by KB Anne
I laugh at her and the absurdity of it all. She can’t possibly expect me to answer her. She should know me better than that.
“Nothing to say? Let me get right to it then. Keep your skanky, STD-riddled vagina away from Breas. He’s mine.”
“Does he know that?”
She puffs out her chest. “Yes, he does.”
I grunt, stalking to the sidewalk. The flea market’s three blocks from school. No need to borrow Scott’s truck today.
“Guess, we’ll find out about that, won’t we?
“You stay away from him, you filthy bitch,” she yells after me.
If Lizzie wasn’t expecting me at the flea market, I’d show Kensey exactly what I think of her and her threats.
But I’ve got spellwork to prepare for.
18
Giants and Eyeballs
Even with Scott forcing me to attend half my classes, I still manage to meet Lizzie outside the flea market at our arranged meeting time.
“I spent the morning googling at the library,” she says.
I wink at her. “I thought you were saving yourself for Ryan.”
“There will be plenty left for him. Trust me.”
We wind our way through the aisles to the witch lady’s stand. She sells candles, incense, and all kinds of cool witchy stuff.
“I wanted to find out what color candles we should buy. The witch movies always use white candles, which of course we’ll get, but for real spells you call on the elements. Fire,” she puts a red candle in the basket. “Water,” she adds a blue candle. “Earth,” she adds in a green one. “And Air,” she says, adding a yellow one. “These candles will ground us to the space.”
I finger a silver ring on the table. “You’re really taking this thing seriously.”
She throws in a stack of white pillar candles. “I really am. I’m so excited. Beyond excited. My family doesn’t celebrate holidays. I’ve never had candles on a birthday cake,” she grips my arm, “because I don’t get birthday cakes. We’re doing magic in all its candle-lighted ceremony.”
She bends in front of the stand’s glass case. “That’s cool.”
I duck down next to her. “What?”
“Look,” she says, pointing at a necklace with an eyeball on it. “I want it.”
As if on cue—or more likely, lurking in the corner, sucking on the marrow of a thigh bone, waiting for his next victim—a long-haired giant leans over the counter.
“What do you want?”
I slowly step away from him. Truth is, I want to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. But I know better than to reveal any weakness in front of this beast or leave Lizzie with him.
His breath wafts in our direction. Rotten carrion was clearly on the menu this morning. It makes me want to puke, but it’s nothing compared to his presence. Towering, sketchy, smelly, and a half dozen other adjectives that all mean he scares the shit out of me.
I wonder where the nice, hippie witch lady is? She’s much less intimidating. I think maybe she was breakfast.
Lizzie steps closer to him. “That necklace. How much?”
He shakes his bushy head with his bushy eyebrows. “S’not for sale,” he says in a thick Irish accent.
She taps her foot. “Then why’s it in the display case?”
He scowls at her. “You can’t afford it.”
“I thought it wasn’t for sale. Now, I can’t afford it?”
She’s never this ballsy. Never. The realization that I’ve created a monster doesn’t fill me with gleeful exultations. I shift away from the counter. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I do not like this man or his stand. I tug on her arm. “Let’s go.”
She jerks away from me. “No. I’m buying these candles, and I’m buying that necklace.”
The giant’s face slips into a smile, or at least I think it’s a smile. I can’t really tell beneath the mustache and beard and layers of scar tissue. “I’ll give it to you for fifty.”
Because I can’t keep my mouth shut, even at inappropriate times, I say, “Fifty? That’s nuts.”
“Twenty-five,” Lizzie counters.
He closes one eye and leans toward her. “What else you buying?”
She tosses her basket onto the counter with a loud thump. “Candles.”
His giant hands paw through the pile. “Planning to do some magic tricks are we?”
“We’re not some kids playing hide the quarter, and what we’re planning is none of your damn business.”
Damn. Lizzie said damn. Lizzie doesn’t say damn. My best friend morphs into something more. If I was the Mad Hatter, I’d say there was a muchness about her. A muchness that wasn’t there before.
“Thirty-five for the lot,” he says, “and I’ll throw in the necklace ’cause I like your spirit.”
Muchness indeed.
“You got yourself a deal.” She tosses thirty-five dollars on the counter.
He nods at the pile, pleased with himself before dangling the necklace in front of her. “Want to wear it?”
She catches it in her hand. He lets the thick antique chain fall across her thin fingers.
“Wow,” she whispers in awe.
I don’t like this situation. Not one bit.
I tug on her arm. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet,” she growls, ripping her arm away.
As if in an out-of-body experience, I watch my nails cut into her skin. I watch as four white lines begin to seep blood. I watch as the pendant with the eyeball on the front and the Celtic symbols on the back lands in the fresh blood.
“The blood vow,” the giant whispers.
“Bitch,” Lizzie hisses.
I stumble backward. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I just … can we go? I want to get out of here.”
“And what would the lass touched by the gods want to see?” He pulls out velvet display after velvet display.
Shivers run up my spine. “What did you say?”
“Your hair. It’s been touched by the gods. Has no one told you?”
His words wrap their tight, greedy fingers around my windpipe and squeeze. Everything grows fuzzy.
“I … I need to go.”
I dash out of the booth, knocking over a display of hats and mittens. The giant releases a loud, bellowing, mocking laugh. I stoop down to pick up the display, but it falls over again. More mittens and hats fall to the concrete floor. I try again and again. All the while his laugh mocks me. Frustrated with myself, I kick it, sending it flying across the aisle and into a shaggy Christmas tree display. Glass ornaments shatter on impact.
The other shopkeeper comes rushing out, raising her hands in the air. “You,” she shouts, pointing at me. “You’ll pay for this.”
I sprint down the aisle, twisting and turning through the booths and stands. The giant’s laughter follows me everywhere. There is no escape from it. I feel his eyes bore into the back of my head, marking me. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed.
“Gigi?” a man’s voice says. “Gigi, what are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
I rush to get away, but a large hand catches me. I jerk back but can’t break free.
“Gigi, calm down. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he murmurs in a soothing tone. “Let me get you some tea.”
Tea? I turn to my captor. A bright white smile greets me.
“Darius?”
“At your service,” he says, bowing. “You’re shaking like a leaf. Let’s get you something to drink.”
He gently pulls me into his stand and guides me to a worn plaid upholstered chair. “What brings you here today? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
I roll my eyes. He grins as he hands me a steaming mug of tea that was sitting on the counter. I take a sip. The lavender hits me first. Then the lemon verbena and chamomile. I even taste the root of Solomon’s seal, which I can’t normally, so I know it’s been steeping a while.
“Gram got to you too?”
H
e drags over a green chair. “I picked it up last week. She knows you sometimes like to troll around at the flea market instead of attend class.”
“How does she always know where I’m going to show up?”
“It’s one of her gifts. I imagine you have similar ones.”
First touched by the gods. Now gifts. WTF.
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, that’s for your grandmother to explain.”
I roll my eyes again. “Right, like she ‘explained’ what happened to my mom but forgot to mention the drugs or the sperm donor.”
Darius rises. His body grows to take up half the booth. “Gigi Brennan, you listen to me. You will not disrespect your grandmother or your mother. You owe them your life. Your life,” he bellows in a deep, rumbly voice.
I tug the box of mugs out of my bag and carefully place it on the counter. Then dump Gram’s tie-dye T-shirts and socks onto the chair.
“My life? My life sucks hairy fucking monkey ass. I don’t owe anyone anything.”
“You have much to learn, Gigi Brennan,” he yells at my departing back. “Much.”
What little sanity I have left slips away as I rush out of the flea market. Lizzie can find her own ride home. She’s probably still hypnotized by that stupid pendant. I know exactly what I need. I duck around the back of the building.
The moment the neon pink spray paint hits the concrete, relief rushes through me. The addition of green and black begins to sate the beast. My artwork demonstrates exactly what I think of this shit town, and it isn’t flattering. I never realized how impactful a middle finger can be when it’s six feet tall.
A motorcycle stops behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Tired of fighting, just plain fucking tired, I climb on and tuck my hands low on his waist. He lifts his steel-toed boot back onto the footrest and roars down the alley.
19
Snap, Crackle, Pop
Everyone makes mistakes. Some more than others. Me most of all.
Most people don’t know when they’re making one. They realize it later when they’re eating cake and notice they used salt instead of sugar, or when they sit at their desk and the teacher hands out the unit test for the mammal reproductive system and they studied the anatomy of a fish. Well, for students who actually care enough to study, that is.
I’m not like most people. I know when I’m making a mistake. I do it for the sheer joy of the chaos it creates. The ripples in the otherwise calm universe.
As we fly past the Lathrop Honda Dealership, I dip my hands low around his waist. If there’s a God of Mischief, I pray to him (actually it’s probably a her) to ensure that Kensey’s dad happens to look out the window and see Breas drive by on the bike he loaned him with a girl pinned to his back. A girl that is not his daughter.
Breas pushes into me. I nestle into him, resting my cheek against his back. His warmth reaches into me and down to my core. I grow drunk on revenge and something else. Something powerful—though I don’t know what to name it. He banks a right turn wide, then a quick left. We race far out into the country, past strip malls, housing developments, then long stretches of wheat and corn. When he turns into a vacant lot and cuts the engine, my body hums from the vibration and a whole lot more.
He twists around so he can grab hold of my waist. The instant his fingers wrap around me, a jolt of lighting rushes through me, and all I can think about is Breas and what I want to do with him. I don’t know what it is about him, but when he’s around, the air is electric between us. I’m drawn to him, but I don’t want to be. Tomorrow I can hate myself, but here? Now? He’s everything. My fingers fan out in a desperate need to explore every line and ripple of his sculpted chest.
I’ve never regretted any of the mistakes I’ve made, but I know I will regret this one.
He smashes his lips against mine. There’s nothing kind or tender or even seductive about his assault.
No warm-up. No pregame. Just get right to it.
It’s not the first time I’ve been attacked like this. And with my “dating” habits, it won’t be my last.
I suck on his neck, pulling blood vessels to the surface like Rice Krispies. Snap, crackle, pop. Snap, crackle, pop. He marks me too. Snap, crackle, pop. Snap, crackle, pop.
Revenge never tasted so delicious.
20
Love Bites? I Think Not
The fruits of my labor cover my neck. Let’s not use the euphemism “love bites,” because there was nothing loving about the ground battle yesterday. “Love bites” makes it seem like the two participants enjoyed themselves in a mutual marking of territory. I was too caught up in the hunt for revenge, my new drug of choice—the best high I’ve ever had without the pesky aftereffects—to even consider romantic feelings. Any attraction I felt for Breas, any possible feelings I harbored for him, disappeared when I climbed off his bike last night, and he gunned the engine and disappeared down the street without a goodbye or a thank you or even a parting kiss.
But today, with the appearance of my hickeys, my revenge high is back. I wrap one of Lizzie’s hand-knitted arm scarves around my neck. The colors match my shirt, but the scarf swallows my neck whole. Not one hickey peeks out from the skeins of wool, and that, my friend, eliminates the point. I tug it down revealing them in all their red-welt glory.
For the first time in years, I’m excited about going to school. Kensey’s reaction will make Breas’s abandonment last night worth it. Besides, I don’t actually know where he disappeared to. I only assumed he went over to her house, but he may have gone over to Ryan’s to show off his new bike, or maybe he went to the motorcycle bar outside of town. Those bartenders will serve anyone who can reach the counter.
In my current mood, I wouldn’t mind sneaking off into an empty janitor’s closet or classroom with him. I certainly wouldn’t resist if he wanted to do some light kissing and heavy petting—and no, I didn’t reverse the adjectives. Word choice is very important to me.
Boo Bear knocks into my leg. He thinks I’ve taken long enough to pamper myself and now he demands my attention. Which he absolutely deserves. I lift him up and skip down the stairs.
I know.
I can’t believe I skipped either.
Gram left a bowl of oatmeal with apples, bananas, and apricots for me with a steaming mug of tea beside it. She really does a good job taking care of me. I’m just the asshole grandchild who messes everything up.
Upon my entrance, she drops an apple. It rolls across the table and falls to the floor. Even the evil witch from Snow White couldn’t save it from bruising.
“What is all over your neck?”
I drop Boo Bear, and he waddles out the pet door.
“Hickeys.”
“I can see that. What possessed you to allow someone to mark you like his or her property?”
She’s always been open-minded about my romantic relationships. Well, I don’t know if I’d label them “romantic relationships.” “Wild encounters” more aptly describes them.
I shrug my shoulders as I plop down on the chair. “Breas.”
Her mouth drops open, though I have no idea why. It’s not the first time I’ve brought hickeys into the house. Besides, she’s the one who wanted me to let him in. Clearly my neck demonstrates I did what she asked me to.
After several long seconds of shock, she finally manages to stammer, “Really?”
I take a sip of my tea. She’s either making the blend stronger or she’s letting it steep longer. Either way I can taste the bitterness of some of the herbs. Not toxic strength, but not pleasant either. I add more honey.
“Yes, really. I thought you’d be happy.”
“You thought I would be happy that my granddaughter comes down to breakfast with love bites all over her neck?”
She’s so damn romantic. “Oh god, Gram, they’re not love bites. They’re hickeys. Proud and true.”
Scott strolls into the kitchen. He sits down at his chair with his own bowl of oatmeal.
“Who has love bites?”
“I don’t have love bites. I have hickeys.”
He peeks at my neck. “Holy crum, Gi. Who did you hook up with ...?” His eyes bug out of his head. “No …” he gasps as if reading my mind. “You hooked up with Breas?”
Okay, so maybe he did read my mind.
“He didn’t tell you?”
He turns red and shifts in his seat. Suddenly, he’s fascinated with his oatmeal, shoveling it into his mouth. There’s something he’s not telling me, and I won’t rest until I find out what.
“Out with it.”
Gram points to my untouched bowl. “Gigi, aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’m full. Scott, what are you not telling me?”
He scoops in the last bites of his oatmeal before jumping up. “Thanks for breakfast, Gram,” he mumbles with his mouthful as he leans over to kiss her forehead.
She smiles at him; the glowing adoring smile she gives me every morning and every night. A pang of jealously rolls over me. One person in the world cares for me. One person. That’s it. I hate that I have to share her with someone who isn’t even blood.
She pulls me to her and wraps me in a hug to last the entire day. “You are loved by more than just me,” she whispers in my ear. “Gigi, you are loved. Don’t ever forget that.”
So, Gram’s a mind reader. I always thought it was because of all the time we’ve spent together, but evidently it’s one of her “gifts.” Whatever that means. I should go back to the flea market and ask Darius. He seems to be the expert on her gifts—and mine. I always thought I was especially talented when it came to graffiti, but I don’t think tagging walls with artwork counts as a gift. At least according to Darius.
“Thanks, Gram. I love you too.”
“Hurry, dear. Scott already left,” she says.
I grab my bag and rush out to the truck.
“Spill it,” I growl as I climb in.