The Reaping
Page 8
I stood on the shore, watching Stephen, struck by the nightmarish quality of my predicament. When he was over half way back to the dock, it began to sink in that I was in serious trouble.
Frantically, I began to scramble about wildly, looking for another boat or a raft…something. Anything. But there was nothing. Not in the tent, not in the surrounding woods (those that were well lit anyway), not along the shore. And I didn’t know where else to look.
I thought about walking, but that didn’t seem like a good idea since I didn’t know if the “island” was truly an island or was attached to the mainland somewhere. The cold reality of my situation sank in. I was alone. At night. In the woods. On an island. Surrounded by water. With no phone and no help.
I could see the partiers across the water, dancing around the fire. Though I could barely hear the sounds of their celebration, I thought to try screaming anyway; if it worked it would be worth the effort.
I walked to the edge of the water, took a deep breath and shouted as loud as I could. No one even looked in my direction.
I watched as Stephen rowed, getting closer and closer to the other sid. I hoped that when he showed up without me, someone would do the sensible thing and come get me.
When he reached the dock, Stephen tied off the boat and climbed out. He walked along the wooden pier then up onto the grass. I saw him stop when he reached the group near the fire. I assumed he was speaking, as he was gesturing wildly and pointing in my direction. My hopes rose when I saw all heads turn and look out across the water.
Then, to my utter devastation, they began to laugh. I felt the sting of humiliation burn in my cheeks as tears welled in my eyes. I choked back a sob, my mind racing through my options. As I stared back at my mockers, I realized with a sinking heart that I had only two choices: swim or stay.
Certain I was overlooking a better option, I sat down on the bank to think.
Maybe Leah’s still there and she’ll come get me when she finds out, I thought. So I waited. And I waited.
That hope kept me occupied for what seemed like an eternity. Then, when it finally became clear that Leah wasn’t going to rescue me, I revisited my options. It seemed there was only one truly viable option. I was going to have to swim across the lake.
I walked to the water’s edge and dipped my fingers in to test the temperature. It was freezing. With a growl, I turned back to the shore, silently cursing Stephen, berating myself for not seeing his cruel streak earlier. Then I thought of the laughter I got from my schoolmates, laughter instead of help, and my anger escalated. I paced the shore, back and forth, seething.
Walking back to the water’s edge, I stared into the shimmering black pool, fury simmering in my blood. I looked once more across the water. It appeared that my increased movement had gathered a crowd. They were lining up along the shore, whooping and shouting words I couldn’t hear, waiting to see what I’d do. They pointed and gesticulated, pumping their fists into the air, all the while Stephen stood near the dock, his arrogant posture daring me to make my move.
Spurred by pride and numbed by anger, I dove in without hesitation. The cold water hit my muscles like an electric shock, which only served to further enrage me. Kicking out with my legs, I pushed my sluggish arms ahead until they began to cooperate.
I swam feverishly, indignation burning in my stomach like a lump of hot coal. I was determined that he would not get the best of me. None of them would.
The closer I got, the louder their laughter and chants became.
They shouted, “Loser! Loser! Loser!”
“Look, Fitchco, she’s swimming all the way back over here to get to you,” I heard one guy say.
“Are you that good in bed, Fitchco?”
“I’ve heard of ‘rode hard and put away wet’, but man!”
“Hey Porter, did you need a cold shower?”
“She got too hot for Fitchco,” one girl mocked.
On and on they taunted until my rage was a blinding red haze behind my eyes. It pounded in my head like a ferocious drum. It blazed in my chest like a wildfire. Every nerve in my body felt alive with it.
When I reached shallow water, I put my feet down and walked slowly toward the shore. I felt no chill, no wetness, only white-hot anger. The onlookers laughed and pointed and continued their taunts. Stephen had moved out onto the dock where he was standing with his legs spread and his arms crossed over his chest.
My eyes met his and I stopped where I was, thigh deep in the water. Defiantly, he held my gaze. Then, as I watched, the corners of his mouth pulled up into a smug smile.
A low hum sounded in my ears and my right shoulder blade began to burn. Heat spread across my skin, down my arms to my fingertips. They tingled and trembled in response.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the flames of the tiki torches rise, snapping and crackling higher into the clear, velvety sky.
Stephen took three steps forward, bringing him closer to where I stood in the water. He squatted down. “Guess you’ll think twice before you throw milk in someone’s face next time.”
My eyes blazed into Stephen’s, but I made no comment. The water around my legs bubbled and churned as the hum in my ears grew louder and louder. I turned my attention toward the crowd at the shore.
With an eerie whoosh, the fire in the pit exploded, sending sparks out into the clearing. Tiny orange flames rose quickly in the dry grass, skittering along the ground in every direction. Tongues of yellow flame rose from the fire pit, licking at the tree benches that hung overhead. Within seconds, they were ablaze.
Leaves fell, some catching fire in midair and drifting to the ground. Dead limbs popped and snapped in the heat as they began to give way.
Above the hum in my ears, I heard laughter turn to screams as the curtains around the main cabana burst into flames. Partiers scrambled to get away from the fire, some running toward their cars, others running toward the water. I watched as a few stragglers disappeared into the woods, seeking shelter deep in the forest.
I heard Stephen calling my name. Over and over, he called. I ignored him, watching instead the scene on the shore unfold in fiery detail.
And then I saw him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Standing at the back of the clearing, dressed entirely in black and nearly impossible to see, was the stranger from my dream. Again.
His eyes were on me, an angry expression on his face, much like the one he wore in my dream. He shook his dark head, one long piece that had escaped its bonds waving in front of his face. His disapproval was so poignant, it seemed to reach across the span of grass and water between us and thicken the air around me. I watched as he closed his eyes and tipped his face toward the sky. He stood that way for several seconds, unmoving.
I was captivated, unable to look away. Again, I felt as if something was pulling me toward him, like gravity. I steadied my stance, digging in with my feet and willing my legs not to move.
Something tapped the top of my head. I looked up into the crystal clear sky just as a drop of wetness splattered against my forehead. Then another. And another. With its midnight color and twinkling stars, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet I felt more rain drops sprinkling my face. Then, as if an invisible storm cloud hovered overhead, the heavens opened up and it began to pour.
Like a bucket of cold water, I realized at that moment that I had caused the fires. Somehow, some way, I had taken the few flames scattered around the clearing and I’d caused them to rage beyond control, to spread. And terrify. And destroy.
Out of control, a voice sounded in my head.
I closed my eyes against the rain and my disturbing thoughts. Purposely, like I’d done with so many other things of late, I pushed it out of my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed, unable to cope.
My throat burned with unimaginable thirst. I opened my mouth to the rain, craving even the tiniest bit of moisture. The fat drops were like drops of honey to my parched tongue.
Finally I opened my eyes and lowered
my chin to look back at the stranger. But he was gone. I searched the remaining crowd, now scrambling to get out of the deluge, until I found him. He was walking, slowly, toward the dwindling fire in the pit, his eyes fixed on me, hard and unwavering. My breath quickened.
Steadily, he made his way toward me, getting closer and closer, until he was at the water’s edge. He stopped several feet from where I stood and, without a word, held out his hand. Again, I felt the magnetism of him.
Trapped in his silvery stare, I moved forward, my feet propelling me of their own accord. I stopped, only inches from him.
“Who are you?”
“The person who’s saving you,” he growled, his voice a deep, velvety surprise. It resonated deep in my chest, tickling my senses and making them hum like a tuning fork.
“Fr-from what?”
“From you,” he responded cryptically.
So quickly it startled me, his hand struck out and he grabbed my wrist. His fingers were like steel bands clamped around my bones. Turning, he began to walk away from the water, pulling me along behind him. It never occurred to me to resist; I didn’t even want to.
We walked up around the fire pit, past the cabanas toward the back of the clearing where I’d first seen him. My heart thundered in my chest, my mind spinning wildly. Somewhere in the back of my head, I admitted that I was a little afraid. Though I didn’t really think he was there to hurt me, instinctively I knew he was dangerous—very dangerous. It rolled off him in thick black waves, waves that I perceived on some subconscious, primal level. I had no idea why he was there, what he wanted with me or why I kept dreaming about him, but I felt compelled to find out. And, too, I was still inexplicably drawn to him.
He led me past the edge of the clearing and into the woods. Surefooted, as if he could see the black path in front of him, he wove his way through trees, around stumps, and over debris, all the while maintaining his tight grip on my wrist.
My nerves jangled like an orchestra of cymbals. “I’m Carson. Carson Porter,” I said quickly, anxiously. I felt the need to fill the space between us with words. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken, but I continued anyway. “I think my parents thought I was going to be a boy. Of course, they named my sister Grey, so maybe not.” Still he made no comment, made no move to slow down or address me in any way. “My mother liked to read. Dad says she named me after Carson McCullers and my sister after Agnes Grey. Can you believe that? Why didn’t she just name me Judas or Depeche Mode, something really depressing?”
Finally we reached a dirt road and there, parked along the shoulder, was a shiny black motorcycle. Its glossy surface and heavy chrome accents gleamed in the moonlight. It looked perilous and powerful, sleek and muscular, like it was cut from the same cloth as its rider.
Letting go of me, he mounted the bike and, with a flick of his wrist, brought the engine throbbing to life. Once more, he held his hand out to me.
All the instructions about strangers my dad had given me over the years, all the horror stories and cautionary tales I’d heard, resounded in my head. I hesitated, but only for a second, before taking his hand and straddling the bike behind him. For better or worse, I was going to see where this led, consequences be damned.
“Hold on,” he commanded in his gruff voice as he kicked the bike’s stand out of the way.
He revved the engine and it roared its readiness, vibrating beneath me. A quiet thrill tickled my spine as I put my hands on his waist, my palms flat against his sides.
I could feel the muscles move and shift as he guided the bike onto the road. He felt warm and firm and somehow safe. Dangerously safe.
This entire night had been so far beyond anything I’d ever experienced the only thing I knew to do now was hold on tight and not look back. Never in my life had I made such a series of bad choices, this one quite possibly the worst, but I had to see where he was going, where he was taking me. I wanted to know.
Actually, it was more than I just wanted to know. I was desperate to know. I had to know. And not just where we were going. I was desperate to know him, too. I had to know him. I felt like I needed it, needed him, like I needed air. And even though I knew that was ridiculous, it felt true nonetheless.
As he accelerated, I leaned into his back. I wound my arms further around him, circling his waist and laying my palms against his hard stomach. I felt the muscles twitch beneath my fingertips. My own stomach muscles clinched in response. Every nerve in my body was tightly attuned to him, singularly focused on him.
After we’d left the dirt road and reached the smooth pavement, I rested my cheek against his back and closed my eyes. Beneath the various aromas carried on the wind, the subtle scent of his skin teased my nose. He smelled like midnight, dark and sexy.
I cleared my mind as we rode, concentrating on the feel of the wind in my hair, the man pressed against my chest and nothing else.
In what seemed like a few short minutes, we slowed and the engine whined as he downshifted to make a turn. Two turns later, he pulled to a stop and I opened my eyes. When I looked around, I was surprised to see that we were at Leah’s house, parked along the curb at the street.
He cut the engine and flipped the kickstand down with his heel. He turned his head to the side and waited, as if signaling me to get off, which I did. When I was standing beside the bike, he gently let it lean over onto the kickstand then dismounted as well.
He turned toward the driveway.
“What are you doing?”
“Going inside,” he said as he began his ascent of the driveway. “You coming?”
“Y-you can’t go inside!”
He stopped and turned to stare back at me. “Why not?”
“What do you mean ‘why not’? Because this isn’t my house, that’s why not. This is my friend’s house,” I explained, then, “Wait, how did you know where to bring me anyway?”
He had already turned back around and was walking to the front door. I felt panic rise inside me. What would the Kirbys do? What if they called the police? Would they arrest him? What if they found out about the fires? What if I got arrested? I’d be grounded until I turn twenty-five. Minimum.
Still too addled to think straight, I came to one comforting, solid conclusion: I had to run. I’d run home and try to sneak into the house and tell the biggest, fattest lie I could come up with in the morning.
I was turning to do just that when I saw the front door open. My heart leapt into my throat and I watched, paralyzed with fear, as the stranger came face to face with Bruce Kirby. Then, to my utter amazement, Mr. Kirby spoke something I couldn’t hear and stepped back to allow the stranger to go inside. I stood at the curb, mouth agape, wondering what in the world was going on.
When the stranger had passed, Mr. Kirby poked his head out and said, “Carson, come on inside. It’s freezing.”
Just then I realized that I was, in fact, incredibly cold. My wet clothes, partially dried by a frigid wind, weren’t helping either. I felt chilled to the bone.
I tried to smile, but it wobbled a bit. I braced myself for whatever bizarre thing might happen next and walked to the door.
Mr. Kirby let me in and I stood in the foyer, completely confused. I watched as the stranger, without a word to anyone, mounted the stairs.
I watched him until he was out of sight then turned my attention back to Mr. Kirby. He was watching me, almost expectantly. I don’t know what he anticipated, but when I said nothing, he clapped his hands together and announced, “Well, now that everyone’s home, I’m going to bed.” And with that, he turned toward the main-level master suite.
Flipping off lights as he went, Mr. Kirby turned back when he reached the bedroom door. He said, almost as an afterthought, “Leah’s upstairs, but make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s leftovers in the fridge or, if you don’t want those, raid the pantry or the freezer. You’re welcome to whatever you want.” All things considered, he smiled in a rather benign way and closed the door behind him.
At the end of the hall, there was more light, this coming from beneath Leah’s door. I knocked gently then pushed it open.
Leah was lying across her bed watching television. She was already in her pajamas, hair in a ponytail, all traces of the makeup she’d labored over earlier gone. She smiled at me, albeit tentatively, as I closed the door behind me.
“How was the rest of the party?”
I had no idea how to even answer that, so I decided to answer a question with a question, something that I personally hated; it frustrated me to no end.