by Callie Hart
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
“Talk for ten minutes outside a party. You kissed me.”
A smile on his face can be the most beautiful thing, but it can also be the cruelest. He takes a step forward, laughing quietly, as if at some private joke that I’m not privy to. “That’s what this is about? The fact that I shoved my tongue down your throat? Man. You fall easy, huh?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t fallen—”
He drops into a crouch in front of me. It was one thing, being so close to him on the hood of that car on Friday night, but it was dark, and I’d had three or four drinks. My vision wasn’t the best. In the daylight, Dashiell Lovett is a sight to behold. Pax has always been Riot House’s resident model, but with a jawline like his, it’s a miracle that Dash doesn’t model for some London fashion house, too. His mouth is full and pouty in a sullen way. His eyes are fierce and sharp as a razor’s edge, a beautiful hazel, blue one second, then brown, then green as he tilts his head. He stares at me with such seriousness that I have to fight not to look away.
“Let me tell you how this is going to pan out,” he says slowly. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll decide that I like you. An’ you know what that is, love?” He licks his lips, quickly wetting them. “That is a very, very bad day for you. I am not the kind of boy you want liking you, Carrie. I’m the kind of boy you want to never think of you again. See, when I like something, I want to make it mine. I want all of it. I need to know that I hold it in the palm of my hand, and it will never try to escape.” He holds his hand up, showing me his palm, in the very center of which is a ladybug. Quick as lightning, he makes a fist, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “I’ll wrap my fingers around it and—” He clenches his hand, tightening his fist.
“Asshole! Let it go!” I grab his hand and try to prize his fingers open, but he shakes his head, squeezing harder until his knuckles turn white.
“I break the things I like, love. Trust me. You don’t want me to like you.” His eyes are unfeeling. Cold. Hard. And in this moment, I believe him—craving any kind of attention from him would be very foolish indeed. I release his hand, rocking back a little so I can put some space between us.
“Did you fuck that guy’s mom at the party?” I ask flatly.
He narrows his eyes. “No. Did you?”
“I’m being serious, Dash.”
“So am I.” He’s infuriatingly deadpan. “If I’m being asked personal, preposterous questions, it’s only fair that I get to ask them in return.”
“Except it’s not preposterous for me to ask you that, is it? Because Pax and Wren did fuck—”
He straightens to his full height, brushing his hands off against his pants. “I’m not responsible for what they choose to do with their dicks.” He turns away. “You’ve asked your question, Carina. Has my answer satisfied your curiosity?”
“It has.”
“And do you feel better? Now that you know I didn’t have my cock in another woman right before I had my tongue in your mouth?”
“No, actually. I don’t feel better.”
“Why?”
“Because the thought of any of you pricks screwing with some Edmondson soccer mom is so pathetic and vile that it makes me want to puke.”
“She was an Edmondson lacrosse mom. That kid was on the lacrosse team.”
Oh my god. That’s it. I’ve wasted enough of my breath here as it is. I’m not going to waste anymore. My legs are stiff when I get to my feet. My bag’s covered in mud, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Whatever, dude. Enjoy drinking yourself into oblivion before fucking midday, okay? Some of us care about our education here. I have to get to class.”
As if he forgot all about his hip flask, Dash takes it out, smiling. He holds it up and winks at me. “Cheers, love. Don’t mind if I do.”
“Dude, seriously. What the hell are you doing? Does it make you feel good, getting absolutely wrecked in the middle of the—”
“Yes,” he clips out. “It makes me feel fucking fantastic. And not that it matters, but I’m not wrecked. I’m not some prissy little high school girl who can’t handle her liquor. I could drink from now until sundown and be perfectly fucking fine.”
“Ooooh.” I roll my eyes. “I’m so impressed. I bet you pop pills like they’re candy, don’t you, big man?”
He doesn’t react to my goading. Just nods. “Pills. Speed. Coke. You name it. I partake on a regular basis.”
“Oh. Right. Sure. I suppose you’re shooting up heroin on a regular basis, too, right?” I’m being sarcastic, but a part of me is still as a corpse, numb, dreading his response. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“If it feels good and reduces all of this bullshit to white noise then I’m in, princess.”
Wow.
And just like that, any sense of conflict I might have been having over him melts like frost thawing at dawn. Only much, much quicker. If there’s one thing that will turn me off quicker than a bucket of ice-cold water over my head, it’s a half-baked heroin addiction. “You’re serious? Heroin?”
“No need to look so stunned, Mendoza. It’s not that big a deal.”
“God, you…” I shake my head. “You’re fucking pathetic, Dash. You know that? Fucking stupid, too. You don’t need to worry about ignoring me in class anymore. I won’t be bothering you again.”
I’m sick to my stomach. I honestly, truly feel like I’m about to throw up. I wonder if he can feel the contempt radiating off me as I walk away. I don’t think he cares very much. He’s unaffected by anything, impervious to his surroundings. Meteors could be raining down from the sky and the world could be on fire, and Dash wouldn’t deign to notice so long as he was rocking a decent buzz. At the top of the hill, I look back down the slope at him. A moment of weakness, but I allow it. This is officially the last time I’ll be swooning over Lord Dashiell Lovett IV. He’s still standing there, staring at the headstones, sipping from his hip flask. Too late, it occurs to me that I didn’t ask him why he came to the cemetery. Something had upset him.
I’ll never know what put him in such a shitty mood. One thing I do know is this: if he tamps that shit down and keeps it bottled up inside him for any length of time, it’ll eventually want out. Emotions like that have a way of biting you in the ass when you don’t release them. I should know. Of course, none of that will matter when he dies with a needle hanging out of his arm. And he will, because that’s how most stories that feature heroin end.
I turn to the north, about to head back up the slope to the academy, when something fleetfooted and grey snags my attention—a blur of movement and dusky color out of the corner of my eye. I turn back, and…wait. There. I see them. At first, I think they’re a pack of dogs. Wild dogs, perhaps. But then I see their size, and their lupine grace, and I recognize them for what they are: they’re wolves. There are five of them, dark smudgy shadows flitting in and out of the trees, along the border of the forest where the academy grounds end and the wilderness begins.
They don’t stop. Don’t look up the grassy slope to the building, or at the old, ruined chapel, where a boy with bright blond hair is also watching their passage down the mountain. They fly, eerily silent, running as one, and I’m startled by the unexpected ache of longing that hits me. Something like this shouldn’t be witnessed alone. It’s the kind of secret, special thing that needs to be shared…
…and I don’t want to share it with him.
11
CARRIE
SIX YEARS AGO
I know it’s heroin.
I’m not sure how I know, but I do. I’ve never seen it before, never witnessed anyone shooting up before, so I’m both fascinated and terrified as the men in the living room start burning the powder in the spoons from Mimi’s silver wedding service set. Once the powder’s turned to liquid and looks like bubbling tar, they pull the burnt brown liquid into an array of dirty needles.
The first guy’s features go slack as he dumps the drug into the cr
ook of his arm. Another of Jason’s friends takes the piece of rubber hosing the first guy used a tourniquet from his arm and cinches it tight around his own bicep, then pricks himself and depresses the plunger on his needle, emptying it into his veins. One by one, Jason’s friends all administer their poison, each of them slouching into twilight consciousness on the sofa, slack smiles spreading across their faces until there’s only Jason and Kevin left.
Kevin is the one who brought the heroin.
“Y’know,” he says quietly. “I could give you your hit for free. If you felt like using an alternative method of payment?”
Jason looks up from the lighter, the spoon and the smack in his hands. “Huh?”
Kevin’s twitchy, worrisome eyes flit to me for the briefest of seconds, and there. It’s done. The proposal is made. His meaning is made perfectly clear. Bile rockets up the back of my throat, a white-hot jolt of dread blazing up and down my spine. Jason laughs, turning his attention back to his task, snapping the wheel on the lighter so that the flame licks the bottom of the spoon.
“That method of payment’s worth more than all the H in Clarke County, friend. You’re aimin’ a little high.”
The fear that pierced my sides a second ago relents…but not for long.
“There’s always room for negotiation, mind you,” Jason says.
I really did think he was going to protect me. Not because he actually cares about me, no, no. I thought he was going to protect his prize. He’s been waiting a long time to lay his hands on me, I know he has, and some sick sense of propriety has held him at bay, waiting for my period to come in. He’s coveted me, biding his time. But the promise of free smack…
They taught us how addicting the drug was in school, when we were barely old enough to understand what a drug was. The heroin problem in Clarke County always been bad, so they educate us about it young. I’ve never seen Jason take drugs before, but the antsy look in his eyes lets me know that this stuff already has its hooks in him.
“Free product for a week,” Kevin offers.
“Pssshhh. Don’t you know nothin’ ’bout supply and demand?” Jason reaches over and plucks up the needle the first guy used from the coffee table, filling the barrel from the spoon. I stand with my back against the wall, pressing my palms against the dimpled, brittle texture of the peeling paint, terror ripping through me with every inward sip of breath. “A month,” Jason says. “For a month’s worth of H, you can have a couple of hours with her.”
A lightning bolt of fear volleys through my chest. Kevin grins, shrugging one shoulder. The way his pupils have dilated makes him look demonic. “Done.”
Jason grunts as the tip of the needle pierces his skin. He slowly depresses the plunger, mouth open, eyes glazing over, and the heroin snakes its way into his system. Once he’s slumped back into his tattered armchair, he waves at me, gesturing me forward. “Take your clothes off, bitch. I might as well…get to look at the goodddsss if I ain’t…gonna ggget to be the first to…try ’em firssst.” He struggles with every other word, his eyes rolling around in his head like marbles.
He's getting more and more fucked up by the second. Will he be able to chase me if I make a run for it? Will he be able to grab me before I make it to the door? Even if he can’t, Kevin will. Kevin hasn’t shot up, which means he’s still lucid, and he’s looking at me like a cat about to pounce on a crippled mouse.
“Better do as he says,” he sneers. “Wouldn’t wanna disrespect your old man now, would you?”
“I ain’t…her old man, shithead,” Jason slurs. “I ain’t fucking sick…in the head. Wouldn’t wanna…fuck ‘er…if I was her daddy.”
Kevin ignores him. “Come on, sweetheart. Sooner we get started, sooner it’ll all be over. You be good to me an’ I’ll be good to you. You understand what I’m saying?”
He doesn’t look like he’s going to be good to me. He looks like he’s plotting out all of the ways he’s going to hurt me. I’ve never been this frightened before. Not when I’ve caught Jason leering at me when my mother’s distracted, and not even at that terrible tipping point, where the pressure around a bone becomes too much and it starts to break.
Kevin steps toward me, grinning lazily. The smile grows when he looks down and sees just how fucked up Jason is now. He has no clue what the fuck’s going on anymore. His head lolls from left to right like it’s come loose on its axis. His eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. He’s going to be unconscious any moment, and then Kevin and I will be alone.
“Come on, girl,” Kevin croons, cajoling now. “I’ll cook you up a little taste. It’ll make you feel better, I swear. You won’t mind anythin’ at all after that. Probably won’t remember shit afterwards neither. You’ll still be a virgin. Don’t count if you don’t remember it. That’s what I always say.”
My stomach twists, trying to find something to throw up, only there’s nothing there but bile. The dry piece of toast that I ate for breakfast was digested hours ago. My vision narrows when Kevin closes his hand around my wrist, tugging me toward him.
“Ain’t no skin off my nose, sweetheart. Works both ways for me. I’ve always enjoyed a little resistance. You want this shit or not?”
He moves back to the sofa and sits down next to one of the unconscious men, still holding me by the wrist. With his free hand, he begins to unfasten his belt, slipping the leather through the large, gaudy, cheap Budweiser buckle at his waist.
I panic, and the panic makes me blurt out, “Yes! I want it. I want to feel good, too.” I’ll agree to anything, so long as I can buy myself some more time.
Kevin runs his tongue over his teeth, eyes glittering like cold, black diamonds. “There’s a good girl. I’ll work on that, then. You strip down to your skin. I can’t wait to see what you got goin’ on under that big shirt you wearin.’”
I grab my t-shirt and lift it reluctantly up my body. I’m burning up, alive with shame; apart from a couple of girls in the locker room at school, no one’s ever seen me naked. Not even my mom. If I could fold myself in half, and then in half again, and again, I’d do it, even if I’d never be able to unfold myself again.
The air is prickly and electric on my bare stomach. I drop the shirt to the floor at my feet, a sob building in the back of my throat.
Kevin—hungry and vile—nods, and then gets to work, tapping the brown powder onto the dirty spoon that one of the other men used. He holds a lighter underneath, running the flame over the belly of the spoon, so that the glowing flicker of fire evenly heats the metal.
“Keep going, sugar. Pants next.”
I remove my jeans with trembling hands, knowing what will have to go next: my bra and panties. The powder has already liquified and is bubbling away in the spoon. Kevin traces his gaze up and down my too-thin body, lingering on my chest and the point between my legs where my thighs meet.
“Child, I will strip you myself if needs be. Better if you get the job done yourself, and without a fuss. I don’t wanna mark up any of that beautiful skin.”
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
BOOM.
My heart is steady when I unfasten my bra. It doesn’t trip or skip when I lower my panties down over my hips and slide them down my legs, stepping out of them on wobbly legs once the cotton material bunches at my feet. I stand in front of him, naked and shaking, folding my arms over my chest to hide my flat chest, and Kevin huffs down his nose.
“Well. I can see why Jason wanted to keep you all to himself.” The needle is ready, the near-black liquid visible in the chamber. He sets it down on the coffee table, and then he pats his thigh. “Come on. Come sit here. We oughta get acquainted, don’t ya think?” When I sit down, screaming internally and gripped by fear, he asks me, “You ever been kissed by a boy before, Hannah?”
“No, Sir.”
Kevin’s pleased by this. Beaming. “And…” His fingers, rough and nicotine-stained, run up the inside of my leg, wavering mid-thigh. “…w
hat about touched? You ever let a boy touch you…here?” His hand moves higher. Much higher still, up my side, over my ribcage. I bite back a startled, animal yelp when he pinches my nipple between his fingers.
“N—no, sir.”
“That’s good. That’s very good. And what about…” He begins to slip his other hand down, between my legs, and for a distorted moment, everything feels calm. Then his fingers are probing, wriggling, exploring parts of my body that he should never, never touch, and I snap.
Everything blurs and stretches. The room becomes nothing more than color, and light, and a high-pitched buzzing sound. I move quickly, and my thoughts can’t keep up with my body. I am outside of myself as I lean sideways, and my hand closes around the fully loaded syringe on the coffee table…
…and I sink it into Kevin’s eye.
I press down, press, press, press, and the plunger has nowhere left to go, the barrel empty, and Kevin is screaming, screaming, SCREAMING…
Then he isn’t screaming. His head kicks back, his body shaking, seizing, his hands curving into locked claws, and white foam starts to spew out of his mouth.
His jerky movements throw me off his knee and onto the floor. I scrape my side on the coffee table. More of the white foam oozes out of Kevin’s mouth. Wide-eyed and choking, he reaches for me, like he’d grab hold of me if he could, or maybe he’s reaching for my help, but either way, I’m too far away and his contorted fingers swipe from left to right, singing through thin air. The guy coughs, chokes, splutters, the white foam spraying out of his mouth now tinged pink, flecked with blood.
“Fucking bitch. I’m gonna…fucking…kill you!” Like a scene out of a horror movie, Kevin’s spine arches away from the back of the couch, and he slides on the floor. He tugs the needle from his eye, jittering like a nightmare monster, and the whole scene is just too much, too grotesque, too disturbing.
I puke. A stream of hot orange bile rockets out of my mouth and hits the carpet, splattering all over my bare feet. Again, my stomach muscles tighten, sending another wave of burning bile up and out of my mouth, this time spraying all over my legs.