AGE FOURTEEN
“And now what?” I cross my arms over my chest, pretending I’m not in fact barely trying to toe the line. At this point, there’s no doubt that alcohol is probably flowing in my system instead of blood.
The cold air bites my skin with the consistency of a venomous snake, but I keep my lips shut to prevent my teeth from chattering.
Any semblance of warmth is provided by a hand that’s crushing mine. Anonymous’s strong fingers have been holding my own hostage for the past half an hour after he led me out of the house.
When I tried to protest, he said either I go along with this holding-hand thing or I could resume my previous position on his shoulder.
This asshole has an infuriating way of giving stupid choices that aren’t really choices in the first place.
We’re now walking down the streets that are filled with blinding lights and a horde of people.
I’ve never liked the nice side of town. So even when Callie comes here any chance she gets, I avoid it with everything in me.
The nice side of town smells of dollar bills, expensive perfumes, and a luxury we’re not allowed to breathe near. So until I make my own way to this place, I’d rather not be here.
Anonymous stares ahead, but he doesn’t seem absorbed in the festivities, the joy, or the endless people in costumes of different colors and shapes. If anything, he appears bored by it all. However, he still stands out in the middle of it, and that has little to do with his mask and more to do with his whole aura.
His black slacks and T-shirt stretch across his muscles, hinting at some sort of physical discipline. Which makes sense, considering the way he knocked someone out earlier. But there’s more perfection than his physical superiority. It’s his presence, his edge, and his well-spoken manner.
He’ll probably grow up to be a man of power, like the people my father works for.
Maybe he’ll be so much worse.
And yet, I can’t help being trapped in his orbit with no chances of ever wrenching myself out of this trance.
I’ve never felt so drawn to a person before, so caught up in someone that I want to hear their voice and stay in their presence for as long as possible.
“And now what?” I ask again.
“Now, we walk, femme fatale.”
“Can’t we do that without holding hands?”
“No, because you’ll run away.”
“This is called kidnapping.”
He tilts his head in my direction and for the dozenth time tonight, I wish I could take that mask off and see what’s truly beneath it. Is he really a monster?
“With all these people around?”
“The presence of people or the lack thereof doesn’t deny the kidnapping.”
He lifts a shoulder, his voice completely neutral. “I’m kidnapping you, then.”
My heart squeezes and my lips fall open. Is he for real? I mentioned kidnapping so it’d rattle him a little and he’d think that the hassle this situation presents isn’t worth it. I thought there was at least an eighty percent chance he’d let me go, but he completely ignored that risk factor.
“You really don’t care that I would report you to the police?”
“You have no evidence or facial description. Your report will sit on the incompetent police’s desk for days, months, and then will be thrown into the archives.”
I dig my nails into his hand and attempt to scratch the skin.
He tsks, voice dripping with amusement. “Do you watch CSI a lot?”
“What? Why?”
“I assume the show is behind your attempts to get some DNA off me. I advise you to drop it, though. Not only will you complicate things for yourself, but your parents might pay the price for dragging me through the mud. See, my father takes offense when the family name is touched, and he has dangerous friends.”
I don’t release my hold on his hand. In fact it, I dig my nails in deeper. “I don’t have parents.”
His pace slows and I suddenly become the sole subject of his previously scattered attention. The shift is subtle, but it’s so intense that I swallow.
“My, my. You keep getting more interesting. Why do you not have parents, femme fatale?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe I want it to become my business.”
“Why?” I meet the gleaming color of his eyes. They’re definitely light gray or dark blue—or a mixture of both. “Why would you want to know about me?”
“Because you interest me. Which, by the way, is an emotion hardly stirred within me.”
“Should I be honored?”
“Yes. You should also answer my question.”
“If I do, will you let me go?”
“I would say yes, but that would be a lie and I’m sure you don’t prefer that option. We should adopt an honesty policy.”
“Honesty is just an illusion invented by people to allow them to manipulate others.”
“You’re too smart.”
“For a girl or for my own good?”
“You’re too smart for your age. But that’s a good thing. If you use your brain the right way, you’ll go places.”
I pause, my nails subconsciously easing off his hand. That’s the first time someone has praised my brain without sounding condescending or full of pity. Even my teacher said being too smart is not a good thing for a woman on our side of the ghetto.
Aunt Sharon said it’ll get me killed.
And yet, this stranger, a boy in nothing more than a mask, said the words I’ve been longing to hear from someone.
Anyone.
As long as they believe in me. As long as someone out there wants to see past my origins and into my actual soul.
But then again, he doesn’t know where I come from, so maybe he’ll change his mind once he figures out my zip code.
“And how do you know that?” I ask, feeling a bit sober all of a sudden.
“I just do. Now, for that honesty policy. Care to take part in it?”
“Offer me something first.”
“Like?”
“Why did you take me—or, more accurately, kidnap me?”
“You heard a detail you shouldn’t have been privy to.”
“If you were so concerned about the arson or whatever your friends were plotting, you would’ve ratted me out or stayed to take part in the action. You definitely wouldn’t have chosen to promenade me like in some medieval time.”
His chuckle echoes in the air like the most haunting piece of music. And the worst part is that I can’t stop being drawn to it. I can’t stop staring at him and his height and broad shoulders.
“True on all accounts. The reason I took you, or kidnapped you as you prefer to label it, is as I previously mentioned, I’m bored and you’re interesting. In a nerdy kind of way, which is unusual for me. I only like girls’ bodies and have zero interest in their minds.”
“You’re a misogynistic pig.”
“And you’re a fan of labels. But I like your sense of intuition. It’s a fucking turn-on.”
My stomach cramps and I don’t understand the emotions that slash through it at the same time or how my temperature rises despite the cold.
He stops and my eyes widen when I expect him to do something. Instead, he picks a wide wool scarf from a vendor on the street, throws the man who sells them a one-hundred-dollar bill, then releases my hand to wrap the scarf around my neck and arms.
I stare up at him, dumbfounded.
“You might want to stop looking at me as if I’m the holy messiah. There’s nothing remotely sin-free about me.”
“Why did you buy me this?”
“Because judging by your chattering teeth and trembling limbs, you’re cold. This happens to be an easy fix.”
“I don’t want to owe you.”
“You don’t. Consider it compensation for kidnapping you.” His voice becomes amused at the last part.
And I can’t help the feeling of internal and external warmth that floods me.
He interlinks our fingers again and continues walking. We remain silent for a while, and I find myself too focused on his touch, his warmth, his fingers that stroke mine, then stop and start again in a chaotic yet soothing rhythm.
I pull the scarf tighter around me to hide my creepy attempt to breathe more of him in. It’s the first time I’ve found male cologne so…enticing.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks after a while, his head tilting to the side.
“Forgetting what?”
“I offered you a truth. Now, it’s your turn. Care to share?”
“There’s nothing to share. My mother died and my father is as good as dead.”
“As good as dead,” he repeats slowly. “I imagined that type would be common, but not this common.”
“You’re familiar with the experience?”
“If you mean having a useless father who would’ve been better off dead, then yes, I’m extremely familiar.” He strokes the back of my hand, but the gesture isn’t affectionate; however, it’s not threatening either.
It’s a mixture of both. The gray that slashes through the black and white.
The calm that precedes and comes after a storm.
Said storm manifests in his eyes as they pin me down through the mask. “Seems you and I have more in common than I initially thought. Maybe that’s why you stood out to me in the first place.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“If you’re lucky, neither. If not, both.”
“And how do I know whether or not I’m lucky?”
“You’ll know when it’s time.”
“Why can’t it be now?”
“There’s no excitement in knowing when the goal is going to score. Predictability is boring.”
“Not always.” I stare at him, once again trapped in the way his height and build nearly fill out the horizon. “And don’t tell me you’re a jock?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your analogy about goals.”
“Anyone could use that analogy. It’s not a privilege that’s exclusive to jocks.”
“Well, are you?”
“What if I am?”
“I would be surprised. You…seem well-read.”
“And all jocks are supposed to be fucking idiots? You know, those same stereotypes paint redheads as witches that should be burned at the stake.”
“I…didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that all the jocks I know are arrogant assholes.”
“And I’m the exception?”
“No, you’re the king of the crowd. Why did you become a jock when you seem well off?” The jocks from our school are chasing the NFL dream to switch social classes.
“To control the bursts of adrenaline.”
My steps falter, partly because of his answer. Partly due to his tightening hold on my hand. “Why do you need to control it?”
“Some of us are wired differently and have an abundance of that stuff, so we search for coping mechanisms to control it.” He motions ahead. “We’re here.”
I lift my head and realize that we’ve not only strayed away from the main street, but there are also no people, bright lights, or indistinct chatter.
In short, all the elements I used for some fake sense of protection.
The only thing that exists in front of me is a dark dirt road surrounded by tall bushes with no end in sight.
“What is this place?” I try and fail to prevent my voice from shaking.
“Privacy.”
“And who told you I want privacy?”
“You might not, but I do.”
“You promised we’d stay in a public place.”
“Never promised anything, I said I would grant you that option, and I did for the past hour or so.”
“Is that your way of making me lower my guard?”
“Could be. Is it working?”
My lips purse and moisture stings my eyes, and I hate this feeling of utter helplessness. I can’t believe I was lured by him. Not that I had any chance of pushing away his advances, but at some point, I thought maybe he cared.
Turns out, I’m the only one in that boat. Everything that led to this moment was probably calculated to have me fall for his charms.
And I did. With embarrassing ease.
“What will happen now?” I spit out to hide the pain. “If I say no, will you finish your friend’s job and force me?”
“Force you? No. Force you to admit you want this as much as I do? Yes.”
“And how will you do that?”
“I’m going to do something, and depending on your reaction, I’ll either keep you or let you go.”
I don’t get a chance to say anything, because he tugs on my hand that’s in his and brings me flush against his chest.
My heartbeat roars and I’m sure he can hear the frantic thumps against his rib cage. But any attempts to regulate it vanish in the cold air when he slowly lifts his mask.
I can’t breathe.
And it has everything to do with what I’m seeing.
He only revealed his square jaw and sensual lips, but it’s enough to make me yearn for more.
More of him.
Of this.
His eyes shine in the darkness from behind the mask as he dives straight to my lips, capturing them with a harshness that knocks the living breath out of my lungs.
My chest and stomach explode in a myriad of emotions as he thrusts his tongue inside and unapologetically feasts on mine.
Then two of his fingers clutch my chin, tilting it up to get more access. To devour me like an animal would.
Until I have no choice but to melt against him.
Logically, I should fight.
Logically, I should try to run.
But logic doesn’t exist on Devil’s Night.
Logic is the last thing on my mind as I let him ravage me with an intensity I’ve never experienced before.
Maybe I’ll never experience it again.
And I know, I just know that he probably won’t let me go.
And maybe I don’t want him to let me go either.
My thoughts are reinforced when he releases my lips, and whispers against them, “I decided to keep you, after all.”
