Unwilling to play along, Mara just shakes her head. “Bullshit! I do. And I’ll owe ya one for life. Just… Just don’t tell anyone about that shit, okay?” She eyes me warily, biting her lower lip. “Rafe is a total dick, but he’s harmless if you don’t piss him off. Think of him as more of a gatekeeper. Living around here, you were bound to meet him anyway.”
I don’t miss the resignation in her voice. “Who is he?” I ask.
“Just the local, resident asshole,” she says. “Let’s say his uncle commands a lot of respect, and Rafe thinks he’s hot shit just because he handles business for him.”
“Business?”
She rolls her eyes. “Being a dick to all of the local business owners so that they pay him. All so that he and his merry band of assholes don’t become bigger dicks. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds.” She swipes at her cheek, and I stare in alarm.
We’re nearing the intersection that joins this backstreet with the main road. It’s brighter here, and I can make out the telltale smudges disrupting her once perfectly applied eyeliner. She was crying—she was that scared.
“Are you okay?” I place my free hand on her shoulder, sensing the slight tremors wracking her slender frame. “Mara—”
“Rafe and those guys… They’re just punks, alright? It’s nothing.” She faces ahead, squaring her shoulders even though her grip on my wrist remains so tight her nails are digging into my skin. “Don’t worry about them. They won’t mess with you again. But damn, girl… You have balls; I will say that.”
“Huh?”
She shoots me a funny look. “I’ve never seen anyone stare him down like that. It was as though you weren’t afraid of anything. And he liked it. All the dumb bitches around here throw themselves at Rafe, but I’ve never seen him get a hard-on like that without anyone flashing their tits at least.” Genuine awe taints her tone, and I shake my head, my cheeks burning.
“Yeah, right.”
“Yeah. I’m right,” Mara says without missing a beat. “It’s a good thing you’re a nice, wholesome girl. It’s better if you stay away from him. Though, he is cute.” She frowns, her eyes narrowing. “If he weren’t such an asshole, I’d even let him ink me.”
“Ink?” I feel my cheeks heat further. Despite my designation as a twentysomething, modern-day slang isn’t my forte. “Is that a weird way of saying hook up?”
“No. He runs a tattoo shop downtown, though he’s exclusive about who he takes as a client. It’s invitation-only as though he’s some kind of ‘illustrious artiste.’” She makes finger quotes. “I did hear he was a good fuck, though.”
In my brain, those facts don’t negate his obvious instability. Certainly not enough to explain the genuine appreciation coloring her voice. “Good sex makes up for him being a psycho?”
“Of course not.” Mara sighs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not a slut or anything, Mother Theresa,” she mutters, her frown apologetic. “I just have eyes. Some of us can’t be innocent little virgins who cast judgment on the rest of us sinful mortals.”
“I’m not judging you,” I say.
“Sure, you aren’t.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re such a cliché. The sheltered, sweet writer girl who loves to people watch, sneering down on the fuckups of us normies. Let’s be honest, you wouldn’t even be friends with me if I weren’t such a pushy bitch.” She crosses her arms, convinced of that fact. “I don’t even know a damn thing about you, other than you write morbid short stories about monsters and drowning people. If I didn’t know any better, Dewitt, I’d assume you were ashamed of me.”
It’s my turn to play skeptical. “Says the girl who impressed so many professors on campus that they’ve practically begged for you to take their classes next semester.” Meanwhile, I had to rest on my grades to score the next credits I need. “I’m the idiot who banked all of my hopes on one program.”
“Well, there is that,” she concedes, beaming. “But it’s not like you don’t have a shot at entering the Fenwick program next year. I haven’t even bothered to apply, and don’t give me that look. Anyone would kill for that internship.”
“Like I really have any chance of winning,” I say with a forced laugh.
“Yeah, right. Your shit is so good you’ve already made the paper. I’m sure you’ll ace the entry essay. What’s the topic again?”
“Inner demons,” I say, recalling the assignment that’s been plaguing me since the semester ended. “We’re supposed to describe a narrative during which we faced an inner demon—”
“But with fancy descriptive prose. You’re the queen of that. If anything, tonight just gave you plenty of inspiration to draw from. ‘Inner Demon’ could perfectly fit Rafe Wei-Shen,” Mara declares with utter conviction. The tears have already vanished, and she’s back to her usual self. “Anyway, about tomorrow. Promise you’ll come?”
“I have to work. Mr. Zhang wanted me to stay late tomorrow to help close up the store.”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be great. You can trial balloon your essay!” She delves into a vivid description of how much fun it will be—how exhilarating—much like she had to convince me to come with her tonight. Though I barely register her words, I nod along anyway.
I’m too busy staring at the object clutched within my fist as if it appeared there by magic. Or… if I’d stuck my hand into a certain “punk’s” pocket and took it while he was distracted.
Stole it.
The brilliant orange ombre lighter looks more beautiful up close. Too lovely to belong to a monster—though one is etched onto the front of it in gleaming, brilliant gold.
A snarling, fire-breathing dragon.
Not all monsters are destined to be bad in the end. I’ll save this one.
Or at least protect it from its original owner’s reach.
Chapter Two
Hell.
Cigarette smoke.
Ash.
I can still smell him right up until the second I open my eyes…
Then poof. He’s gone like magic, and a new day begins fresh.
I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing things since childhood. With a little determination, scary events become nightmare fodder easily ignored during the daytime. When I wake up, thoughts of strange men and their taunts are a long-forgotten memory.
It’s how I cope.
As is rifling through the old shoebox tucked beneath my bed the second I lift my head from my pillow. A yawn stretches my mouth as I feel along the floor for the box, drag it out, and tug aside the lid. One by one, I grasp the objects inside it.
The first is just an old newspaper clipping, the headline unoriginal—Local Girl Found Drowned in Lake Beaver. I set it aside and run my fingers over the items resting beneath it. An old piece of taffy long past its sell-by date. A handful of unopened ChapSticks. Two never-used bottles of nail polish. A gold bracelet decorated in tiny, delicately crafted ivory daisies. And finally, the newest member of my collection—a gold lighter that feels dangerous when held after the others.