by Callie Hart
When we pass each other in public, we ignore each other at first. That becomes insufferable after a while. I do it first: reach out and graze the back of my hand against hers. Sometimes, it’s a finger. Our arms brushing up against each other. It’s a dangerous game to be playing, since I’m nearly always with Wren or Pax, but I can’t bring myself to stop.
I’m restless, knowing that she’s so close and not being able to kiss her. I’m hungry for more of her. I know the curves of her body intimately now. I know what every part of her tastes like. I’m an addict, feening for their next hit. Every drawn-out moment is sheer torture.
“Jesus Christ, Lovett. You look like shit, man. You need some sleeping pills or something? I got a guy.” This, from Pax, does not come as a shock. Of course he has a guy.
“Sure. That’d be sweet.” If you want to maintain a lie, you have to accept the fact that it will consume you. It requires feeding at all times. You can never forget that there are supposed to be other explanations for your absence, your tiredness, or the fact that you’ve been distracted for weeks on end. The lie I’ve told Pax and Wren is a believable one, thankfully. I’ve told them that my father’s ramping up the pressure, urging me to do better in my assignments, which is true. I haven’t been burning the midnight oil to make my old man happy, though. I’ve been tiptoeing out of the house like a fucking loser to see a girl.
“I used to have night terrors,” Pax admits. He chucks his house keys at me, then gets out of the car. I drew the short straw to go with him into Mountain Lakes for supplies. This party’s been in the works for a long time now. Pax volunteered himself as Master of the Hunt. As Master of the Hunt, he could have come up with any number of fucked-up, bizarre party games for us all to suffer through. Wren insisted he take charge of the festivities this time, though. Under normal circumstances, I would have warred for the title myself, but I’m glad Pax and Wren wanted it. Means I can fade into the background and stay out of trouble. I’m hoping that’s what happens, anyway.
“They were pretty rough,” Pax continues. “Meredith tried to put me in therapy.”
“Hah! How did that go?” I can just imagine it now: Pax, waiting for his psychologist to step out of the room, and then holding a lighter to the curtains and burning down the whole building.
He laughs like he’s remembering the exact same thing. “How do you think? Anyway. My point is that I started snaking my mom’s Ativan.”
“Ativan? Jesus, how old were you?”
He shrugs. “Nine?”
“Fuck!”
“That shit knocked me right out. You should give it a go.”
An argument could be made that this is why Pax behaves the way he does a lot of the time. If he started fucking around with prescription meds when he was nine, it’s no wonder he has such erratic mood swings now.
We carry the bags of decorations into the house to find Wren standing at the foot of the open staircase, staring up toward the massive skylight in the roof.
“Hey. Take a look at this.” Without looking at us, he holds out a wooden box the size of a bible with a mandala engraved into the top of it. Pax takes it from him and flips open the lid. Inside there are scores and scores of tiny little baggies with a variety of different colored powders inside. Pax and I whistle at the same time. “Holy fuck, Jacobi. How much did this set you back?”
“Forty k. My birthday present from the general. I’ve been sitting on the money for a while, trying to think of something heinous to do with it. I think he’d be suitably horrified by my purchase, don’t you?”
A couple of months ago, I’d have been pumped to see so much coke in one place. Looking at it now, I’m wondering how salty my roommates are going to be when they realize I won’t be touching any of the high-grade narcotics inside that box. I want to be clearheaded when I see Carrie tonight. I reach over and snap the box’s lid closed, changing the subject. “What are you doing right now?”
Wren pouts, jerking his chin upwards. “You guys ever wondered if the drop’s far enough to kill yourself?” Pax and I look up, staring up at the ceiling, too. We can see all four floors of Riot House from here; the stairs wind up and around to the open walkway on the second floor, and then the third, and then the fourth, where Wren’s room is located. I squint into the bright morning sunlight that’s pouring in through the skylight.
“Maybe. If you made sure you landed on your head.”
“You’d be fine,” Pax says. “Your skull’s, like, five inches thick.”
There are plenty of sour retorts I could launch back at him, but I really can’t be arsed. A haunting melody has been repeating on a loop in my head for the past two hours and I want to get up to my room so I can write it down before I forget it.
Dumping the bags onto the floor, I slap the back of Pax’s head, jogging past him up the stairs. “Back soon. Gotta take care of something real quick.”
“Don’t be too rough,” Pax shouts after me. “I don’t think you can snap your banjo twice, but you never know.”
Fuck that guy. Seriously. On the third floor, I duck into my room and slam the door closed. A surprised shout flies out of my mouth when I turn to face my bed, though. There, stretching out on the comforter, with her feet crossed at the ankle and a book in her hands, is Mercy Jacobi.
“What the FUCK!”
She puts the book down, giving me a cordial smile that looks and feels barbed. “Hey, Lovett.” She spins over, rolling onto her stomach, and I can see right down her tight little black shirt. She’s wearing a tiny tartan kilt like some kind of porn actress—the scrap of pleated red, blue and green fabric doesn’t even come close to covering her ass cheeks.
I press my fingers into my forehead, close my eyes, and sigh. “Merce. What the fuck are you doing?”
“Wren invited me over. He wanted some advice on décor for this little soiree you’re planning. Sounds very naughty.”
“Then you should be out there with him, not in here with me.”
“Don’t be such a child. Open your eyes. You’re a big boy now. Why the hell are you shying away from a little flesh like a twelve-year-old virgin?”
“I’m assuming Wren didn’t see you dressed like that.”
She laughs. “I may have doctored my outfit a little for your benefit.”
“You shouldn’t have.” By god, do I fucking mean it. If Wren walks in here now and finds his sister sprawled out on my bed with her tits and ass on show, I’ll only live to regret it for a few seconds. I’ll be dead before my head hits the floor. “I have some stuff I need to do, Merce. For real. I’d love to hang around and chat but—”
“I’ve been watching you, y’know, Lovett. You’ve been acting…different. Almost as if you’ve been leading some kind of elicit double life.”
I open my eyes and drill her with a cold, hard look. Mercy’s a game player. She’s just as sharp and astute as her brother, but she’s also far more self-serving. This little comment of hers is meant to serve a purpose, and her subtext is clear: I know something you won’t like me knowing, and I want to know what I can get out of you if I leverage it against you.
“Mercy. You, better than anyone else, should know just how far you’re gonna get with me, pulling a line like that.”
She grins, her mouth a slash of red, her lipstick popping against the pale cream of her skin. She runs the tip of her tongue along the bottom of her teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do not negotiate with terrorists. Ever. If you think you’ve got dirt on me, then fuck. Go for it. Tell Wren. Tell my parents. Get it printed in the New York Times if you think they’ll run it. I don’t care. Just don’t lie on my bed and pretend like any of this is an innocent social call, okay. I’ve known you for nearly four years. I know how your mind works, and I don’t have the time or the energy for it.”
Mercy pouts. “Boo. You’re boring. When did you decide that having fun was a crime?”
“This isn’t fun. This is pathetic. Just tell me what yo
u want and let’s end the charade as quickly as possible.”
She lifts her chin, making an austere face. “Yahs. Let’s, shall we? Rah rah.”
Her fake English accent always was shit. It hasn’t gotten any better. I ignore her sad attempt to bait me. She maintains the stupid expression on her face for a second, but then slumps her shoulders rolling her eyes. “Alright. Fine. Have it your way. I want to move in here.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Here? At Riot House?”
She looks like she’s about to hurl herself at me and claw my eyes out. “Yes, here, at Riot House. Where else do you think here means?”
I sit down heavily on the bench by my little upright piano, sighing heavily. “Dude. You know Wren’s position on this. He’s already told you no, like, eleven million times.”
Her green eyes flash with anger. She’s like her brother in so many ways, but she’s nowhere near as good at hiding her feelings. “Do you know how offensive it is to me that you three get to live down here in this sick house without a hall monitor breathing down your neck, while I have to rinse other people’s pubic hair out of the shower tray every morning? I need a private bathroom, Dashiell. I deserve a private bathroom. I deserve to be with my brother, and I should not have to rub shoulders with a bunch of plebs—”
“I’d hardly call the children of some of the world’s greatest military, political and creative minds plebeians.”
“Shut up! God. Seriously. You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to live amongst them.”
I pick up a pencil from on top of the stack of sheet music I was working on last night, spinning it over my fingers. “What do you want me to do, Mercy. Make him let you move in here?”
She scoffs. “Yeah, right. Like anyone can make Wren do anything. You need to plant the seed surreptitiously. Tell him how cool you think I am. Mention that you think the place needs some feminine energy to balance out all of the testosterone—”
“Not happening.”
“Okay, fine.” She sets her jaw, narrowing her eyes at me. “You come up with a way of convincing him to let me move in here…and I’ll let you fuck me as your reward.”
I laser in on her, staring her down. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She pouts, rolling over onto her back. She props herself up on her elbows, looking me up and down. “You sound like an idiot when you talk and you’re a total simp, but I’d do it. I’d let you fuck me.”
Oh, this is just too fucking much. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. She hasn’t changed. She was a spoiled little brat the day I met her, and she’ll remain one until the day she dies. I stand up slowly, setting down the pencil, and move to stand at the end of my bed, right by her feet. “That’s an interesting proposition.”
She smiles, pleased with herself. “I figured you might think so.” Her legs are crossed at the ankles. That is, until she uncrosses them slowly, seductively sliding her legs apart. Just a little. A couple of inches. Enough for me to see the crotch of her plain white cotton panties.
How very innocent little school girl of her.
Smirking, I climb up onto the end of the bed, one leg on either side of hers so that I’m kneeling over her. She looks up at me, fluttering her eyelashes—I thought women only did that in cartoons—and practically purrs as she says, “Oh, you think I’m just gonna give it to you now, before you get the job done?”
“Yes. I think you’ll give it to me whenever you get the chance.” I move further up her body, so that my knees are bracketing her knees. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated to black tunnels. She licks her lips, her breath quickening. She trails her hand up the outside of my leg until she reaches my waist, where she hooks her index finger through one of the belt loops on my jeans. I haven’t worn a suit in weeks.
“Fine. I suppose…you might be right, there.” She swallows thickly, trying to clear her throat.
I help her out by falling forward, wrapping my hand around her neck and squeezing. Not very tight. Not even tight enough to scare her, let alone leave a mark. Just enough to shock the shit out of her. She tries to slap me, but I grab her by the wrist and pin her hand over her head. Both of my hands are occupied now, whereas Mercy still has one free. She raises it, winding back to slap me with that one, but I shake her hard, just once, jolting her so that her head bounces off the comforter.
“Don’t.” I bare my teeth, lowering myself until I’m close enough for her to see the whites of my fucking eyes. “If you want my help with something, Mercy, come right out and ask me for it. I’ll speak to Wren for you, but I’m not manipulating him into letting you move in here. I’m not gonna lie to him, either. I swear to god, if you ever try and pull this shit again—”
A slow, sadistic smirk spreads across Wren’s twin sister’s face. “You’ll what, Lord Lovett? You gonna spank me?”
I climb off her and grab her by her ankles. I drag her forward and she falls off the edge of the mattress; her ass hits the floor with a loud thump.
The worst part for Mercy, the biggest insult of all: “Prick! You messed up my blow-out!” She smooths her hands over her long black hair, fuming. “You think you won’t pay for that?” she snaps.
“I’m sure I will. A thousand times.”
“There are certain things I could tell my brother. I’ve seen whose room you’ve been sneaking out of in the middle of the night.”
Crouching down in front of her, I laugh coldly under my breath. “I know you have. I figured as much when you started the whole blackmail bit. But I also know you’re not gonna say anything to Wren. Ask me why.”
She glares at me hatefully. “Why?”
“Think about all the secrets I’ve kept for you over the years, dumbass. Who keyed Wren’s car in New York when they were drunk? Who told General Jacobi that Wren kicked a hole in his favorite painting? Who flushed General Jacobi’s Medal of Honor down a filthy gas stop toilet and then blamed their brother?”
If people could breathe fire, I’d be a pile of cinder. Mercy trembles with rage. “You wouldn’t,” she spits. She knows she’s beaten, though. It’s right there in her eyes.
“I would,” I assure her. “Now get the fuck out of here. For starters, you know full-well that I’m seeing someone. And even if I wasn’t, you’re fucking drunk if you think I’d ever screw my best friend’s sister.”
25
CARRIE
I’ve never seen so many people walking down the mountain before. It’s twilight—the sun dipped below the tree line a good twenty minutes ago—but the last rays of light are clinging on, eking over the mountains to the west, making the horizon glow an angry orange. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air. The last time I felt like this, I was seven and my mom was walking me to the governor’s gardens at Ebony Briar to watch the Fourth of July fireworks. The fireworks were always a big deal in Grove Hill, and she never wanted to go, but this particular year, she relented for some reason and took me.
I was boiling over with excitement. Our entire street headed over at the same time, and everyone was laughing and chattering. People were smiling. Ahead of us, someone had a saxophone and was playing as he walked at the head of our little procession. Excitement fluttered in my belly at the thought of the small fair the governor hosted on the grounds of his home. There were games and hot dogs. Cotton candy and cherry slushies. This was before Jason, mind you. My mother used to laugh all the time. She and I used to do things together. When she met him, everything changed. Just after my nineth birthday, my memories go from vibrant, vivid snapshots of my happy experiences with her, to greyed out, dim, black and white still frames full of pain.
Tonight, everything is as vibrant as when I was seven. Presley walks beside me, anxiously chewing on the inside of her cheek. Mara’s been trying to be a better friend to the both of us of late; she showed up at my door around six and announced that she was getting ready with us, which she hasn’t done in forever. She got out her stupidly expensive collection of makeup and went to town on Pres, applying a smoky black eye shadow wi
th a slash of metallic green right across the center of her lid, and the effect is mesmerizing. I styled Pres’ hair for her into a sea of auburn waves. The dress she picked out for herself—a short black number with panels cut out of the sides, exposing a good amount of skin. She looks phenomenal.
Mara’s dress is all-black lace. It covers her arms down to her wrists and rises up her neck so that it almost reaches her chin. It’s short as hell, though, and practically see-through. She’s wearing a tiny slip underneath it that barely covers her tits and ass.
It goes against everything I stand for, but I’m head-to-heel in black, too. The girls begged me to steer away from my bright colors, just this once, so that we’d all match, and I could hardly say no. It felt good to be hanging out again, the three of us, prancing around and giggling like we used to when we first arrived at the academy. I’m wearing a skin-tight black camisole, high waisted black linen pants, and a massive, wide belt with an elaborate gold buckle that Mara insisted I wear to finish off my outfit. She also insisted that I let her do my makeup, too, which means I’m wearing far more than usual. My eyes are rimmed with a dark, smoky liner, my cheeks shimmering with Nars’ ‘Orgasm’ blush. I point-blank refused the red lipstick Mara tried to plaster on my mouth, and so we compromised on a pale pink gloss instead.
The three of us walk down the mountain together, arm in arm, and I feel like we’re the characters from ‘The Craft’—witches, new in their power, about to go raise some hell.
“Holy shhh—” Ahead of us, a guy walking with a group of his friends turns and nearly trips over his own feet when he sees us. I can’t make out who it is in the half-light, but he looks tall. “Carrie?” he hisses. And then, “Fuck, dude. That’s Carrie Mendoza!”