by Keilan Shea
I scream, “Let me go!”
“I just want to talk. I don’t want you to disappear again!”
I wriggle partway out of his grasp, but he’s not letting go. With thoughts of escape the only thing in my head, I jam my elbow into his groin. Johan yelps and I bolt. I slam my shoulder into his door and burst into the hall. The path should be clear, but I smack into something. Someone. A strong arm catches me, holding me steady. When I look up, I’m trapped by forest eyes.
Johan shuffles to the door while holding himself. He grimaces and his voice is gruff when he says, “What the fuck are you doing here, Blake?”
“One of your guys sent me in for milk because ‘William’ is crying like a baby. I insisted I don’t know my way around the place, but he was plastered, so there was no arguing. I found an unlocked door and let myself in.”
I’d call him out if he didn’t have a carton of milk in hand. He places it on the ground and plants his hands on my bare waist before skimming them up to my bare back. I shiver.
“Then I heard screaming and came up here,” Earnshaw concludes.
“Fine, you’ve got your milk,” Johan says. “Now get out.” He winces but finds the strength to stop holding himself. He tentatively reaches for me. “Teagan?”
Earnshaw twists around so that Johan is reaching for him instead of me. I flinch, pressing into Earnshaw’s shirt-covered chest. I want skin, but his breathing soothes me, steady and fluid. Lilting.
“Sure,” Earnshaw replies, “as long as Teagan says it’s all right.”
I grit my teeth because I know what’s not all right: Earnshaw holding me. I lean away from him, calculating the best way to make him crumple too, but he lets me go. I hop forward a couple of steps to keep myself upright, and then I run down the hall for the next bedroom. Footsteps pursue me, so I push harder. The sound changes its timbre, though, into something more like flesh pounding on flesh.
“Let her go,” Earnshaw says.
“I let her go before and she almost didn’t come back!” Johan replies.
I reach the bedroom and the utilitarian space greets me with solitude. I slam the door behind me, lock it, and let darkness envelop me. My back hits the door and I drop to the ground. The polished wood hooks into my naked skin, but that burn is trivial compared to the tenacious traces of ghost pepper. I reel my bony knees in toward my chest and bury my face in them. It’s as comfortable as it sounds.
The guys’ voices are muffled now, negligible. I cage Mom’s locket in my hand and apply as much pressure as I can, as if to compress it. My bones screech and my joints ache, but I don’t stop.
A knock at the door vibrates through my body before it registers in my ears as a sound. “Teagan.” It’s Johan. His voice breaks, reminding me of when he went through puberty. Everyone said those years were hard because of bodies changing and the general awkwardness of it all, but they weren’t. Everyone was overdramatic.
“Do you want Sarah to drive you home?” Johan asks. “She will. At least take some time to cool off if not, okay? Don’t drive like this.”
I say nothing.
“Teagan.”
“You’re wasting your time, and she’s not going to come out if you guard the door,” Earnshaw says. “She’ll sooner jump out a window.”
“Shut up, man. Just shut up.” A muted thump and wood bumping against my back signal Johan either kicked the door or fell against it. “I’ll leave you alone.”
Does he mean it? I strain my ears to hear footsteps as they fade down the hall. Two pairs.
It’s over.
I should be relieved, but numbness settles in, and it feels like falling.
CHAPTER 15
It’s the end of my first day back among the living world and I’ve already ruined it all.
My skin is sticky, plastered against the hardwood floor where I lie inside the locked bedroom. It used to belong to Johan’s older sister, Rosemary. She’s all about functionality and cleanliness, as if she’s been drilled on it her whole life under the grueling guidance of a father who served in the military—which isn’t true. Rosemary and Johan’s father is a laid-back pediatrician who sometimes gets revved up about football.
Maybe I should move, but I can’t find the strength to do any more than lie here. Harvey is going to throw me into therapy again. Johan could be ratting me out right now. We’ve all turned into liars, so why not double-crossers too? They’re doing it to “help” me, but there is no helping me.
I hold Mom’s locket to my chest. It’s because of my body heat, but it’s warm.
Why did Jeffery Earnshaw have to fuck everything up by lighting this fire? Why did Blake Earnshaw have to stoke the flames? Why can’t things wait to change until after I’m dead too so that it’s not my responsibility to fight them?
“I’m trying to atone,” I say and rub my thumb against smooth gold. “I’m trying to protect your memories. I’m so sorry, but I’m also so tired.”
A soul-deep ache cuts through the numbness. It’s something that can’t be located or abated. It just is, and it’s unbearable. It gets me teetering off the floor, dressed, and out of the bedroom.
Johan left the hall light on for me, but otherwise, the mansion is asleep. I cling to the balustrade as I descend the central staircase and then navigate my way to the main kitchen. The heavy door leading to the cellar is locked, but I know where the key is. It’s in a small safe on the top shelf above the oven. I grab a chair, climb up to retrieve the box, and input the combination required to open it.
Rosemary was something of a bad example when she was still living at home—before moving away from Raindrop to become a private investigator. She’s mischievous, good at discovering and uncovering secrets. Johan isn’t, but she liked to play a game with him. She’d leave him clues to the secrets she wanted to share, as many as it took until he discovered them for himself. Because of that, I’m about to raid the Radebaughs’ liquor stash.
With the fancy vintage key in hand, I unlock the cellar door to reveal a steep staircase. It’s pitch-black down there, so I tap the switches on the wall. I can’t remember which one I need. When a light flickers from far below, I call it good enough and go. My hand glides across cool stones as I descend.
When I take the last step and emerge into the light, the first thing that catches my eye is a wine rack. I indiscriminately select a bottle of white wine. It’s a struggle to open until I find a corkscrew in a wooden chest sitting between the racks. I drink straight from the bottle, the light, fruity taste fizzling down my throat. I don’t stop until my lungs demand air. After a deep breath to soothe them, I dive in for more. Any residual burning from that chili juice fades away into a pleasurable buzz.
The more I drink, the fuzzier the buzz becomes. It gets heavier too. It bombards my thoughts and convinces me that I hate everyone and everything. Pretending most of all.
I drop the bottle, letting it shatter on the stone floor, and grab another. Drink. Grab another. Drink.
The next bottle I open is something strong. My head swims. Even after I read the label, I can’t remember what it is. I shrug and chug, then I drop this bottle with the rest. Shards of glass crunch underfoot. A large one finds my foot in my sandal, slicing near my right ankle. I barely feel it.
Several times, I almost fall down the cellar stairs when I start climbing. It’s as if an invisible force is spotting me, keeping me on my feet until I make it to the mansion’s magnificent double-doors entrance. The cloudy glass lets in a warm glow, and I push. I’m pointed toward the beach. I think. Dots and wavy lines of blurry lights beckon me forward, onto the boardwalk. The dock has become the brightest point, the bug zapper calling the fly.
A hand grips my shoulder. “Teagan, there you are.” Sarah grabs my other shoulder, turning me to face her. “Where have you been? I confronted Will. He still wouldn’t confess, so I broke up with him. It was a spectacle. The guys were in an uproar over it, demanding details. Then Johan showed up. He was pissed. Not because of Will, or
at least not just because of him. God, Teagan, Johan punched Will in the face and then shoved a carton of milk into his chest. When I asked where you were, he stormed off. What happened?”
“Nothing.” The word slurs as I brush off Sarah’s hands. Or try to. She doesn’t let me go.
“You’re drunk.”
“Yeah. Drunk. Very drunk, like a skunk.” I try prying off her fingers, but they’re so grabby, like Velcro. “Get off me.” At least my words are getting clearer. I need them clear for what I’m about to do so that everyone will understand.
“I think I should take you home,” Sarah says and looks down. “Did you cut—”
“You can’t. Didn’t you hear? Blake Earnshaw lives there now.”
Her grip loosens, and I don’t miss my chance. I use my whole body to jerk out of her grasp. I land in the sand, but I’m up and running again in no time, like a baby giraffe that’s just found its legs. When I hit the wet dock and almost slip, I adjust myself to stand tall and face everyone on the beach. I curl my hand into a fist to use as a microphone; an imaginary one works the same as the real thing.
“I have something to say!” I shout and tap my fist for a simultaneous mic check. I’m not loud enough. Too few people turn their heads. So, I scream like a fucking banshee from one of Sarah’s favorite supernatural horror movies. When I’ve expelled all the air in my lungs, it’s quiet and the pulses that traveled up my feet are gone. Someone shut off the music. I look toward the DJ’s setup to discover that the culprit is fucking Blake Earnshaw.
“I have something to say,” I repeat.
Johan surfaces from the stunned crowd with his hands raised. “Tea.”
I retreat, taking a step back for every step he takes forward.
“Teagan, you’ll fall into the lake if you keep going.”
“Then stop and listen to what I have to say.” I’m tongue-tied, but Johan must understand me. He steps off the dock the same moment a boat comes in. I point at the passengers and say, “Sh-stay.” Then I roll my cotton tongue around in my mouth and take a deep breath. “I’m gonna tell you all the truth about Blake Earnshaw.” I don’t know what reaction I’m expecting from Rick Prick himself, but I don’t expect the grin. I blink and blink because I totally am drunk and maybe I’m not seeing straight, but I swear he’s amused.
“Blake Earnshaw is an asshole.”
“We know,” Mia pipes up and shoves Eve’s phone away from her face.
I point at her as if to amplify her voice and magnify her presence. “In the parking lot this morning, Blake told everyone he’s staying at my home. That’s true, but what he was insinuating is not.” Insinuating. That’s a good word. Big. Hard to say correctly. “You all know I don’t live there anymore, and I don’t visit—or I didn’t until the first day of school. See, my uncle didn’t tell me he was renting my chalet out to Jeffery Earnshaw. I thought Blake was trespassing and hit him in the face with a rock.”
Some part of me remembers that I’m supposed to be presenting myself as an okay Teagan, that maybe things aren’t damaged beyond repair. I say, “It was an accident. I didn’t recognize Blake Earnshaw when I saw him. I was trying to scare a possibly dangerous intruder. He’s wearing makeup to hide the bruise I gave him because he doesn’t want you all to know that I nailed him. I was going to keep quiet about it and be nice to the new guy, but enough is enough. He’s a sore loser, and I’m not a slut.”
What I’ve said has everyone talking about and staring at Blake. He isn’t rattled, though. His grin is somehow wider. That can’t be right. I tap my head a few times with my mic-fist to get this funky vision under control. “Why don’t you show them what I mean, Blake? Tell us why you’re here alone and why you’re really cheating on your girlfriend.” But no one hears me, so I shout, “I’m not done!”
I unzip my dress and ignore the mixed reactions as I let the white fabric pool at my feet. I’ve got Mom’s locket and my bikini, but that’s it. My scar is on full display—mostly. That shuts everyone up. “You know why I didn’t come back to Raindrop before now, why I wasn’t going to? Because I was afraid of this. Well, that ends tonight. I’m not hiding it anymore. You don’t like how I look now? That’s your problem, not mine. Also, Johan and I broke up. We are over. Done. Forever.”
See? I’m doing fine. A little scar isn’t going to stop me. Harvey would approve. Uh, if I wasn’t drunk. And if I didn’t just break up with Johan? My head hurts.
I totter backward. The idea is to give the people on the boat a good view of my scar too, but I overestimate how long the dock is because my last step sends me plummeting into the cold water below. My inebriated mind tells my body to do the opposite of what it should. Instead of holding my breath, I inhale a shitload of water, and the world fades as I sink to depths unknown.
CHAPTER 16
I wake up to the kiss of an angel. He’s got this halo around him and he breathes life. Literally. He coaxes my lungs to pump themselves. I squint, but his dark hair drips water into my bleary eyes. There’s a shadowy mark on his right cheek. A bruise.
Reality slaps me in the face. This is no angel. This is the devil incarnate: Blake Earnshaw.
I struggle to move. My ribs burn, but not as badly as my stomach and esophagus. I sit up in time to twist and spill my guts onto the sandy beach. God, it’s awful. At first, I’m coughing up all the water I swallowed, then I’m throwing up all that alcohol I ingested.
“You done?” Earnshaw slaps my back harder than necessary.
“I think you broke a rib.”
“No. I’ve broken ribs before. Yours stayed intact.”
“Drink this.” Johan breaks the circle of people gawking at me and offers a water bottle.
I hesitate. I’m either seeing double, or I’m having a violent reaction to meeting Johan’s gaze. Earnshaw takes the plastic bottle and unscrews the cap. That crystal-clear liquid and gentle sloshing sound call my name. I snatch the bottle from him and fill my mouth with water to swish and spit. That garbage aftertaste doesn’t fade, but it’s better. The thought of actually drinking any water makes my stomach rumble a protest, so I shove the bottle back into Earnshaw’s hand.
Someone needs to bury my vomit before I hurl again. If someone would bring me a bed, that would be good too. And earplugs to block out these indistinct background tones. I cover my ears with my hands, but some of the tones become words.
“I’m taking her to her uncle’s house.” Earnshaw.
“I’ll take her.” Johan. “Or Sarah will.”
“You have a mess to clean. I’ve gathered your parents are strict about parties and you don’t have permission for this one. Sarah can drive Teagan’s car and hitch a ride back to Raindrop with me. Grab our clothes and her purse, would you?”
“All right.” Sarah’s shoulders roll back into her I-mean-business stance. “You did save her life.”
“Wait, Sarah,” Johan interjects. “We don’t even know him. I should go.”
Earnshaw’s done arguing. He picks me up, water bottle still in hand, and I reflexively wrap my arms around his neck to keep myself from falling. I’m cold, wet, and miserable, but his skin scorches mine. How the fuck did I miss how naked he is? He’s wearing nothing but his long-leg boxer briefs.
Then I remember something should be around my neck and isn’t. “My mom’s locket!”
“It’s safe. I gave it to Sarah,” Earnshaw informs.
Sarah quickly passes it off to me. I squeeze it tightly and murmur, “Thank you.”
Johan closes in, invading Earnshaw’s personal space to touch above my right ankle. I didn’t realize I have a bleeding cut. Or I forgot.
“I have a first-aid kit in my trunk,” Earnshaw says. “You aren’t needed.”
“The hell I’m not.”
“Didn’t you hear her speech? You aren’t her boyfriend anymore.”
“She’s drunk.”
“She spoke quite eloquently. You can ask her if she meant it all tomorrow. Tonight, I’m taking her to her uncle
’s house to sleep this off.”
“Teagan, say something.”
I don’t. My tongue won’t work anymore.
“It’ll be fine,” Sarah says. “I won’t let them out of my sight.”
“Unless he speeds away in that Roadster.”
“I’ll call the cops. Blake, you’re trouble, but you’re not stupid, are you? Because if you hurt Teagan—”
“I can’t afford to be stupid.”
No one tries to stop Earnshaw this time. His words repeat in my head. My “uncle’s” house. That’s what he keeps saying. It’s significant, but my addled brain can’t sort out why.
I tighten my hold around Earnshaw’s neck because it makes the way my body jostles as he walks tolerable. Every step is agony when the pulsating music resumes, and it never ends; it’s the only thing I can focus on. I seriously am drunk. There’s no way I’d let Blake Earnshaw take me home otherwise. If I puke all over him, that’ll make up for it, though. I gag at the thought. It seems I didn’t throw up everything on the beach.
Earnshaw must recognize the heaving, the stutter in my breath. He drops me to my feet, but I land on my knees. He holds my hair back as I spill my guts for the second time. At least I don’t have an audience now. Not that being vulnerable and alone in front of Earnshaw is a good thing.
Vulnerable and alone.
I’m drunk out of my mind and I’m wearing nothing but a bikini. Isn’t this the kind of situation where rape is super common? Dad and Harvey have warned me so many times. Wait. Sarah is following me to prevent that kind of situation, right?
I cringe against this persistent ice pick chipping at my skull. We’re near Earnshaw’s Roadster, but I don’t see Sarah or my Prius. The asphalt road is dimly lit by the string lights in the trees. The aspens block any view of the beach from here. No one will hear my scream above the surging dance beat.
The impulse to hyperventilate is strong. But my scar. It makes me immune. Earnshaw doesn’t want anything to do with that, does he? I’m ugly.