Dear Misha,
What. The. Hell?
Yeah, you heard me. I said it. I might also say this will be my last letter, but I know that’s not true. I’m not going to give up on you. You made me promise I wouldn’t, so here I am. Still Miss Fucking Reliable after three months of no word from you. Hope you’re having fun, wherever you are, douchebag.
(But seriously, don’t be dead, okay?)
You have the notes on the lyrics I sent with my previous letters. Kind of wishing I made copies now, since I feel like you’re gone for good, but what’s the point? Those words are meant for you and only you, and even if you’re not reading the letters or even getting them anymore, I need to send them. I like knowing they’re in search of you.
On the current news front, I got into college. Well, a few, actually. It’s funny. I’ve wanted everything in my life to change for so long, and when it’s finally about to, my urge to escape slows down. I think that’s why people stay unhappy for so long, you know? Miserable or not, it’s easier to stick with what’s familiar.
Do you notice that, too? How all of us just want to get through life as quickly and as easily as possible? And even though we know that without risk there’s no reward, we’re still so scared to chance it?
I’m afraid, to be honest. I keep thinking things won’t be any different at college. I still don’t know what I want to do. I won’t be any more confident or sure about my decisions. I’ll still pick the wrong friends and date the wrong guys.
So, yeah. I’d love to hear from you. Tell me you’re too busy to keep this up or that we’re getting too old to be pen pals, but just tell me one last time that you believe in me and that everything’s going to be fine. Shit always sounds better coming from you.
I Don’t Miss You, Not Even a Little,
Ryen
P.S. If I find out you’re ditching me for a car, a girl, or the latest Grand Theft Auto video game, I’m going to troll the Walking Dead message boards under your name.
Capping my silver-inked pen, I take the two pieces of black paper and tap them on my lap desk before folding them in half. Stuffing them in the matching black envelope, I pick up the black sealing wax stick and hold it over the candle sitting on my bedside table, lighting the wick.
Three months.
I frown. He’s never been quiet this long before. Misha often needs his space, so I’m used to spells of not hearing from him, but something is going on.
The wax starts to melt, and I hold it over the envelope, letting it drip. After I blow out the flame, I pick up the stamp and press it into the wax, sealing the letter and finding the fancy, black skull of the imprint staring back at me.
A gift from Misha. He got tired of me using the one I got when I was eleven with a Harry Potter Gryffindor seal on it. His sister, Annie, kept making fun of him, screaming that his Hogwarts letter had arrived.
So he sent me a more “manly” seal, telling me to use that or nothing at all.
I’d laughed. Fine, then.
When we first began writing each other years ago, it was a complete mistake. Our fifth-grade teachers tried to pair up our classes as pen pals according to sex to make it more comfortable, but his name is Misha and my name is Ryen, so his teacher thought I was a boy, and my teacher thought he was a girl, etc.
We didn’t get along at first, but we soon found that we had one thing in common. Both of us have parents who split early on. His mom left when he was two, and I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since I was four. Neither of us really remember them.
And now, after seven years and with high school almost over, he’s become my best friend.
Climbing off my bed, I slap a stamp on the letter and set it on my desk to mail in the morning. I walk back, putting my stationery supplies back in my bedside table.
Straightening, I place my hands on my hips and blow out an uneasy breath.
Misha, where the hell are you? I’m drowning here.
I guess I can Google him if I’m that worried. Or search him on Facebook or go to his house. He’s only thirty miles away, and I have his address, after all.
But we promised each other. Or rather I made him promise. Seeing each other, where we live, meeting the people the other one talks about in their letters, it’ll ruin the world we created.
Right now, Misha Lare, with all of his imperfections, is perfect in my head. He listens, pumps me up, takes the pressure off, and has no expectations of me. He tells the truth, and he’s the one place I never have to hide.
How many people have someone like that?
And as much as I want answers, I just can’t give that up yet. We’ve been writing for seven years. This is a part of me, and I’m not sure what I would do without it. If I search him out, everything will change.
No. I’ll wait a little longer.
I look at the clock, seeing that it’s almost time. My friends will be here in a few minutes.
Picking up a piece of chalk out of the tray on my desk, I walk to the wall next to my bedroom door and continue drawing little frames around the pictures I’d taped up. There are four.
Me last fall in cheerleading, surrounded by girls who look exactly like me. Me last summer in my Jeep, with my friends piled in the back. Me in eighth grade celebrating 80’s Day, smiling and posing with my whole class.
In every picture, I’m up front. The leader. Looking happy.
And then there’s the picture in fourth grade. Years earlier. Sitting alone on a bench on the playground, forcing a half-smile for my mom who brought me to Movie Night at my school. All the other kids are running around, and every time I ran up and tried to join in, they acted like I wasn’t there. They always ran off without me and never waited. They wouldn’t include me in their conversations.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I reach out and touch the face in the picture. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. Like I was at a party I wasn’t invited to.
God, how I’ve changed.
“Ryen!” I hear someone call from the hallway.
I sniffle and quickly wipe away a tear as my sister opens my door and waltzes into my room without knocking. I clear my throat, pretending to work on the wall as she peeks around the door.
“Bedtime,” she says.
“I’m eighteen,” I point out like that should explain everything.
I don’t look at her as I color in the same section I finished yesterday. I mean, really? It’s ten o’clock, and she’s only a year older. I’m more responsible than she is.
I can smell her perfume, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that her blonde hair is down. Great. That probably means she has some guy coming over and will be well-distracted when I slip out of the house in a bit.
“Mom texted,” she tells me. “Did you finish Math?”
“Yes.”
“Government?”
“I finished my outline,” I say. “I’ll work on the paper this weekend.”
“English?”
“I posted my review for Brave New World on Goodreads and sent Mom the link.”
“What book did you pick next?” she asks.
I scowl at the wall as white shavings drift to the floor. “Fahrenheit 451.”
She scoffs. “The Jungle, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451…” she goes on, listing my latest non-school books Mom gives me extra allowance to read. “God, you have boring taste in books.”
“Mom said to choose modern classics,” I argue back. “Sinclair, Huxley, Orwell…”
“I think she meant like The Great Gatsby or something.”
I close my eyes and drop my head back, releasing a snore before popping it back up again, mocking her.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a brat.”
“When in Rome…”
My sister graduated last year and goes to the local college while living at home. It’s a great arrangement for our mom, who’s an event coordinator and is frequently out of town for festivals, concerts, and expos. She doesn’t want to leave me alone.
But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. I make better grades and stay out of trouble—as far as they’re aware—a hell of a lot better than her.
Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.
Like I’m going to tell our mom.
Like I care.
“I’m just saying,” she says, planting a hand on her hip, “those books are a lot to wrap your head around.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” I play along. “All those big concepts inside my itty bitty brain. It’s enough to make me feel as dumb as a bag of wet hair.” And then I assure her, “But don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I need help. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning.”
She shoots me a little snarl and glances at my wall. “I can’t believe Mom let you do this to your room.”
And then she spins around and pulls the door closed.
I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. Misha’s lyrics are scattered over the wide expanse, as well as my own thoughts, ideas, and little scribbles.
There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. It’s a place where I don’t invite anyone. Especially my friends. They’ll just make a joke out of my really bad artwork that I love and Misha’s and my words.
I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when they don’t. Some things stay hidden.
My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up.
Outside, the text reads.
Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in a minute.
Finally. I have to get out of here.
Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor. I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts.
Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie.
The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.
I’m coming. I’m coming.
Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.
Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits.
I pull open the car door.
“Hey,” Lyla greets from the driver’s seat as I climb in. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod.
Slamming the door closed, I bend over and slip into my sandals, shivering. “Shit. I can’t believe how chilly it still is. Tomorrow morning’s practice is going to suck.”
It’s April, so it’s warming up during the day, but the early morning and evening temperatures still drop below fifty. I should’ve worn pants.
“Flip flops?” Lyla asks, sounding confused.
“Yeah, we’re going to the beach.”
“Nope,” Ten chimes in from the back. “We’re going to the Cove. Didn’t Trey text you?”
I look over my shoulder at him. The Cove? “I thought they posted a caretaker on site to keep people out.”
He shrugs, a mischievous look in his eyes.
Oooookay. “Well, if we get caught, you two are the first ones I’m throwing under the bus.”
“Not if we throw you first,” Lyla sing-songs, staring out at the road.
Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused. The thing about being a leader is that someone’s always trying to take your job. I was joking with my comment. I don’t think she was.
Lyla and Ten—a.k.a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. We’ve known each other throughout middle school and high school, Lyla and I cheer together, and they’re like my suit of armor.
Yeah, they can be uncomfortable, they make too much noise, and they don’t always feel good, but I need them. You don’t want to be alone in high school, and if you have friends—good ones or not—you have a little power.
High school is like prison in that way. You can’t make it on your own.
“I’ve got Chucks on the floor back there,” Lyla tells Ten. “Get them for her, would you?”
He dips down, rustling through what is probably a mountain of crap on the floor of the 90’s BMW Lyla’s mom passed down to her.
Ten drops one shoe over the seat and then hands me the other one as soon as he finds it.
“Thanks.” I take the shoes, slip off my sandals, and begin putting them on.
I’m grateful for the shoes. The Cove will be filthy and wet.
“I wish I’d known sooner,” I say, thinking out loud. “I would’ve brought my camera.”
“Who wants to take pictures?” Lyla shoots back. “Go find some dark little Tilt-a-Whirl car when we get there and show Trey what it means to be a man.”
I lean back in my seat, casting a knowing smile. “I think plenty of girls have already done that.”
Trey Burrowes isn’t my boyfriend, but he definitely wants the perks. I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length for months.
About to graduate like us, Trey has it all. Friends, popularity, the world bowing at his precious feet… But unlike me, he loves it. It defines him.
He’s an arrogant mouth-breather with a marshmallow for a brain and an ego as big as his man-boobs. Oh, excuse me. They’re called pecs.
I close my eyes for a second and breathe out. Misha, where the hell are you? He’s the only one I can vent to.
“Well,” Lyla speaks slowly, staring out the window. “He hasn’t had you, and that’s what he wants. But he’s only going to chase for so long, Ryen. It won’t take him long to move onto someone else.”
Is that a warning? I peer at her out of the corner of my eye, feeling my heart start to race.
What are you going to do, Lyla? Sweep in and take him from under me if I don’t put out? Delight in my loss when he gets tired of waiting and screws someone else? Is he doing someone else right now? Maybe you?
I fold my arms over my chest. “Don’t be concerned about me,” I say, toying right back. “When I’m ready, he’ll come running. No matter whom he’s killing time with.”
Ten laughs quietly from the backseat, always in my corner and having no idea I’m talking about Lyla.
Not that I care if Trey comes running or not. But she’s trying to bait me, and she knows better.
Lyla and I are both brats, but we’re very different. She craves attention from men, and she’ll almost always give them what they want, confusing shallow affection for real feelings. Sure, she’s dating Trey’s friend, J.D., but it wouldn’t surprise me to see her go after Trey, too.
Winning a guy makes her feel above us all. They have girlfriends, but they want her. It makes her feel powerful.
Until she realizes they want anyone, and then she’s right back where she started.
Me, on the other hand? I’m weak. I just want to get through the day as easily as possible. No matter who I step on to do it. Something I learned not long after that picture of me sitting alone on that bench on Movie Night was taken.
Now I’m not alone anymore, but am I happier? The jury’s still out on that.
Reap, reap, reap, you don’t even know, all you did suffer is what you did sow.
I smile small at Misha’s lyrics. He sent them to me in a letter once to see what I thought, and they make a lot of sense. I asked for this, didn’t I?
“I hate this road,” Ten pipes up. His voice is filled with discomfort, and I blink, leaving my thoughts.
I turn my head out the window to see what he’s talking about.
The headlights of Lyla’s car burn a hole in the night as the light breeze makes the leaves on the trees flutter, showing the only sign of life out on this tunnel-like highway. Dark, empty, and silent.
We’re on Old Pointe Road between Thunder Bay and Falcon’s Well.
I turn my head over my shoulder, speaking to Ten. “People die everywhere.”
“But not so young,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Poor kid.”
A few months ago, a jogger named Anastasia Grayson, who was only a year younger than us, was found dead on the side of this very road. She had a heart attack, although I’m not sure why. Like Ten said, it’s unusual for someone so young to die like that.
I’d written to Misha about it, to see if he knew her, since they lived in the same town, but it was in one of the many letters he never responded to.
Taking a right onto Badger Road, Lyla digs in her console and pulls out a tube of lip gloss. I roll down the window, taking in the crisp, cool sea air.
The Atlantic Ocean sits just over the hills, but I can already smell the salt in the air. Living several miles inland, I barely even notice it, but coming to the beach—or the Cove, the old theme park near the beach where we’re going—feels like another world. The wind washes over me, and I can almost feel the sand under my feet.
I wish we were still going to the beach.
“J.D.’s already here,” Lyla points out, pulling into an old, nearly deserted, parking lot. Her headlights fall on a dark blue GMC Denali sitting haphazardly in no designated space. I guess the paint marking where to park wore off long ago.
Waist-high weeds sway in the breeze from where they sprout up through the cracks in the pavement, and only the moon casts enough light to reveal what lies beyond the broken-down ticket booths and entrances. Looming still and dark, towers and buildings sit in the distance, and I spot several massive structures, one in the shape of a circle—most likely a Ferris wheel.
As I turn my head in a one-eighty, I see other similar constructions scattered about, taking in the bones of old roller coasters that sit quiet and haunting.
Lyla turns off the engine and grabs her phone and keys as we all exit the car. I try to peer through the gates and around the dilapidated ticket booths to see what lies beyond in the vast amusement park, but all I can make out are dark doorways, dozens of corners, and sidewalks that go on and on. The wind that courses through the broken windows sounds like whispers.
Too many nooks and crannies. Too many hiding places.
I pull up the sleeves of my hoodie, all of a sudden not feeling so cold. Why the hell are we here?
Looking to my right, I notice a black Ford Raptor sitting under a cover of trees on the edge of the parking lot, and the windows are blacked out. Is someone inside?
A shiver runs up my spine, and I rub my arms.
Maybe one of Trey’s or J.D.’s friends brought their own car tonight.
“Hoo, hoo, hoo,” a voice calls out, imitating an owl. I tear my eyes away from the Raptor, and we all look up in the direction of the noise.
“Oh, my God!” Lyla bursts out, laughing. “You guys are crazy!”
I shake my head as Ten and Lyla hoot and holler, running toward the Ferris wheel just inside the gate. Scaling the grungy yellow poles about fifty feet above us, between the cars of the old ride, is Lyla’s boyfriend, J.D., and his buddy, Bryce.
“Come on,” Lyla says, climbing over the guard rail toward the Ferris wheel. “Let’s go see.”
“See what?” I ask. “Rides that don’t run?”
She races off, ignoring me, and Ten laughs.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me away from the ride.
I follow him as we head deeper into the park, both of us wandering down the wide lanes that were once packed with crowds of people. I look left and right, equal parts fascinated and creeped out.
Doors hang off hinges, creaking in the breeze, and moonlight glimmers off the glass lying on the ground beneath broken windows. The wind blows through the elephant and hot air balloon cars on the kids’ rides, and everything is hollow and dark. We walk past the carousel, and I see rain puddles sitting on the platform and dirt coating the chipped paint of the horses.
I remember riding that when I was little. It’s one of the only memories I have of my father before he split.
The yelling and squealing of our friends fade away as we keep walking farther into the park, our pace slowing as I take in how much still remains.
This place used to be full of laughter and screams of delight, and now it’s abandoned and left to decay alone, all of the joy it once contained forgotten.
A few short years. That’s all it’s been since Adventure Cove closed its gates.
But regardless, deserted and neglected, it’s still here. I inhale a deep breath, taking in the smell of old wood, moisture, and salt. Deserted and neglected, I’m still here, I’m still here, I’ll always be here…
I laugh to myself. There’s a song lyric for you, Misha.
I stroll behind Ten, thinking of all the musings I’ve mailed my pen pal over the years that he’s turned into songs. If he ever makes it big, he owes me royalties.
“Kind of sad,” Ten says, wandering past gaming booths and letting his hand graze the wooden frames. “I remember coming here. Still feels like it’s alive, doesn’t it?”
The night wind sweeps down the empty lanes between the booths and food stands, sending my fly-aways floating around me. The air wraps around my legs and blows against my sweatshirt, plastering it to my body like a skin as chills start to spread up my neck.
All of a sudden I feel surrounded.
Like I’m inside the still funnel of a violent tornado.
Like I’m being watched.
I cross my arms over my chest as I hurry up next to Ten. “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to cover my jitters with annoyance.
He pulls at the shutter of one of the wooden gaming booths, and although it gives a little, it won’t lift completely due to the padlock keeping it shut. “Getting you a teddy bear,” he answers as if I should’ve known that.
“You really think they still have prizes in there after all these years?”
“Well, it’s locked, isn’t it?”
I chuckle and continue to watch as he grabs the side with both hands and heaves backward.
“J.D., stop it!” Lyla’s voice rings out in the distance, and I look up to see their dark forms still climbing the Ferris wheel.
“Aha!” Someone else laughs.
Ten gives up on the yanking and starts inspecting the lock, as if he can just pull it open, when I drop my gaze and notice the grungy and shredded red and white plastic table skirt underneath the shutter on the bottom half of the booth.
I lightly kick my foot out, seeing the plastic give way as it flaps back and forth, indicating Ten’s way in.
He stops, forgetting the shutter, and scowls at the skirt. “I knew that.”
“Then go get me a teddy bear,” I demand, giving him a small smile.
And he dips down on his hands and knees, mumbling as he crawls through the table skirt. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Use your phone for light!” I shout as he disappears inside.
“Duh.”
I laugh at his muffled attitude. Out of everyone I call a friend at school, Ten is the closest to the real deal. Not as close as Misha, but close. I don’t have to fake it much around him.
The only thing that holds me back from getting too attached to him is his friendship with Lyla. If I left the security of my fragile little circle, would he come with me?
I honestly don’t know.
“No teddy bears!” he calls. “But they have inflatables!”
Like beach balls?
“Are they still inflatable?” I joke.
But he doesn’t answer.
I lean in close to the shutter, training my ears. “Ten?”
I hear nothing.
The hair on my arms stand on end, and I straighten, calling again, this time louder. “Ten? Are you okay?”
But then something wraps around my waist, and I jump, sucking in a breath as a voice growls deep in my ear, “Welcome to the Carnival, little girl.”
My heart pounds in my ears, and I yank away, whipping around to find Trey holding a flashlight under his chin. The glow illuminates his face, emphasizing his devilish grin.
Jerk.
He smiles from ear to ear, his light-brown hair and cocoa eyes shining. Dropping the flashlight, he rushes up to me, and I barely have enough time to catch a breath before he dips down, lifts me off my feet, and tosses me over his shoulder.
“Trey!” I growl, his shoulder bone digging into my stomach. “Knock it off!”
He laughs, slapping me on the ass, and I cringe, feeling his hand graze down my thigh.
“Now, dumbass!” I shout, slapping him on the back.
He continues to chuckle as he sets me back on my feet, keeping his arm around my waist.
“Mmmm, come here,” he says as he backs me into the wall of the booth. “So you gotta taunt me, huh?” His knuckles brush the front of my bare thigh. “You wear that little cheerleading skirt at school, where I can’t touch you, and now when I can, you wear shorts.”
“What?” I play with him. “My legs look different in a skirt?”
“No, they look great either way.” He leans in, the beer on his breath making me wince a little. “I just can’t stick my hand up a pair of shorts.”
And then he tries to as if proving a point.
I knock his hands away. “Yeah, the thing is…” I say. “A boy whines. A man doesn’t let anything get in his way. Shorts or no shorts.”
His eyes fall down my body and raise again, boring into mine. “I want to take you out.”
“Yeah, I know what you want.”
Trey’s been flirting for a while, and I know exactly what’s on his mind, and it isn’t dinner and a movie. If I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. I may not need a ring on my finger to have fun with someone, but I also don’t want to be a notch on his belt.
So I don’t give in to him. But I don’t reject him, either. I know what happened to the last girl who did that.
“You want it, too,” he shoots back, his wide shoulders and hard chest crowding me in. “I’m the shit, baby, and I always get what I want. It’s only a matter of time.”
I stare right through his ego, seeing a guy who toots his own horn, because he’s either afraid others won’t do it for him or he needs to remind himself how awesome he is. Trey Burrowes is a house of bricks balancing on a toothpick.
Something brushes my calf, and I look down just in time to see Ten crawling out from under the gaming booth. I move out of the way and push Trey back, noticing that Ten holds something in his hand.
“I got a sword,” he says, waving the plastic inflatable in front of us.
Trey snickers. “Yeah, me, too.”
And I swallow the bad taste in my mouth at his crude joke.
He turns away, growing quiet, his attention immediately drawn up to the Ferris wheel.
So easily distracted. So easily bored.
“Tell you what,” I say, speaking to Trey as I stroll over and hook an arm through Ten’s. “I’ll let you take Ten home.”
Trey jerks his head over his shoulder, looking at me like I’m crazy.
“And then you can take me home,” I finish, seeing his eyebrow arch in interest.
School ends in six weeks. I can fake this a while longer. I don’t want to go out with him, but I don’t want to wake up tomorrow to a nasty rumor that’s not true plastered all over Facebook, either. Trey Burrowes can be nice, but he can be a real asshole, too.
A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he turns back around.
“All you have to do is catch me,” I tell him, grabbing Ten’s hand. “So count to twenty.”
“Make it five,” Ten jokes, backing away with me. “He doesn’t know how to count to twenty.”
My stomach shakes with a laugh, but I hold it back.
Trey smirks, staring at me like I’m a meal he wants and nothing is going to stop him. And then he opens his mouth, slowly stepping toward us. “One…”
And at that warning, Ten and I spin around and dash for the back of the park.
We both laugh as we race down paths thick with wet leaves and fallen branches, and whip around broken booths. We pass the Orbiter, Log Flume, and Tornado, which I remember used to play a lot of Def Leppard.
The Zipper still stands, dark and rusted, and we weave through the old swings, the cold chains brushing against my arms. They squeak, probably giving away our position as I charge after Ten.
“In here!” he shouts.
I suck in a breath and follow as he dives into a small building that looks like it was meant for employees. Stepping into the darkness, I pull the door closed behind me and wince at the musty air that hits my nose.
Ten takes his phone out, lighting the room with his flashlight, and I do the same. The floor is littered with debris, and I hear a drip coming from somewhere.
But we don’t pause to explore. Ten heads for what looks like a stairwell, rounding the railing and taking a step down.
That’s weird. The stairs lead below, underground.
“Down there?” I breathe out, peering over the steel-green bars and seeing only pitch-black darkness below. Fear creeps in, sending chills down my spine.
“Come on.” Ten begins down the steps. “It’s only a service tunnel. A lot of theme parks have them.”
I pause for a moment, knowing full well that anything could be lurking down there. Animals, homeless people…dead people.
“They used to control the animatronics and stuff from down here,” he calls up to me as he descends with his light. “It’s a way for the staff to get around the park quickly. Come on!”
How the hell would he know all that? I didn’t know theme parks had an underground.
But I can feel the threat of Trey at my back, so I let out a breath and swing around the bannister, heading down after Ten.
“There are lights on down here,” he says as he reaches the bottom, and I come up behind him, glancing over his shoulder to see what lies ahead.
My stomach somersaults. The long, subterranean path is built solely of concrete, a square tunnel about ten feet wide from side to side and top to bottom. There are scattered puddles, probably from rain run-off, a pipe leak, or maybe cracks in the walls letting in ocean water. They glimmer with the track lighting overhead.
A black void looms at the end of the tunnel, and I run my hands up and down my arms, suddenly cold.
“The lights are probably connected to the city,” I say. “Maybe they’re on all the time.”
Of course, I have no idea—and why would they be on all the time? But lying to myself makes me feel better.
I hear a door slam up above, and I jump, glancing up the stairs for a split-second before planting my hand on Ten’s back and pushing him forward.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Go, go, go!”
We race down the tunnel, my heart beating against my chest as we pass random doors and more passageways leading off to the sides of the main one we’re running down. I stay straight, though, feeling an excited smile creep up despite my fear.
I can’t help but think if it were Misha chasing us, he wouldn’t run after me. But he wouldn’t lose, either. He’d find a way to outsmart me.
I hear footfalls behind us, and I glance over my shoulder to see a light bobbing down the stairwell. Holding my breath, I grab the back of Ten’s T-shirt and yank him into the room on the right. The door is missing, so we swing inside and hide behind the wall, breathing hard as we try to be still.
“Careful, babe,” Ten says. “You’re acting like you don’t want to be caught.”
Yeah, I don’t want to be caught. I’d rather be waxed. Every day. Right before a scalding hot salt bath.
It’s not that I’m not attracted to Trey. He’s good-looking and built, so why wouldn’t I be?
But no. I won’t be one of his girls prancing down the hall at school in my skin-tight skirt while he slaps me on the behind and his friends pat him on the back, because I’m his newest piece-of-ass trophy.
Insert hair flip and giggle.
Not fucking likely.
Pressing my head close to the wall, I train my ears, gauging how close he is to us.
Did he turn back? Take a side tunnel?
But then I narrow my eyes, noticing a faint whine instead. As if there’s a mosquito buzzing around the room.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper to Ten.
I can’t make out his face, but his dark form stills as if listening. And then I see him digging in his jeans for something. A moment passes, and then his phone casts a small glow into the room, and I turn, widening my eyes at the sight of a bed, mussed white sheets, and a small table.
What the hell?
Ten moves farther into the room, getting closer to the bed. “So there is a caretaker on site. Shit.”
“Well, if there is,” I speak low, approaching him as I study the items on top of the sheets, “why didn’t he kick us out when we got here?”
Ten holds up his phone, looking around the room, while I skim over the things on the bedside table and bed. There’s a watch on an old, black suede cuff laying on top of a picture of, what looks like, nearly an identical watch. There’s also a couple of paperbacks sitting on a pillow, an iPod with headphones attached, and a notebook with a pen lying next to it. I pick up the notebook and flip it over, seeing what looks like a man’s writing.
Anything goes when everyone knows
Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?
So much, so hard, so long, so tired,
Let them eat until you’re ground into nothing.
Don’t you worry your glossy little lips,
What they savor ‘ventually loses its flavor.
I wanna lick, while you still taste like you.
My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and my thighs clench.
I wanna lick…
Damn. A cool sweat spreads down my back as a picture of lips whispering those words against my ear hits me. I’ve never been much into poetry, but I wouldn’t mind more from this guy.
A familiar feeling falls over me, though, as I study the tails of the y’s and the sharp strokes of the s’s that look like little lightning bolts.
That’s weird.
But no, the paper is cluttered with writing over more writing and scribbles and scratches. It’s a mess. The rest looks nothing like Misha’s letters.
“Well,” I hear Ten’s voice mumble at my side, “that’s creepy.”
“What?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from the rest of the poem and turning my head to look at him.
But he’s not watching me. I follow to where his flashlight is shining, and I finally see the wall. Dropping the notebook to the bed, I peer up as Ten runs the light over the entire surface.
ALONE.
It’s written in large black letters, spray-painted and jagged, each letter nearly as tall as me.
“Real creepy,” Ten repeats.
I inch backward, glancing around the room and taking it all in.
Yeah. Photos on the wall with faces scratched out, ambiguous poetry, mysterious, depressing words written on the wall…
Not to mention someone is sleeping in here. In this abandoned, dark tunnel.
The distant whine suddenly catches my attention again, and I follow it, leaning down closer to the bed. I pick up the headphones and hold them to my ear, hearing “Bleed It Out” playing.
Shit. I immediately drop the headphones, a breath catching in my throat.
“The iPod’s on,” I say, shooting up straight. “Whoever he is, he was just here. We need to go. Now.”
Ten moves for the doorway, and I turn away from the bed, but then I stop.
Spinning back around, I dip down and rip the page out of the notebook. I have no idea why I want it, but I do.
If it is a guy living here, he probably won’t miss it, anyway, and if he does, he won’t know where it went.
“Go,” I tell Ten, nudging his back.
And I fold up the page and stuff it in my back pocket.
Holding up our phones, we step out of the room and turn left. But just then someone catches me in their arms, and I yelp as I’m squeezed until I can’t breathe.
“Gotch-ya!” a male voice boasts. “So how about that ride now?”
Trey.
Squirming, I pull out of his hold and twist around. Lyla, J.D., and Bryce stand behind him, laughing.
“Damn!” Ten shouts, breathing hard. He was obviously caught off guard by their sudden appearance, too.
“You might’ve turned off the flashlights,” Lyla scolds with a smirk on her face. “We could see them as soon as we came down.”
I move past them, back toward the stairs, ignoring her. If we hadn’t been investigating that room, the flashlights on our phones would’ve been off.
“What are you guys doing down here anyway?” J.D. asks.
“Just go,” I order, losing patience. “Let’s get out of here.”
Everyone moves ahead, back down the tunnel, and I glance over my shoulder, scanning the nearly pitch blackness and the doorway to the room where we’d just been.
Nothing.
Dark corners, shadows, dank glimmers from the fluorescent light hitting the puddles of water… I see nothing.
But I breathe hard, unable to shake the creepy feeling. Someone is there.
“This was not the kind of fun I was thinking of when you guys suggested the Cove,” Lyla whines, side-stepping the small pools of water.
I turn back around, ignoring my fear as I rush up the steps. “Yeah, well, don’t worry,” I mumble just loud enough for them to hear. “The backseat of J.D.’s car isn’t far away.”
“Hell yeah.” J.D. chuckles.
And I resist the urge for one more glance back down the dark tunnel.
I climb the stairs, still feeling eyes on me.
