“I’m sorry,” I say. “You should go…back in and have fun. This is not fun. This is me dying.”
“You’re not dying.” He laughs.
“Yeah I am. A little faster than most people.”
Kieran’s face is blank, but Sophia’s words ring in my head, a welcome relief from Nameless. Where his sound is the bark of a mad dog tearing my throat out, she’s all crystal bells and raindrops.
No wonder Jack loved her.
No wonder Jack broke when he lost her.
No wonder he doesn’t want anyone else ever again. No one else can compare.
I laugh, but the laugh turns into something weird, and I start biting my arm to make it stop. Kieran pulls my arm away from my mouth, and I see the ring of darker red on my shirt sleeve but only faintly.
“You’re really freaking me out, Isis,” he says softly.
“I freak a lot of people out. I’m freaky. Halloweentown loves me. But nobody else does. Except my mom. My mom’s great, but sometimes I feel bad for leaving her behind.”
Kieran is silent. I feel the darkness start ebbing away, the streetlights bright and swollen like giant amber fireflies.
“There’s a guy,” I say, and laugh. “But that’s the story with every girl, isn’t it? There’s always a guy. Some guy. Some guy who hasn’t done something. And I like him.”
“If you like him, just go up and kiss him,” Kieran says.
“You do not know how things work very well, do you?”
Kieran laughs, and I clutch my head and lean on his shoulder. The night is too dark and he is too warm and I need someone, something solid beneath me. Someone to keep me from disappearing into the shadow half of my life. Or maybe it’s too late. Maybe I’ve already disappeared, and the darkness will be here always with only brief flashes of light, instead of the other way around. Guilt works its way into my stomach; Kieran shouldn’t be dabbling with a girl full of shadows. Why does he bother? Why does anyone bother?
It hits me then: there’s only one reason a guy would bother.
“Do you like me?” I ask Kieran. It’s forward, but I’m nothing if not forward and stupid.
Kieran coughs. “Well…uh…”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
No one else is going to want you.
“Do you want me?” I press my chest into his shoulder like I saw Hemorrhoid do to Jack. Kieran clears his throat.
“Yeah. I mean, since I met you, I—”
I lean up and kiss him, and he kisses back with a soft, fierce edge to it. It’s not Jack. It’s never Jack, but it will never be Jack again, and I don’t want to cry so I kiss harder, and longer, and Kieran’s hand slithers up my shirt and I let it—
“You!” A voice shouts at me.
“How do you listen to this crap?” Charlie snarls, turning off my opera music.
“I take it you aren’t a fan of Italian men singing their heart out over a woman?”
Charlie runs a hand through his spiked hair, rearranging it. “If I wanted to listen to assholes complain about bitches, I’d listen to Biggie Smalls. Or Nas.”
“Ah yes, because referring to women as ‘bitches’ will get you very far in life,” I say, and take a left turn at the stoplight.
“I don’t care about bitches, okay? They’re all whiny, and they want your money and they want you to dress nice and pick them up ice cream and huge diamond rings and I’m done with it. Just gonna focus on hustling for my mansion, and then I’ll buy me some bitches.”
“You won’t buy bitches or a mansion. You’ll buy a house for your grandmother.”
Charlie shoots me a sharp look, going red. “What kind of stupid shit is coming out of your mouth right now? I swear you get dumber every day.”
I park in front of a seedy club called Eternity. I can hardly bring myself to lash out at him with my usual ice. He’s so soft on the inside and trying to be so hard on the outside.
He reminds me of someone.
“Well,” I muster. “Hopefully you’re getting smarter, because one of us has to be coherent enough to interrogate the club’s owner.”
Charlie just grumbles, pulling a pair of brass knuckles on under his sleeve.
“You don’t need those,” I say. I set my phone to record at the push of a button, in order to get hard evidence on tape.
“I make it a policy to bring them to every club I go to,” Charlie scoffs. “Especially ones with drug-dealing scumbags.”
“His name is Terrance,” I say. “Not drug-dealing scumbag.”
“I don’t give a shit what his name is; let’s just beat the hell out of him.”
“No one beats anything.” I make my words steel, permafrost. “Brittany told me about him—Terrance is a businessman. He doesn’t like violence. He’s easily persuaded in a number of logical ways I’d be more than happy to enlighten you with.”
Charlie groans. “I don’t care. Let’s just do this. You can chat his ass up all you want, but if we ain’t getting anywhere with that, I’m moving to plan B.”
“The threat of violence is often more effective than violence itself. Someone soft and rich like Terrance will cave without a single punch.” I get out. He follows suit, a thoughtful look coming over his face.
“You might actually be right for once.” Charlie flashes his ID, and I do the same. The bouncer waves us through. “How’re you and Brittany doing, by the way?”
“Fine,” I respond automatically. “She’s very insistent.”
I don’t tell him about the rumors, because he’s heard them, of course. Brittany picked a fight with a girl at a party over me. She’s territorial to the extreme. I don’t tell him she is a thing, a means to an end I feel constantly sick about, the same way I always felt constantly and faintly nauseous working for Blanche and the Rose Club. Brittany’s a puppet stand-in I mentally paste over with forbidden memories of a girl I gave up for good.
“Is that what you call it?” Charlie barks a laugh, and we weave through the edges of the club crowd. “She’s banging down our door 24-7. She can barely hold herself back from jumping on your icicle dick before I’m out of the room.”
I shrug. Charlie studies me carefully.
“What was it you said you did before Gregory found you?” he asks. “Because I’ve seen ladies’ men, and even the best ones don’t got girls salivating over them in broad daylight like you do. What makes you so special?”
“I know how to treat women,” I say. “Step one—don’t call them bitches.”
“Unless they’re into that,” Charlie attempts to correct.
“Select few women are into degradation, and even then they only appreciate it in the bedroom. Never insult them out of it.”
As Charlie’s brain struggles to absorb this, I approach the VIP lounge door. Two bouncers flank it. One of them puts a hand out to stop me.
“Who’re you?” he asks.
“Step aside!” Charlie juts out his chin. “We’re here on business.”
“Give me a name or get out,” the bouncer insists.
“Jack Hunter,” I say. “We’re here to see Terrance. He’s expecting us.”
The bouncer turns away and touches his ear, speaking into an earpiece. After several seconds, he turns back and opens the door with his meaty hand. Charlie salutes him as he walks in, and I slide in after. The music dulls, champagne cooling in an ice bucket on the black glass table. The couches are leather—real and shining sleekly under the lights. Two other bouncers are sitting on them, drinking champagne and tapping away on their cell phones. They are huge and beefy, but it’s nothing Charlie can’t handle with an element of surprise—he’s a furious Tasmanian devil in a fight, and all I ever have to do is mop up the pieces.
They look up when we come in and pat us down quickly. Charlie complains, but I silence him with a look as another man walks in and sits down. His pin-striped suit is impeccable—though he’s overweight, it fits him very well. His hair is thin and g
ray and balding on the very top, his eyes watery and his skin a nut-brown from obsessive tanning sessions. Dozens of rings are stacked on his fingers—real gemstones, as far as I can tell. Clear, no flaws. This man is very rich and very well connected.
“Gentlemen!” Terrance smiles, sweeping his hands out and then offering one to me. “Welcome to my office. Glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“It’s good to be here,” I say, and shake his hand. We sit, and Terrance starts pouring champagne.
“Need a drink?”
“We’ll pass, thank you,” I insist. “We wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time than is necessary.”
Terrance raises an eyebrow, then laughs a full belly laugh. “Concise and ready to get down and dirty right away. I like that. You rarely see that kind of single-minded dedication in your generation these days.”
Terrance drains his glass, then claps his hands.
“All right, so what’s your offer? I’ve already got guys on campus giving me cuts on my supply. What do you think you have that’s better, huh?”
“Information,” I say.
“Yeah? You know somebody better?”
“First, I’d like you to fulfill your end of the bargain. The names, if you will.”
“Oh, see”—Terrance clicks his tongue—“I can’t just do that without any assurance I’m gonna be getting something good. It’s not right. I like those guys. Giving them up for bad info would go against my business practices.”
“Listen, buddy—” Charlie snaps. The bouncers lean in suddenly, and I put my hand across Charlie’s chest to stop him.
“Terrance.” I stare into his eyes. “Our boss has told us much about you, but this excellent club tells us more. You’re very good at what you do.”
Terrance relaxes, and his bodyguards relax with him.
“I am. Thank you. Always good to get a little recognition where it’s deserved.”
“So I know that a businessman as skilled as yourself is very keen on gaining assets, not losing them.”
Terrance narrows his eyes. “Go on.”
“There are some people who have suddenly become very interested in ‘your guys.’”
His eyes flash, and his fist tightens, but he keeps his voice cool and level. A true professional.
“Yeah? How important are these people we’re talking about here?”
I smile. “I’m so sorry, Terrance. But without names, that’s all I can tell you.”
I watch the gears sync up in his mind—I’ve told him law enforcement is looking into his MDMA suppliers. These Gatekeeper suppliers give him a huge discount, and with a booming college town party scene right here in his club, the profits are no doubt enormous. But without knowing who exactly the authorities are, he’s reluctant to give us the names and therefore lose the discount. If it’s just the local police, he could bribe them. But if it’s the less corruptible DEA—
“Bill,” Terrance finally says. “I think one of them is named Bill, or Will, or something like that. His last name is complicated, C-something. Caraway? Carlsbad?”
“Cavana?” I try, feigning innocence.
“Cavanaugh, that’s it.” Terrance points. “Now, you tell me who’s after them, and I’ll give you the other name.”
“How do we know you won’t just tell them and they’ll split?” Charlie snarls. Terrance smiles at him like he’s a child.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. We cut all ties with the ones who are being investigated, for our own safety, you understand.”
Terrance looks back to me, and I lean in, lowering my voice with the lie that comes out.
“DEA. Cyber-crime ops. Your boys help out a larger group on the internet black market. Hackers, mostly.”
Terrance nods, putting his fingers to his lips. “Hacking isn’t my thing—the internet isn’t my thing in general. I prefer to conduct business old-school.”
“Which is why you’d do well to cut them off,” I say. “This is far bigger than club drugs. We’re talking meth. Human trafficking.”
“You don’t have any proof,” he shoots back. I pull out one of the three USB’s Vanessa supplied with the dossiers, containing any and all material on Will’s misdeeds.
“If you need some time to look at it, I understand,” I say as I hand it to him.
Terrance studies the USB, then looks back up at me and inhales sharply through his teeth before he hands it back to me.
“Dammit. I knew it was too good to be true. They’re always a little more crooked than you’d like, aren’t they? You’ve got your name—Kyle Morris. Easier to remember than the other one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.”
We get up, and he shakes my hand before we’re escorted promptly out of the lounge. The music blares again, the smell of sweat and cloying perfume practically assaulting me. Charlie follows me to the door, and he doesn’t ask questions until we’re on the curb.
“Why’d you lie? We ain’t DEA.”
“We aren’t anything,” I say. “We’re third-party contractors hired by someone we don’t know the identity of. We had to bluff.”
Charlie makes a face but doesn’t argue. “I guess Gregory was right to put you on this shit. You know some things.”
It’s as close to a compliment as I’ll get from him, but I only barely hear it. My eyes are riveted to the curb, where two students are kissing fervently. The boy has dark hair and huge arms and is sliding his hand up the girl’s red shirt, a shirt I recognize very well from a certain day in a certain high school after certain photos were posted around, and her makeup’s darker and bolder than I’ve ever seen it, and she looks so skinny, so small against his huge hands and face as their lips meet, her hair wild around her cheeks—the passion in the kiss so bright, so tangible—and my body stops responding, my blood pumping hot and hard through every vein as the beast in me begins to growl.
“You!” Charlie shouts. The boy pulls back, and Isis Blake looks up with surprised eyes.
I yank on my own chain, pulling myself inward so I won’t explode outward. I bring up every lesson of Gregory’s in rapid time, his advice and the steps and methods colliding in a desperate attempt to regain control. She is kissing someone else, but I have no jurisdiction. I have no right. I broke her and I left her, and she is free to kiss whomever she wants. She deserves to be in love with whomever she wants, whenever she wants. I have no right. I have no right. She is not mine and I have no right, I gave up that chance, he is better than me, he is kind to her, he has to be kind to her or I’ll rip out his throat—
Isis smiles, holding a hand up. “Hey, Tiny Balls,” she says to Charlie. “What’s up?”
His hackles go up. “Tiny what? Fuck you, bitch!”
I’m about to lunge for him when the dark-haired boy does it for me. He gets in Charlie’s face, his green eyes furious.
“What did you just say to her?”
Before Charlie can throw a punch, I step between them, staring into the boy’s eyes. He’s the same height as I am, but his shoulders are much broader, and his core radiates muscle and power. A jock. Surprising—I didn’t think she’d go for one of them.
“I apologize,” I say icily, “for my friend’s behavior. He doesn’t know how to rein himself in sometimes.”
I dare to glance at Isis over the boy’s shoulder, and our eyes meet, the thorns digging in until she looks away first. The thought of her kissing him, kissing someone who isn’t me with genuine want, makes me sick. But I swallow it. I have no right to feel this way.
“Kieran,” Isis says. “It’s okay! Really. I know them. He’s just kidding around.”
Kieran’s breathing evens out, his eyes never leaving mine as he steps away.
“Fine. But if he says it again—”
“He won’t,” I add. Charlie opens his mouth to argue, but I shoot him the deadliest look I can, and he falls silent. I turn back to Kieran and Isis. “We’ll be leaving. My apologies for interrupting your evening.”
>
It’s the first time she and I have been within speaking distance in weeks. Her cheeks are thin, though she tried to cover them up with blush. The dark circles under her eyes are so obvious it’s painful to look at. But through all the pain she is lovely, more lovely than any girl I’ve seen—all red silk and dark-lined, catlike cinnamon eyes. The purposeful deadening of my senses I practiced in order to endure Brittany shatters, crumbling as every muscle begs to hold her, to stroke her wild hair, to kiss away her frown lines.
Charlie breaks the moment first, snarling some swear words as he trudges toward the car. I put a hand on Kieran’s shoulder and soften my voice so only he can hear it.
“Please,” I say. “Be gentle with her. Be good to her. She’s a very special girl.”
“To you?” Kieran murmurs.
Yes. To me.
“In general,” I say instead. “She means a great number of things to many people. We all want to see her happy.”
Kieran is quiet. Isis shuffles nervously behind him, hugging herself. Kieran finally speaks.
“You’re the guy, huh?”
“What?”
“The one she talks about.” Kieran sucks in a breath. “Damn, dude, do you know how fucked up she is? How much you’ve fucked her up?”
I spot it then, through the guilt his words punch into me. I stride over and touch her left wrist.
“What happened to your arm?”
Isis shivers, looking everywhere but at my face. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Isis, there’s blood—” I swear under my breath as I gingerly pull back the stained sleeve and reveal the indented teeth marks, welling with dark blood. “Who did this to you?”
“No one!” She whimpers. “I did it…I think? I don’t know—it doesn’t hurt. I didn’t know it was that bad—”
“Look at me,” I say. She twists away, but I use a harder voice. “Isis, look at me.”
She turns her face slowly, eyes meek and so un-Isis-like I barely recognize them. But I recognize the enlarged pupils, the way she’s sweating, and her breathing.