Touch (A Denazen Novel, Book 1)

by Jus Accardo

  “Denazen is an environment onto itself. To survive here, the key factor is obedience.”

  17

  Mercy was a petite woman with dull green eyes and mousey brown hair. She wore it pulled into a severe bun that did nothing for the shape of her face. Her beige slacks were wrinkled and a bit too short, and her blue blouse was tucked too tightly, hugging snug in the shoulders. With most people, you can tell a lot about them from not only the clothes they wear, but how they wear them. If clothing was any indication, Mercy was tragic.

  At first glance, everything about the woman screamed weak-willed, milk-toast. I bet myself a new pair of boots—black suede—that when she spoke, her voice would be wispy and soft. Her posture slightly slumped, she fidgeted with the pen in her hand—flicking the point in and out, in and out. I stuffed my hands into my pockets to keep from ripping the pen from her fingers and jabbing her with it. Then, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she started chewing her bottom lip. I hated that.

  Oh yeah. She’d be a pushover for sure. The kind girls like me were easily able to walk all over, chew up, and spit out.

  “Sit down,” she barked and pointed to a solitary chair in the corner of the room.

  Holy hell, was I wrong.

  On the other side, Mercy sat behind a long white desk and pulled a legal-sized notepad out of the drawer. “My name is Mercy Kline. I’m the acquisitions interviewer here at Denazen. I’ll be asking you a series of questions. I advise you to answer them promptly and truthfully. We will—”

  “What kind of questions?”

  She looked up from her paper, eyes wide. “Excuse me?”

  It wasn’t that complicated a question. “What kind of questions will you be asking?” I repeated, slower. “And while we’re at it, what am I gonna be doing here? Hunting down Sixes? Working in the cafeteria? No one’s said, and I’d kinda like a clue.”

  The surprised look melted away, replaced by one of superiority. “Maybe Mr. Cross wasn’t clear in his instructions.” She leaned forward. Slamming one of the drawers closed, she said, “You are here to answer questions, not ask them. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  Placated, she continued. “Please state your full name.”

  “Deznee Kaye Cross.”

  “And your age, including date of birth.”

  “Seventeen. Born on February 1, 1994.”

  “Parents’ names and ages?”

  “Are you serious? You must know my—”

  Mercy looked up from her paper. The weight of her stare hit me like a truck falling out of the sky. “Parents’ names and ages?” she said again.

  “My mom’s name was Sueshanna. I really don’t know her age.” I managed to get the words out without flinching. Careful to phrase my answer generically, I omitted saying she was dead. If it was true, and she could see a lie, she’d know right away it was crap. I hoped by avoiding the subject altogether, I could skate around it. “My dad’s name is Marshall Cross and he’s forty-five.”

  “Current relationship status?” Her voice cut like an arctic chill blowing through the room.

  “If you mean me, then you’re not my type. If you mean my dad, he’s single, but I don’t think you’re his type either,” I said with a small smile. Mercy didn’t find it amusing. A small blue vein in her forehead started throbbing like crazy.

  Of course, seeing how much it annoyed her only pushed me further. “Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think he has a type. I’ve never seen him with a woman. Mercy, I hate to break it to you, but there’s a very real possibility my dad is gay.”

  “Deznee—”

  “Dez,” I corrected. Dad was the only one who called me Deznee. I hated it.

  “Deznee,” she repeated. “Your father warned me about you. I’m sure he also told you I would not be going easy on you because of your familial ties.”

  “What’d he say?”

  She blinked, not understanding.

  “You said he warned you about me. What’d he say?”

  Her smile turned into a toothy grin. “He said you were a disrespectful little cur in need of serious and harsh disciplinary action and that we shouldn’t hold back.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Moving on.” She bent her head over the desk again. “Current relationship status?”

  “Single.”

  “Sexual orientation?”

  I almost asked her if she was hitting on me, but after the previous display, I thought twice. “Straight.”

  “Heterosexual.”

  “Huh?”

  “The correct answer is heterosexual.”

  I didn’t say anything, though a ton of things came to mind.

  “Allergies?”

  Stupidity. Country music. Liars. Also, possibly shellfish. “None I’m aware of.”

  “How many sexual partners have you had?”

  I gave her a look of mock indignation. “And what makes you think I’m not a virgin?”

  She tilted her head up and, I swear, rolled her eyes.

  “One,” I answered, annoyed. This crap had nothing to do with anything and it was none of her business.

  She looked up again, glaring as if she didn’t believe me.

  “Aren’t you the human lie detector?” It came out a little defensive.

  “Oh, I know you’re telling the truth, I’m simply surprised.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “The way your father made it sound, you were a regular Jezebel.”

  “Jezebel? No one says that anymore. The word you’re looking for is whore. Or skank. Hoochie works, too.” I told myself it was her purpose to bring me down a few pegs, to find a crack in my armor, but it still bothered me that Dad told her I was a tramp.

  I shrugged it off and played it cool. I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing it get to me. “I’m a tease more than anything else. It’s a huge thrill to get a guy all wound up then douse him with a nice cold helping of I’m-not-ready, ya know what I mean?” I leaned back and gave her a once over. “Well, maybe you don’t know what I mean.”

  “Name?”

  “Didn’t we go over this one already? Deznee—”

  “The boy.”

  Crap. Would they know his name? I didn’t have a choice—I had to answer—and she’d know if I lied. “Alex,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask for his last name,—even though I knew better.

  “Alex, what?”

  I’d officially lost my sense of humor about all this. “Mojourn.” It took every ounce of self-control I had—and then some—not to snap at her.

  She made some notes on her sheet. “And the others? What are their names?”

  “I told you, there was only one.”

  “How many others were you semi-intimate with?”

  “Semi-intimate? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, give me the names of the ones you’ve…messed around with.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  She straightened in her chair. Tapping the pen against the edge of her desk, she asked, “Is there a problem, Deznee?”

  “Actually, there is, Mercy.” I stood. “I can’t possibly remember all their names, and honestly, I don’t see what it has to do with anything. Is being a Six catching? Are you afraid I gave them some disease?”

  “Fine,” she said calmly. “Then give me the names of the last three.”

  I sighed. “Joe Lakes, Max Demore, and—” Crap! Now what? No way I could answer truthfully without seriously incriminating myself and blowing my whole I-need-revenge cover story, and there was no way I could lie.

  Then it hit me. I didn’t need to lie. Technically, I didn’t know Kale’s real name.

  “I don’t k
now the third guy’s name.”

  She studied me. Her eyes on mine, unwavering, made me want to squirm in my seat. It had been a long time since an adult’s glare did that. “How far did it go?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “With this unnamed boy, how far did you go?”

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “With all due respect, what does this have to do with my working here?”

  “How far did it go?” she repeated, voice even.

  Fists balled tight, I stood. “How far? We were in my bed,” I said in a low, throaty purr. “His hands were everywhere—tugging at my clothes, pulling my hair. It gave me such a thrill to know my dad was right down the hall. I—”

  Mercy stood. “Let’s take a break from the questions.” She walked to the front of her desk and leaned back. “Let’s go over some things about Denazen.”

  “Okay.”

  “You see, here at Denazen everything about your life is our business. Due to the highly…sensitive nature of this job, it is a requirement for us to know our employees. Inside and out. That requires difficult as well as uncomfortable questions. Another thing you should know—and pay attention, because this is important and it applies to you—Denazen has a zero-tolerance policy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her lip twitched. If I hadn’t been staring I would have missed it. “It means we don’t suffer attitude-ridden little shits such as yourself.”

  I could be a bit impulsive—okay, I could be a lot impulsive—but I hadn’t let anyone talk to me like that since kindergarten and I wasn’t about to start a new trend. “Screw this.” I stalked to the door and jerked up on the handle.

  Nothing happened.

  I pulled again, jiggling the latch. Still nothing. “What the hell?”

  Mercy cleared her throat. I turned to see her holding up a small silver key, a wicked and very satisfied smile on her face. “You will return to your seat and answer the previous question without the theatrics. How far did you go with the last boy?”

  My mind wanted me to think this wasn’t happening. I jerked up on the handle one last time before giving up. Of course this was happening. Dad locked my mom away in this pit. Why the hell would I be exempt?

  “So you’re saying I’m a prisoner now?” I took my seat and met her determined gaze with one of my own. Show no fear.

  “Not at all.”

  I raised my eyebrows and then looked back at the door.

  “I know how this must look to you, Deznee. Understand, if anyone else had tried what you just did…” She reached down and held up a small black box with several ominous red buttons. Pointing to the floor, she said, “They’d be writhing on the floor in incoherent agony.”

  On the floor, barely noticeable, thin strips of wire were woven between the ceramic tile.

  “I thought Dad said no special treatment.” I swallowed and hooked my feet behind the back of the chair legs so they didn’t touch the ground.

  She stood, smoothing out her unsalvageable pants. Her posture seemed to relax a bit. “Yes, well, Marshall sometimes takes things a bit far when it comes to his work.”

  I looked back at the door again. “You don’t say?”

  “Shall we continue? Your father doesn’t need to know about this.”

  I sighed, and because I couldn’t see any other way around it, carefully told her all about the nameless guy.

  18

  Dad dropped me off at home and, thankfully, had to head back to the office. As soon as his car was out of sight, I headed to the warehouse. It was a long shot, but I had to do something. Ginger had been clear—her help for the list—but with Kale caught and Alex unwilling to get involved, I was hoping she’d make an exception. Throw me some backup, give me a hint—anything. There was nowhere else to turn. Of course when I got there, the warehouse was empty. There was one last chance. Craigslist. Maybe it wasn’t too late to find tonight’s party.

  Using the last of my cash, I took the bus back across town. The corner of the seat was sticky and I had to lean to my right to avoid a very questionable stain. Oh, and the man across from me? He smelled like old cheese.

  The woman next to me was on her cell phone having a heated argument with someone named Hank. Every once in a while, she’d fling her hands into the air, cursing. It was annoying, but saved me the trouble of asking her—or the cheese man—what time it was. Her watch read 9:45. To make matters worse, I’d apparently gotten on a bus with the one driver in the county who believed in going the speed limit and hitting every stop even though there were only three of us on the bus. He dropped me off in the town square, and by the time I hiked through the woods and made it home, it was almost 11:30. Only half an hour left till they pulled the ad.

  Booting up my ancient computer took forever. Pulling out the questionable bag of licorice from my top drawer, I pulled up Craigslist and went to work. Finding the right ad proved harder than I thought. Apparently, there were a lot of weird ads. When midnight came, I’d called four possible numbers—an advertisement for Belly Dancing lessons, one for learning the proper way to wash a dog, a man claiming to teach hamsters amazing tricks, and a woman stating that you too can gain ultimate revenge for a broken heart.

  Okay. That last one was probably more self-interest than anything else.

  Several very colorful responses and an hour later, I’d given up.

  I called Brandt again—still no answer—so I left a not-so-friendly voice mail. This was getting ridiculous. He hadn’t blown me off since we were in sixth grade and I’d kissed his best friend, David Fenrig.

  Sleep came, but it wasn’t restful. I spent the night plagued by nightmares. Well, one nightmare. A mega mash of freaky, block-of-ice-in-your-stomach weirdness, creepy enough to curl Clive Barker’s toes.

  I was back at the field party—the one on the night I’d met Kale. We were dancing. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of faded blue jeans and what looked like a dog collar on his neck. Not bad. The view certainly had promise.

  Things were going well. We were swaying to a thumping beat, dangerously close. Kale wrapped his arms around my waist. He leaned in, about to kiss me, but suddenly jerked backward. When I looked over his shoulder, through the crowd of bodies grinding and twisting on the makeshift dance floor, I saw Dad, a long leash in his hands. Another jerk of the leash, and the distance between Kale and me widened.

  “You should have let him go,” someone said from behind me. “You could have prevented all this.”

  I tore my eyes away from Dad and turned to see Brandt, dressed in his favorite pair of worn jeans and Milford Ink T-shirt, standing with arms folded. His hair was wild and looked wrong. Darker in spots. The expression on his face made my stomach turn over. The angry set of his jaw, coupled with the strange, almost scary spark in his eyes. Vacant, yet somehow full of rage.

  Even in the dark, I could see there was something wrong. But it wasn’t only his expression… There was a wide range of things that sent goose bumps skittering across my arms. His skin seemed a bit too pale, his eyes too dull. Even the way he was standing, tilted to the left and hunched, screamed wrong. His board was nowhere in sight. That alone felt jarring.

  “You could have prevented all of this,” he repeated, the venom in his voice unmistakable this time. I’d heard that tone before, but never, ever directed at me. He pulled the neckline of his T-shirt down to reveal an ugly red- and bluish-tinged gash along the length of his throat. It was covered in blackened, dried bits of blood and crawling with maggots. I gasped and stumbled back, resisting the urge to vomit.

  I tried searching the crowd for Kale, but something tipped me backward, sending me to the ground. Before I knew what hit me, I was being dragged through the mud. When I looked up, there was Dad, another leash in his hands. This one attached to the collar onmy neck.

  Frantic, I s
earched for someone—anyone—I could turn to for help. Alex stood in the corner, arms clasped behind his back, wearing a look of apathy. Ginger sat next to him in a dark blue armchair. She wore a silver sequined dress and an elaborately decorated tiara on her head, and was sipping what looked like fruit punch out of a small plastic cup.

  Dad hauled me to my feet as I screamed, “Alex! Do something, please!”

  Alex ignored me.

  I struggled against Dad’s grasp, but it was useless. Suddenly, he seemed to have the strength of ten men. “Ginger!”

  Ginger laughed, fruit punch dripping down her chin.

  Dad had me by the throat now, our eyes locked. “You should have let this go, Deznee.” He turned and nodded to the crowd.

  I followed his gaze and saw Kale walking through the crowd, arms spread wide. As his fingers brushed them, one by one my friends shriveled and crumbled before my eyes. They turned to dust and fell to the ground. It only took moments. I blinked once and it was over. Thumping beats bounced eerily over the party-turned-graveyard.

  Kale approached slowly, his leash still in Dad’s hand. He stopped in front of me, saying nothing.

  “Kale?”

  He placed a hand on either side of my neck, slowly trailing them down my back to the middle of my ass. He’d killed my friends. Dad stood over us, watching. Alex was here, eyes cold and unwavering.

  It didn’t matter. Kale—his touch—his face now inches from mine—that was all there was. I was addicted.

  “You should have let this go,” he whispered as he leaned in, brushing his lips to mine.

  Electric at first, so much like our first kiss—but it quickly changed. From my toes to my chin, everything started to sting and itch. I pulled away from Kale, who smiled sweetly at me. Looking down at my hands, my pulse spiked. Right before my eyes, my skin began to pale—then gray, finally shriveling like a grape left out in the sun. I watched as my hands crumbled, starting at the tips of my fingers and working down to my wrists. Next were my arms. Around my face, my hair fell to the ground, tiny tufts of dust rising as chunks of it impacted the grass.