paired with my school blazer, it helps cut some of the chill from the winter wind. “You just did, when you told Geneva you were my boyfriend. Why would you even say that?” I know in my heart that he was just trying to help, but as I stand there with him scowling at me, I just start to get pissed off. “Geneva is going to go after me mercilessly now.”

  “So stand up for yourself,” Rhythm says, lighting a cigarette and swinging one of his long, denim-clad legs over the bike. He’s standing in front of me now, looking down his nose. Rhythm’s almost a whole foot taller, I think. At a whopping five-five, I’m about as average as it gets. And he, he’s huge. “What do you care what she thinks anyway, if you hate her so much?”

  “I hate you, and we still manage to have plenty of conversations. Maybe I was just trying to keep my inevitable interactions with her civil?”

  “Why? The ones we have are hardly civil, and we manage to slog our way through, day after dreadful day.” Rhythm rolls his eyes and turns away, clearly pleased with himself for getting in the last word. I stare at the back of his head, and fantasize about chucking a rock at it.

  We should have a lot in common, all of this pain from our pasts. And yet, there’s nothing between us but this wild, raging ire that makes me feel all hot and sticky and bothered. Dipshit. He’s as dumb as a pile of unicorn poo, and far less pretty. Supposedly, unicorns shit rainbows, and Rhythm is nothing but a brown lump of annoyance on the lawn of my life.

  “Idiot,” I mumble as I haul my bookbag up my shoulder and head over to where Dutch is standing.

  When he looks over at me, his expression is back to normal, there’s glitter in his eyes again, and the swelling in his nose is about half as bad as it was this morning.

  “Aw, X,” he says, and then he pauses. For half a beat there, he looks like he’s coming undone, but manages to pull it together last second. Dutch slips my rose patterned glasses from the front pocket of his jacket and hands them over to me with two perfect lenses. “Since they got broke on the job, I did what any responsible employer would do and had them fixed.”

  He holds them out between two fingers as he looks up at the statue in front of us, the one graced with six beautiful angel wings. Six wings … It’s a weird number for an angel to have, isn’t it? And yet somehow, I feel like I’m being reminded of something.

  Ah.

  The fountain at Claire House, the one with the demon. That must be it. Although I can’t remember if that one had wings or not …

  Dutch wiggles the glasses, and I flush as I reach out and take them, using extreme care to keep our hands from brushing. I don’t want to feel the vibrant burst of his energy from his touch, not right now. Instead, I dig around in my bag until I find a compact mirror, pull it out, and peer at the dry contact lens stuck to the surface of my eye. It’s so damn sticky that it peels right off my poor, tired eyeball.

  “That was pretty brave, for someone who has a phobia about touching their eyes,” Dutch says, his voice that smooth, easy cadence that always makes the sale, convinces the homeowner, banishes the imaginary ghost. For some reason, I find that disappointing, like maybe I was hoping he’d sti
ll have that raw, jagged bareness he revealed to me in the van this morning.

  Not that any of it matters considering how clear he’s made it that he has no feelings for me.

  Shit, the only person who has feelings for me is Rhythm and his are all made of hate.

  “Well, a girl can only take so much torture,” I say as I flick the useless lens into the fountain. I feel sort of guilty about littering, but then, like, it’s a clear, nearly invisible bit of nothing. I need to lighten up, don’t I? Slipping the glasses onto my swollen face, I grimace, and Dutch turns away sharply.

  “What’s the matter? Is it hard to look at the destruction you’ve wrought?” Rhythm asks, smoking his cigarette and leveling his old friend with a stare that makes me unbelievably uncomfortable. It’s pretty clear that Rhythm is still pissed off about last night. I guess he has every right to be. Maybe I should be, too? But … it’s fucking impossible to stay mad at Dutch Wylde.

  But speaking of last night …

  “I thought you had a date last night?” I ask, turning to look at Rhythm. He takes another drag on his cigarette and ignores me, flicking his eyes in the direction of a large crowd passing by on the sidewalk. He looks annoyed at me for even asking.

  I tuck the long side of my pink hair behind my ear and narrow my eyes on him.

  “Good question, Rhythm. You made such a show of taking off, and then bam, there you were when we needed you.” Dutch spins around with his fingers in his pockets, a bright smile sparkling on his lips. He looks effervescent and bubbly, but there’s something dark brewing under that chipper exterior. “I mean, thank god you were, but what happened to that date of yours?” The two boys exchange a long, unblinking stare.