Chapter Fourteen
3 years, 19 weeks, 0 days
Jack Hunter said I’m beautiful. There is only one conclusion as to what must be done.
Jack Hunter’s gotta die.
Or he can cry like a huge nerd.
I’m not picky.
He’s stepped over the line one too many times. He’s confused me too many times. The line between us is faded and scuffed and I’ll have to draw it back on with paint, carefully, and it’ll probably take hours and my back will get sore and honestly he had no right to kiss me or take me on a date even if they were fake and he certainly, absolutely, positively had zero right to call me beautiful without my express permission. It was uncalled for and mostly a huge fat lie, and lying is punishable by death. Or it should be. Uh, except for me. Because I’ve lied a lot. To Mom, to Dad. To myself. I should get exiled instead. To Maui.
I park and give an explosive sigh into my car. The war might be over, and I might be exhausted, but I have to get him back one last time. Just once, for messing with my feelings. Not that he did. Just, uh, he sort of kind of toyed with them, but I knew it was fake all along, so he didn’t really. But still. The fact that he even said those lies to me objectively deserves some sort of minor capital punishment.
Also, because Jack is now going out with Kayla.
I get out of the car and make my way to Principal Evans’s office.
The first day Kayla grabbed Jack’s hand and he let her and they walked down the halls together, you could practically hear the hearts of a hundred ladies breaking in two. Poetry Girl burned her notebook. Drama Club Wailer performed the greatest tragic screaming monologue from Shakespeare the drama teacher had ever seen. The girl who’s making the statue almost smashed it, but the art teacher convinced her to put it aside and finish it later, when she was in a better state of mind. A huge majority of lady teachers took sick leave. To go cry into tubs of ice cream and watch Sex and the City, probably.
I see the legendary couple as I walk through the quad before the morning bell. They’re sitting on a bench. Kayla kisses him on the cheek, and he nods. Just nods, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say thanks or kiss her back. It’s like he’s just tolerating her. But Kayla can’t see that.
She gets nasty glares, so I’ve taken it upon myself to be her personal bodyguard. I just never say that out loud. It just sort of is. Homeland security for Kayla. And her fabulous breasts. Kayla’s so wrapped up in love, she’s all but oblivious to everything else, so that means I get to pull hair and wave warning fingers and punch a few harlots. Or five harlots. Evans isn’t happy.
His secretary, now completely used to my venerable presence, waves me through. I throw my backpack on the ground and flop into a chair.
He folds his hands on his desk and sighs.
“The papers are right there.”
I pull the stack of papers toward me and get out a pen. In exchange for not being suspended for punching people like I was at my previous school, I get to help Evans grade math homework. He somehow found out it’s the one thing I’m good at, probably from Mrs. Gregory, the snitch. I knew I should’ve played dumb in her class. But now I get to sit here and grade these sheets while Evans pretends he isn’t actually testing my abilities in the slightest. He usually drinks coffee and answers emails, but today he watches me work. I flip through papers, making tiny tick marks and writing the correct answer by each wrong one. The first day he offered the answer sheet to me, but I brushed it off. He later checked my work against it. After that he hasn’t offered the answer sheet again.
“You are very good at this, Isis.”
“Yup.”
“Your SAT was rather miserable, though. Why is that?”
I sneer. “Well golly gee, Mr. E. Maybe it was because I didn’t eat breakfast that morning! Or maybe it was because I had explosive diarrhea! Or maybe it was because I was going through a bit of an emotional crisis! I was eighty-five pounds heavier, with a boy—”
Ugly.
“—with some problems! Wow. A teenager with problems. Imagine that.”
He glowers and takes a sip of coffee. We both know I haven’t forgiven him for the picture incident, and I never will.
“You should take it again,” he insists. “There’s still time, before college applications are due. You could get a very high score.”
“And make your school look even better,” I mumble. Mr. Evans frowns.
“Come now, Isis. It’s not just about our reputation. Any school would be happy to have a female who can do math so well and easily. And according to your report card, your English isn’t bad at all. You could go to some extremely prestigious schools with those kinds of SATs. You could further your own life; make a great start for yourself.”
“Redfield University is fine with me.”
Mr. Evans laughs, and then when he realizes I’m not joking, his face falls.
“Isis, are you serious? I’m talking MIT, UCLA. Redfield is for people who aren’t smart enough for anywhere else. You could go where you wanted! Wherever you wanted in the country! Possibly out of the country! There are programs in China, Brazil, Europe!”
I flinch at the last word and scribble an answer.
“I-I have no interest in traveling. It’s full of rude people and food poisoning.”
Mr. Evans falls silent and watches me work for a while longer. I press on, determined to ignore his gaze. Finally, he turns on his computer and starts answering emails.
Wren comes up to me at lunch. Kayla stopped sitting with me long ago, instead hanging with Jack at his usual empty table. She tries to feed him soup and he grimaces, but she laughs. She sees me staring and waves, smiling. Jack looks at me, and I quickly turn around and bury myself in my PB and J. Wren stares at the couple with his intense hazel gaze.
“It’s true, then? They’re really going out?”
“You just heard about that now?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been working in the council office most of the last few weeks. Crunch time is coming for the budgets, and I’m training Miranda to succeed my position when I leave next year, and the food bank was broken into last night, and they can’t afford a new lock, so I called in some favors with Arnold’s locksmith father—”
Wren sees my eyes glazing and sighs.
“Sorry. I’m rambling about completely uninteresting things.”
“Duh. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. It sounds rough.”
“It’s just presidential duties.” He smiles wanly. His eyes flicker over to where Kayla is laughing at something Jack said. His stare dulls, eyes almost ashamedly looking away.
“You like her,” I say. It isn’t a question. I expect Wren to get flustered or change the subject, but he just stares at Kayla again and nods.
“Yes.”
“And Avery was pushing her toward you for a while.”
“To get funds for her club. I know how she works. But I—” Wren looks wistfully at Kayla over my shoulder. “Kayla was paying attention to me on her orders. But I tried to push that out, and just focus on her attention. Kayla, talking to me and listening to me and laughing with me, when she’d never even given me the time of day before. I tried to . . . selfishly pretend she was doing it because she wanted to, not because Avery told her to.”
Wren falls quiet. I touch his hand.
“Shit, dude. I’m sorry.”
Wren smiles. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine. But as long as she’s happy—” He looks to her again. “Then I’ll be all right.”
“You’re a good guy.”
“No.” Wren laughs. “I’m a stupid guy. And Jack’s a frightening guy. So I’ll watch from afar, and make sure he won’t hurt her. Even if that’s creepy and pathetic.”
“It’s not. It’s sensible.”
“Avery’s pissed, too,” Wren says, jerking his head to Avery and her tableful of likewise fashionably dressed girls. Avery glowers at Kayla, stabbing her salad with unnecessary enthusiasm.
“Why?”
“Kayla stopped talking to me. Fake-flirting. Avery came to me this morning and tried to flirt instead, but I wouldn’t have it. I guess Kayla refused to take Avery’s orders.”
I smile, pride welling in my chest. “She’s getting stronger.”
“Yeah,” Wren murmurs. “But at what cost? What if Jack— What if he—”
Wren takes a bite of burrito and swallows nervously.
“What did he do back in middle school? Give me a hint. Just one tiny dust bunny–sized hint.”
Wren’s silent, glowering.
“Avery told me she hired guys from her parents’ docks. She said she hated Sophia. What did she hire them to do? I know you know. I know you were there when it happened.”
He flinches.
“Avery told me to film it. That’s the only reason I was there. I was head of the film club in middle school. I had access to all the cameras, so she bribed me into coming to the park and hiding in the bushes with her and filming it.”
“Filming what?” I whisper.
The lunch bell rings before he can answer, and he gets up and leaves quickly, shame crippling his face.
I walk alongside Jack and Kayla as they go to their next class. I zap a revenge-suspect with a glare, and she veers off course with her handful of shaving cream. That’s right, keep walking. There’ll be no shaving-cream-on-Kayla’s-lovely-face incident today, thank you very much. Or, if there is, I will shave you. Down to the bone.
“You’re making threats aloud,” Jack deadpans.
“It’s good for business,” I chime. Kayla smiles, and links her other arm with mine.
“I’ve got two of my favorite people right here. It’s amazing. You’re amazing!”
I shoot her a sheepish smile and she ruffles my hair. How could I have ever been jealous of such a lovely girl’s innocence? I’m ashamed of myself, a hot knot working its way into my throat, chock-full of guilt. She deserves a better friend than me. She deserves castles and kingdoms and all the fairy-tale endings that still exist in this meager world. All of them should be hers.
She kisses Jack on the cheek and goes into the chem lab. Jack and I stand outside the door, each with different classes, but a tense thread rooting us to our place in front of the mottled glass.
Jack speaks without looking at me. “You’re happy.”
“Generally, yeah.”
“No. Not generally. Generally you’re miserably sad and dour, hiding it behind the jokes and passionate outbursts. You’re like fire. But it’s a sickly fire. Everyone can see that.”
I open my mouth to argue when he interrupts. “But when you’re with Kayla, when she’s happy and smiling at you, that fire turns. It goes from sick to full, healthy, lively. She makes you happy.”
“She’s the first friend I’ve ever really had.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Why are you cheating on Sophia with her?”
He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes splinter with a fraction of pain. “I’m not cheating. I visit Sophia every week—”
“Are you Sophia’s boyfriend?”
Jack’s eyes grow dangerous. “I was. Once. She has no one but me now, so I am as much as I can be to her.”
“Is that a yes?”
“What makes you think you deserve an answer?” he snarls.
“I’m just trying to look out for you, Casanova! What if I accidentally slip to Kayla who Sophia is? Kayla would be devastated, if she knew you were going out with two ladies—”
“I’m not,” he says, all steel and glacier ice. “Sophia and I . . . it’s complicated. But we’re not together in that way. Not anymore.”
“But you love her.”
“I do,” he replies without missing a beat. “I always will.”
His conviction is so foreign to me. Guys don’t have willpower. Not the ones I know. Except Wren, but he’s an outlier. Regardless, even fewer of them love a girl deeply enough to keep loving her, even if they aren’t together. Sophia and Jack’s relationship must have been amazing.
A kernel of jealousy sprouts in me again. I’ll never know what that’s like, to love someone that much. Ever. I shake my head.
“But why go out with Kayla all of a sudden?” I ask. “I thought . . . I thought you didn’t really like her? You kept saying she’s annoying. So why go out with her?”
Jack fixes his icy eyes on me, hair falling into them a little. He doesn’t answer, and pivots and strides away, the crowd parting around him. For him.
...
Isis looked up at me with those warm, burning, flame-mahogany eyes and asked me, “So why go out with her?”
She’s oblivious. I still don’t believe it myself. But I know it’s the right thing to do.
She has no idea how much Kayla’s smile makes her smile. Unconscious, soft grins form on her face when she looks at a happy Kayla, and full-blown joy crackles across her features when she laughs with Kayla. Kayla reminds her of who she used to be, maybe—naive and innocent.
But as Isis cocks her head and waits for my answer, she doesn’t realize in that moment she’s just as innocent as Kayla. She’s never been loved. She’s only given love. She has no idea why someone like me would go out with her friend, if only to make her friend happy, and her happy in turn. As long as Kayla can kiss my cheek and talk about Vogue and Nicki Minaj with me, Isis smiles. Real, true smiles. Smiles free of pain or jaded bitterness. Isis truly doesn’t believe anyone would like her enough to kiss her, let alone do something to make her smile. There’s no coyness in her question. She simply has no idea what it’s like to be loved.
Love? I frown and scratch out the notion with an imaginary mental pen. But as I walk away from her, the answer too hard to say, the urge to turn around and look at her just one more time before I go is overpowering.
It’s evidence.
It’s cold hard fact that mental pens don’t need to scratch anything out.
When had it happened? How stupid and predictable was it? The new girl—the manic, rambunctious, permanently sugar-high girl—barreling into town like a whirlwind and demanding I pay attention. Demanding I fight. Demanding everything but the one thing that’s begun to grow inside me.
I should burn it.
The plant is still young. It hasn’t flowered yet, its roots haven’t laced over my heart just yet. I can still stop it. It’s not too late. Sophia is still a strong flower in my chest. She’s the only one who should matter. Guilt sickens me. Sophia. I’m being unfaithful, aren’t I? Escorting wasn’t truly cheating—I loved none of the women. None at all. They were cows to be milked for money, and that was it. I love only Sophia. Sophia has always been there. Sophia is sick, and she needs me. I can’t abandon her, or leave her. I’m the only one she has. It was never a problem, since no other woman ever held my attention. But now . . .
Something tears at me, serrated and sharp.
It’s too late.
I’m an idiot, and it’s too late.
...
Avery invites Kayla and me to her Halloween party on Saturday. I’m a little wary, since Avery smiled too much at Kayla when she invited us, but I’ll go, if only to make sure Kayla doesn’t meet any trouble. And with all the popular girls who’ve had a crush on Jack forever being invited too, I triply have to go. I will be the silent protector Gotham Kayla needs.
“You’re going as that?” Kayla sniffs at my tight-fitting latex Batgirl costume. I wince and adjust a brewing camel toe.
“It’s a symbol of my commitment to justice!” I crow, and whip out a fake bat-star from my utility belt. Kayla laugh-sighs and pulls my chin up. Her mermaid costume—a skirt with a tail—drags behind her, and her bra is shimmery and made of spray-painted seashells. Her dark hair is woven with smaller shells, and her makeup is green-blue and likewise sparkly.
“Okay, just hold still and let me do your makeup, at least.”
“Make me look like an actual bat.”
“Ew! No!”
“Give me a huge proboscis like those weird bats in Africa.”
“Ugh!”
“Smear my face in guano.”
“Okay, that’s it, you’re being nasty and it’s ruining your eyeliner so you need to officially stop.”
I laugh and mime zipping my mouth shut as she works, fingers delicately smearing eye shadow and lip gloss and foundation on my face.
“They don’t even put this much makeup on dead people for open-casket wakes,” I complain.
“Hush. I’m almost done.”
When she’s finished, I open my eyes and look at a whole new person. Smoky eyeliner and pink gloss make me look—
“Beautiful!” Kayla claps her hands.
“Not ugly,” I correct. “Your work is great, it’s just my face. Sorry you didn’t have something nicer to work with.”
“Oh, shut up!” She smacks my shoulder. “Now c’mon. We’re gonna be late.”
She grabs her purse and keys and stops in the living room, tiptoeing into her father’s study. She’s only gone for a few seconds before she dashes out, a bottle of expensive-looking whiskey in hand and squealing.
“C’mon c’mon c’mon run run run!”
I shriek in the back of my throat for no reason and run after her out the door, my cape billowing in the cool October night. The sky is steely and filled to capacity with heavy rain clouds. As we pull up to Avery’s jack-o’-lantern-lined driveway, a few fat drops of rain start to fall. Orange and black lights are strung everywhere inside; bowls of orange punch and pumpkin cookies and cinnamon cakes crowd the kitchen counter. Girls dressed as skin-showing cats and nurses and witches crowd the house, and guys in football-player costumes and president costumes and rapper costumes with ridiculous gold chains stride around. I high-five the guy who’s dressed up as Pac-Man, because he’s the only creative costume here.
As more people arrive, the line of booze bottles on the counter doubles, triples. As the night grows darker, the jack-o’-lanterns glow eerily on the porch, the wind howling through the trees outside. Guys scare girls and girls shriek, and someone starts the music when Avery finally comes down in a resplendent princess dress, complete with a tiara, perfectly curled red hair, and a fluffy blue ball gown.
“You look amazing, Ave!” Kayla shouts. Avery gives her a shark-smile and they hug in that cheek-kiss way popular girls do. Avery’s eyes whisk over me and she laughs.
“What are you supposed to be? A drowned rat?”
“Batgirl, you heathen. Duh.”
Avery sighs. “It’s a good thing I invited you. After that fountain stunt, you’re the girl to go to for hilarious entertainment at your expense. You don’t mind looking like an idiot, right? Making a fool of yourself? Good. Do that tonight. A lot.”
“You forget yourself, your highness,” I sneer. “But I don’t take orders from you. So you can shove that plastic scepter up your butt and painfully poop it out later.”
Kayla barely manages to contain her laughter until Avery storms away, and then she explodes with it. “Did you see the look on her face?”
“It won’t last. She feeds on pain and ineptitude and from the look of this crowd—” I glance around at everyone barely getting tipsy. A guy draws a penis on a jack-o’-lantern and a girl pulls down an entire string of lights by getting it caught in her angel wings. “That will be plentiful tonight.”
I wave at Wren, who walks in dressed in green as Link from the Zelda video games. He’s even got a cool replica plastic sword. He walks over and shyly blushes. “H-Hey.”
Kayla sighs. “What are you supposed to be, anyway?”
“Uh, Link?” I inform her. “From Zelda?”
“Who from what? Is that a TV show?”
I roll my eyes at Wren, but he just laughs it off.
“Yeah, it’s a TV show. It came out a long time ago, though.”
“Oh, so it’s like a vintage thing. Cool.” Kayla smiles. A second later she shrieks in my ear. “There he is!” Kayla squeals. “Promise you won’t drag him into a fountain this time, okay? I want to spend some quality time together tonight!”
I look to where Kayla is pointing—Jack just walked in. I should’ve known; that’s why all the girls in the room are whispering to each other and smiling coyly. My jaw would drop if I weren’t so exquisitely in control of my every facial expression. Jack’s got a pirate hat on, but it’s wrapped in a silk handkerchief and has some fake dreads attached to it, woven with beads. His loose white shirt is open, showing his collarbone and just the top of his pecs, with a vest over it and a golden compass hanging from a loop on the breast pocket. A fake sword rests on his hip. His breeches are tucked into his black leather boots, equally worn and dirty-looking, and his blue eyes stand out like hard icicles with the smoldering eyeliner smudged around his eyes. He’s the spitting image of—
“Captain Jack Sparrow!” Kayla yells, and leaps into his arms. He smiles at her, then nods at Wren and me.
“Link,” he says. “May the Triforce be with you.”
Wren looks nervous, but he smiles. “Yeah. And with you.”
“Clearly Wren has the Triforce of Wisdom. I’ve got the Triforce of Courage, and you get Power,” I say. “Or not. You don’t get a Triforce at all. You’re Ganon.”
Jack smirks. “I could live with being a villain.”
Wren looks impressed. “You play a lot of video games, Isis?”
“What else does a friendless chubby kid do?”
“So this entire time you’ve been calling me a nerd, but you’re secretly one?” Jack quirks a brow.
“Isis just calls everyone nerds. It’s her way of saying she likes you.” Kayla smiles.
I flush. “Is not!”
“Is that the best comeback you’ve got tonight? ‘Is not’?” Jack makes a tsk noise. Kayla leads him over to the kitchen and pours him some booze. He grimaces at it, but he glances at me and takes a swig. I go in and fix myself a rum and Coke, and stand by Jack.
“Do I drive you to drink or something? Thought the Ice Prince doesn’t drink.”
“I don’t. Tonight’s special.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
He jerks his head to Kayla, who squeals with a group of girls and points at Jack, then squeals louder with them.
“She’s excited, cut her some slack.”
“Excitement is not covered by my eardrum health-care provider.”
“Every girl is excited by her first boyfriend. Let her enjoy it.”
Jack’s quiet. Someone turns on house music. The bass thumps through my chest.
“Did you?” Jack asks.
“Did I what?”
“Enjoy having your first boyfriend?”
“At first.”
I stare at Kayla’s smile, and smile into my own cup.
“At first it was great. It was really great. Held hands. Went on a picnic, once. He didn’t like going in public with me much, since I was a whale. Didn’t kiss, because I was too shy. Mostly we stayed at his house or my house. Talked. Watched TV. Once he brought some pot over and I almost vomited. It was the first time I smoked anything, ever.”
“Rebel,” Jack murmurs.
“I know.” I laugh. “I felt so badass. All it did was make me hungry and then I slept for fifteen hours. It wasn’t even fun.”
“But you had fun with him.”
I watch the dark soda bubble, fizz, pop. Soda can corrode stuff. Metal. Stone. I read that somewhere once.
“Yeah. I had fun. Except it wasn’t real. He was pretending.”
Jack’s patiently quiet. I grin and shove my cup at him.
“I’m gonna go dance. Don’t drug that or anything.”
As I sway to the beat, getting lost in the vortex of heat and bodies that is the dance floor, my memories fall away. Music is the best medicine. It blasts away all the thoughts in your head if it’s loud enough, and keeps them away if it’s a good enough song. I don’t ridiculous dance like I did with Wren, but I don’t dance seriously. Can you even dance seriously? Whatever, that’s a question for some tap-dance or jazz snobs. I just dance. Wildly. I throw my arms up and jump and twirl, the orange and black of the lights mixing with the alcohol in a pleasant haze. I can observe, however blurrily, the party from the inside out. Someone’s throwing cooked spaghetti at a wall and watching it stick. Knife Guy sneaked his way in, dressed up as a serial killer in a blood-spattered apron and a fake cleaver, and he’s talking excitedly with a guy dressed up as a samurai about the fake katana he’s got. Wren’s flitting nervously around Kayla, who’s showing him all the framed baby pictures of Avery tucked behind the fridge so no one could see how embarrassingly fat and bald she used to be. Avery herself is grinding on some tall, dark guy from the swim team. A green alien costume guy slides down the banister on his belly and crashes into a wall, jumps up, and runs up the stairs to do it all over again. And Jack’s looking at me. The music changes to some slowish hip-hop and the party rages on and Avery and the guy are kissing and Kayla and Wren have disappeared and I lean back, into someone’s chest, and I don’t care whose because I’m so tired and so drunk, and I hear the clinking of beads and look up and it’s Jack.
“Shit!” I stumble away, tripping over a couple. The three of us fall in a tangle of limbs and wounded egos, and Jack pulls me up and holds my hand, tight.
“Try not to kill everyone.”
“Let go of my hand before I scratch your eyes out.”
“You’re drunk. You’re going to fall over again.”
“I’m perfectly capable of balancing on my own!”
I wobble, and to keep myself from eating vomit-and-glitter-stained carpet, I grab Jack’s arm. The shirt is soft and white under my fingers, but his muscle is taut and smooth.
“Either you go sit down—” Jack says warningly.
“No! I want to stay here with the music!”
“Or you use me as balance. But you’re a little too drunk to dance with any sort of coordination anymore, and I don’t think anyone else wants you grabbing all over them.”
“Screw you,” I snap. “You’re just . . . you’re just trying to smother me!”
“Yes. In your sleep. So you’ll stop living and Kayla will be all mine,” he deadpans.
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. I sigh and lean back into his chest again. We stand like that, and he stays still, but I sway gently and he starts mimicking me.
“It’s nice not to fall,” I murmur.
“Generally speaking,” he agrees. The music changes, and it’s loud and annoying, so I leave. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere soft and quiet. I open guest bedroom doors until I find one that doesn’t have a writhing couple on the bed, and close and lock the door behind me. I flop on the soft comforter. Fancy down comforter. Fancy glass lamps twisted like sea kelp. Fancy pictures of the ocean and fancy pillows that smell like lavender. I suck it in and try to make the room stop spinning. The music still thumps below. A weight is sitting on the bed to my side. Jack. I frown and squint up at him.
“Why did you follow me?”
“You dragged me with you.”
I slump into the pillows again, my voice muffled. “Oh.”
I watch him take off his hat, his normal golden-brown hair sticking up slightly.
“You look better without the dumb dreads,” I mumble.
“I thought you liked Johnny Depp?”
“Is that why you dressed up as him? Because I like him?”
Jack makes a show of standing quickly and putting his hat on the farthest chair. “No. Of course not. It was just what I had in my closet from last year.”
“There’s a price tag on your vest.”
The tiniest of cringes passes through him, but he hides it well and turns back to me, eyes all cold and dangerous-looking.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay.” I sigh into the pillow. “You don’t have to get all defensive. If you did it for me that’s okay. Weird, but okay.”
The coldness fades from his eyes, and he comes back and sits on the bed.
“You’re so conceited. Like I would ever pick a costume just for you,” he scoffs.
“I know. I was kidding. I know you’d rather . . . rather throw me in a pit than do something for me. I wouldn’t do anything for you, either.”
Liar.
I roll over, my cape cocooning me like a burrito. I pull my mask off and throw it over the bed.
“I drank too much.”
“I know. I’ll get you some water.”
Instead of fighting it like I know I should, I relent.
“Okay.”
He comes back with a glass of water, and I drink greedily. Some of it slips down my chin and I make a face and wipe it away.
“I’m gross. Look at me, getting all sloppy in front of my mortal enemy. Unexecutable. Inexhaustible. Un . . . un . . . under the sea.”
“Inexcusable,” Jack offers.
“Yes!” I point at him. “Yes. That.”
There’s a shriek from downstairs and someone yells, “Oh God, I’m bleeding!” Life goes on.
“So if . . .” I sit up on my elbows. He’s right in front of my face, sitting on the side of the bed, his knee level with my eyes. “So if Kayla makes you have sex, do I owe you money?”
He snorts and looks down at me. His fingers stop playing with the hem of his shirt.
“I’m not having sex with Kayla.”
“But you’re going out.”
“Not really.”
“You can’t . . . you can’t string her along like that. She really likes you!”
“And so do a dozen other girls,” he says wearily.
“Yeah? Well, sorry we like you,” I snap.
Jack freezes. I freeze.
“‘We’?” he asks.
It all happens so fast, like a shooting star, a lighting bolt; all the feelings I buried, all the things I wanted to say, all my fears batter down the bomb-safe doors I’d been keeping over them, helped by booze and exhaustion and emotional bruises that left me soft and ripe for the picking.
“I like you.”
I reach out for his hand, my own trembling. His fingers look so long and slender and gentle. They feel smooth and warm. I take hold of a few of them, like they’re a lifeline. A raft in the sea. A rope in a deep hole.
“You smell good,” I say. “And you’re fun to pick on. And I like your mom. You’re smart. Kind of dumb, but also kind of smart. I had fun. With the war. And the kiss. And the date. And you called me beautiful and it was nice. So even if we never battle again, even if you hate me forever for saying I like you, thank you. Thank you a lot—”
I never get to finish.
Jack leans down, his lips on mine, and I roll over and push myself up, and he pushes back, and I’m against the pillows and headboard and he’s kissing me—
...
—and this time she kisses back. This time she is not shocked into motionlessness. This time there is no one watching. This time she is hungry. This time, she darts her tongue out, kisses the corner of my lips, bites at my bottom one and pulls, hard, and I make a noise between a strangled groan and a hitching of breath. She’s curious, and inexperienced, but curious and stubborn and looking for something, anything, to kiss, anything to put her hands on—
...
—his neck tastes even better, and his throat is soft, and his Adam’s apple goes up and down as he swallows nervously (nervously?) and I pull away and murmur happily against his skin.
“I can feel your pulse on my lips.”
...
—and she has no idea what she is saying and how it’s wreaking havoc, how it sends a molten jolt of static electricity down my spine, through my stomach, and straight to my crotch. The thin pirate pants betray everything. My own body surprises me—I had no idea it longed for her with this buzzing, frantic intensity. It wants to taste her, tease her, fuck her with the slowest, softest, deepest mercy, the kind that’ll curl her toes and make her beg. I press against her harder and wrap my arm around her waist and she giggles (giggles!) and my every instinct screams at me to move down her body, to pull the ludicrously hot latex suit off inch by inch and drag my mouth over her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach until she is screaming for me, screaming and panting my name and she forgets all about that bastard, all about pain, all about sadness. I want her. But more than that, I want her to be happy—
...
—he pulls me down, lower on the bed, my head on the pillows, and he’s suddenly on either side of me, straddling me, and I’m shaking and afraid but I’m not, not at all, my outside is betraying my inside, because my inside wants this more than anything, but he could hurt me, he hurt someone, this is wrong, he loves Sophia, not me, not me, not me, he could hurt me, he’s going to hurt me again—
...
—she’s trembling. I kiss her neck, her shoulder. Her whole body is quivering uncontrollably.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Her face twists, collapses, and she hides it in her hands.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “It isn’t right. This isn’t right.”
Something in my chest cracks down the middle and tears in two. It feels right. God, this is the most right-feeling thing I’ve felt in months, no—years. I’d been stumbling through client after client, closing myself off and forcing my way through it all with mechanical responses and sickly pleasure. But just touching Isis now, I can’t be cold. It’s impossible. She burns it all up, all the resentment I didn’t think I had, all the cynical professionalism that compounded on my fear for Sophia. I’d forgotten how to enjoy, and her every soft breath against my face and touch of her fingertips shows me how again, clear and bright and warm as a fire. It’s right. Dear God, it’s fucking right.
But she’s scared. She’s unsure. She’s wounded in more ways than I can count. And she’s drunk. I’m buzzed, but she’s drunk. Doing anything now would be uncalled for. I back off immediately.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“N-No,” she sobs. “It’s my f-fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hey,” I say gently. “Hey. Look at me.”
She quivers, cracking her fingers and staring up at me. Her eyes are red, tears wetting her cheeks and her mascara blurring, but not running.
“It’s not your fault. Nothing is your fault.” I get up and grab my hat from the chair. “Stay here and sleep it off. Drink that glass of water. Lock the door behind me and don’t open it until morning. Understand?”
She sits up, sniffing. She doesn’t nod.
“Understand?” I repeat. She shakes her head, purple streaks sticking to her cheeks.
“Don’t go.”
“It’s better if I do. I make you uncomfortable.”
“No!” she shouts, and then lowers her voice. “No. I— I would feel better if you . . . if you stayed. In here. And made sure no one comes in.”
“Kayla will get worried.”
Isis’s face falls. “Oh. Oh, you’re right. You should g-go.”
I watch her, her body giving a shuddering sigh, trembling constantly and shallowly. She clutches her own arms and rubs them like she’s cold. I did this to her. I can’t leave her. Not like this.
“Here,” I say, and walk over. I pull up the comforter, and the blanket, and she eagerly worms her way beneath it.
“Are you sure that latex isn’t uncomfortable?” I ask. She looks down, and I instantly regret saying it. “I wasn’t implying you should take anything off. Just, it looks very tight, and that might be hard to sleep in. I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she murmurs. “It’s okay. I would take it off, but I don’t have anything else.”
“Use this.” I pull my shirt over my head and hand it to her. She rubs her face on it like a cat.
“Oooh, soft!”
“I’ll just. I’ll be outside.”
“No, it’s okay, just turn around. No peeking.”
“Never.” I make for the door.
“C’mon, you big prude! You’re an escort! Act like one!”
Admonished, I stare at the corner as I listen to the sound of unzipping and struggling. She grunts and curses. I smother a laugh, focusing on the whitewash of the room and the vapid painting of the ocean on the wall to scour my mind clean of the dirt it’s currently shoveling into its mouth by the truckload—what are her breasts like? She isn’t flat or small; her infamous tight outfit after the pictures spread had shown me that much. The latex revealed gently flared hips; good, strong thighs; a small waist I could fit in one hand—
“Okay. You can look.”
I turn just as she’s halfway into bed. She looks so much smaller in my billowy, oversize pirate shirt, so much more delicate. The swell of her chest is soft and considerable. With smeared makeup and only a shirt, she looks so vulnerable, so different from the persistent, confident hellion of the last two months. Her bare legs flash for an instant before she tucks them under the covers and pulls them up to her chin.
“It smells like you.” She smiles sleepily at me. I tamp down the excitement that courses through me at her words, unruly and out of place.
“I’ll be over here.” I sit in the chair.
“Okay. Good night.”
I flick the light off. “Good night.”
She slowly, so slowly, stops trembling. Her breathing evens out. When the last tremors cease, I finally lean back in the chair and close my eyes.