Feral Page 2

The fact that he didn’t object to my argument was proof enough. Resting my head against the window, I stared into the dark, watching the steady flash of the streetlights above.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me, the depth of his feelings or rather the lack of them. Marcus wasn’t a profoundly emotional person. He was fun, easy going, affectionate, sexy, and completely shallow. If I was being totally honest, though, it wasn’t just Marcus. To be fair, most boys weren’t looking for an emotional relationship with me. I heard the rumors and the whispers. I saw the gawking and the stares. When boys looked at me, nothing ventured further than the surface of my blond hair, blue eyes, and voluptuous, six-foot, two-inch frame.

  Just as we pulled up to the curb, I received a text from Peyton. “WhereRU?” she asked. I texted her back. “Outside.” No sooner did I flip my phone closed than Peyton bolted out the door of the chalet style home. She wore—not that I’d ever tell her—a skanky nurse costume, low cut cleavage, pin striped garters and all. Her lipstick was scarlet red, and as she switched her cherry blow pop from one cheek to the other, she smeared the stick with a bright red ring.

  “Why Nurse Peyton,” Marcus drawled, his tone loaded with innuendo. “Thank God you’re here. I’m in dire need of some serious medical attention.”

  “Ooh, poor baby, tell me where it hurts,” Peyton crooned, playing along. She pushed her lips into a sultry red pout and batted her false eyelashes.

  I expected Marcus to cup his balls, the way he was moping, but glancing longingly at me, he patted his chest, just over his heart, mocking a heartbeat with his palm. “Here. I think Thale’s broken my heart again.”

  “You would need a heart,” Peyton said, “for it to break in the first place.”

  Giggling, I looped my arm around Peyton’s and walked with her inside, the gravel of the unpaved driveway crunching under our feet. Jack o’ lanterns lined the stairs leading up to the small porch. Huge black arachnids watched furtively from their webs, which stretched from baluster to baluster. I could hear the Black Eyed Peas blaring through the door.

  Inside, the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol hung heavy in the air, clinging to the ceiling in a thick white veil. The floors were sticky underfoot with spilled juice, beer and God knows what else. The ivory carpets were no more. Bodies filled the sofa, and cans and bottles, the tables beside them. Several tie-dyed hippies passed a bong clockwise, choking and laughing, smoke rolling from their noses. A group of Greek Gods loitered in the corner.

  Marcus set off on his own, leaving Peyton and me dancing along the edge of the room. Having the benefit of height, I watched his head of dirty blonde hair meld into the crowd.

  “You two fighting?” Peyton shouted over the music.

  I shrugged.

  “Did you break up?”

  “No.” Not yet. “Why?”

  “Because he looks pissy. Be right back. I need a refill.” Upturning her empty red solo cup, Peyton disappeared into the throng of bodies. Only the tip of her nurse’s hat was visible.

  Abandoning any effort to dance—because it just wasn’t fun to do it alone—I followed suit, weaving gently through the crowd. I received looks from several people, trying to discern if I was wearing a costume or not. From their expressions, they’d decided not. I briefly contemplated taking up the attire permanently.

  When I finally found the kitchen, I did a few Lemon Drops with Jack. Jack was a redhead, though closer to auburn, with bright blue eyes and a tidy goatee. We ‘dated’ in the sixth grade, but dating at twelve was holding hands and sharing a lunch table, or writing your initials encased in little hearts on your spiral notebooks. Tragically, we weren’t meant to be. Our relationship couldn’t withstand the distance of three long months over summer vacation.

  “Your house is soooo trashed, Jack,” I said, laughing tipsily. “I thought the den was bad, but this…whoa.” Beer from a malfunctioning keg saturated the carpets. My feet actually squelched when I passed through. It must have exploded when they’d tapped it, because rivulets of tacky suds streaked the walls. Bottles and trash lined the counters and floor. Pizza boxes stood waist high in the corner. As I was perusing the destruction, Tom Tierney ran through the room, spraying me with beer as his feet pounded across the carpet. I curled my back defensively.

  Jack leaned closer to my ear so that I could hear him over the base of the stereo. “I think Amy Madison puked behind the aquarium.”

  “How do you know it was Amy?”

  Pointing in said direction, one eyebrow rose. “She’s lying in it.”

  I couldn’t help it, but I laughed raucously. Jack did, too. Afterwards, I offered to help her up, because of all things, ironic as it might be, I’m a firm believer in karma. Crazy right?

  Jack led the way through the room, clearing an easy path for me. Amy sat hunched over against the wall, mousy brown hair hanging limp over her face. She wasn’t all too messy. The carpet behind the fish tank had taken the brunt of it. I tried not to gag from the smell.

  “What was she drinking?” I asked, checking that she had a pulse.

  “A couple of beers,” Jack answered. “She a lightweight. Not a drinker at all. Take her legs, Thale. I’ll carry the weight of her.”

  Jack lifted Amy from under her arms. I grabbed her legs, just under her knees. She murmured unintelligibly and wriggled like a fish for a brief moment.

  “I beewweeaavee I cannn fwwwyyy,” she slurred then fell slack again. Jack and I choked on a laugh, staring at each other.

  “I believe I can touuucchh thhhee skkyyy. Think aboutit every nniiiiiighhttt and dayyy. Spread my wings and fllllyyyyy awaaaayyyyyy.”

  After a few more minutes of raucous laughter—and almost dropping Amy on the floor in a puddle of beer, red solo cups and oil soaked paper plates, we remembered the task at hand.

  “Where to?”

  “Upstairs.” Jack jerked his head to the left, and we began an awkward waddle across the room. “We’ll put her in one of the bedrooms.”

  “What are your parents gonna say when they see the house?”

  Jack shrugged dismissively. “They’re divorced. This is my dad’s house. He’s vacationing in Venice with his twenty-something girlfriend.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Anyhow, I live with my mom weekdays, and here on weekends. Worst thing that’ll happen, I’ll get out of visitation for a few weeks.”

  That made sense. He wouldn’t be attending Rock East if he were living in Bedminster. Bedminster students attended Rock West, our sister school. The township had flourished rapidly and they had to build a second school to accommodate the influx of new students. I was almost separated from Peyton since my house sat on the border. All summer before my junior year, we waited on pins and needles while the township drew and redrew the lines, assessing which students would go to East or West. In the end, I remained a student of Rock East.

  One by one, we checked each bedroom door until we found one unlocked at the end of the hall. I swung the door open, and we maneuvered Amy into the room, heading for the full size bed. Jack went in backwards, but stopped a few feet in, his eyes fixed behind me.

  “Jesus,” Marcus hissed over my shoulder. Gawping, I watched as he and Peyton scrambled for their clothes. Their faces were smeared with red lipstick, resembling, disturbingly, Heath Ledger’s Joker. Peyton hadn’t had too much clothing to begin with. She shucked her dress back down over her thighs. Perhaps it was the Lemon Drops, but I giggled, hiding my barmy smile with my hand. Peyton’s cherry blow pop was stuck in the back of Marcus’s hair, all ratty and knotted with its bright white stick glowing like a beacon in the dim room. Yes, I’d definitely lost my marbles. My giggle turned into a full-fledged guffaw.

  “Thale?” Jack said solicitously.

  “Jack,” I gasped between each breath, holding my stomach. “If. You. Have. A. Phone. Please. Take. A. Picture. Seriously! A cherry blow pop! Lookit it! It’s stuck in his fuckin’ hair!”

  I laughed until I was out of breath a
nd burned most of the alcohol from my system. And that quickly my temporary dementia waned. I was left feeling ruthlessly sober. My face fell, the corners of my mouth dropping into a frown. My eyes narrowed into an icy glare.

  “Cherry slushy, Marcus—you fuckin’ pig!” I shifted my weight, and Peyton flinched. “What, Peyton, you think I’m gonna hit you? No, neither of you are worth it! You can have each other!” I turned to leave, but I still had Amy’s legs in my hands. I dropped her unceremoniously to the floor, leaving her hanging limply in Jack’s arms. In spite of my verbal attack, I couldn’t leave it at that. I turned back to Peyton, my face a bitter mask. “And you’re costume isn’t provocative, it’s skanky. Just like you.”

  Needing desperately to get away, I ran, my feet soaring down the stairs. I barreled through the room, knocking people to the floor, almost colliding with the sliding glass door. I fumbled with the lock, hearing the scumbag, loser Marcus shouting my name behind me.

  My legs carried me swiftly though the yard and into the woods—to grandmother’s house we go—kidding, but seriously, it was the quickest path away from Marcus, and closer to home. I didn’t give a shit if I had to crawl through the sewers of Manhattan, I just didn’t want to look at his face. Unfortunately, it was dark. I couldn’t see anything in front of me. Twigs and branches whipped against my arms and legs. I shielded my face with my arm, averse to taking an eye out, and then I almost fell as the ground rose and fell beneath my feet. Catching myself on a small sapling, I stopped for a breath. My throat felt raw. I had no saliva to swallow.

  “Damn it, Thale!” Marcus yelled. He said something about being in the woods, but I didn’t wait around to listen. I pushed myself faster than I dared to, stopping for nothing, desperate to elude him. Stickers ripped and pulled at my legs and sleeves, tearing at my skin. I fell, scraping my palms. They stung as I curled my fingers, pushing myself harder. My legs were long and I covered ground quickly. I kept the moon over my right shoulder, bearing south. If I stayed on course, I should come out on the three-thirteen. Regrettably, I’d left my cell in Marcus’s truck. I berated myself mentally for that. There were no gas stations or convenience stores in the area, being mostly residential. The walk home would be a long one.

  Slowly, my eyes began to adjust and I could see the faint outline of the larger vegetation like trees and brush. The stickers were unrelenting, however. I could feel my arms and legs stinging. Slowing my pace, I blotted my hands on the legs of my pants. They wept slowly, fresh beads of blood rising to the surface of my palms. I could smell the metallic scent of it.

  Ahead, I could see several large, round shapes clustered together, no higher than my knee. Rocks, I realized, catching my toe and nearly tumbling over a smaller one. When I reached the circle of stones, I paused to catch my breath. Sitting on the larger of the boulders, I checked my scrapes the best I could in the light available. All the while, I hissed a string of curses, damning Marcus and Peyton to the fiery pits of hell. On special occasions, I hoped Hell was quantifiable. Today earned a special mark on my list of exceptions.

  Behind me, I heard a twig snap, followed by a long stretch of gurgling. The hairs on my arms stood on end. “Marcus?” I said in a small, girly voice, knowing intuitively it most definitely was not Marcus. Some baser instinct told me to run, but logic overruled. I was a person of science. I didn’t believe in things that went bump in the night. As far as I was concerned, finding Marcus screwing my best friend was, by far, the most monstrous thing I’d ever witness. I was sure of it.

  On the other hand, I did believe in dogs. And at the moment, a rather large dog materialized about three yards away, bearing his teeth in a manner impossible to mistake for a smile. A deep, raspy growl only confirmed my observation. His head dropped in line with his shoulders, ears flat to his head. A fan of Caesar Millan, the dog whisperer, I stood my ground. This proved ineffective. He snarled. In response, I assumed a defensive stance, hoping vainly that the lessons at Tiger Schulmann’s would be worthwhile. Fuck an A if I couldn’t remember a thing.

  Running, unfortunately, was out of the question. I had two legs; he had four, and night vision, to boot. In any event, he didn’t give me a chance. He lunged and I kicked, following through with the weight of my leg. The dog flew sideways, tumbling across the ground. He rolled right back to his feet and came at me again. This time, he latched onto my forearm. My adrenaline was pumping so I didn’t scream. Truthfully, I didn’t even feel any pain. Instead of pulling back and playing a game of tug with my arm, which I’d rather not use as a chew toy, I pushed forward and gouged at his eyes. This earned a yip. He promptly released my arm and fell back. This didn’t deter him for long. Regrouping, he circled, lunging and feinting until he found his opening and latched onto my ankle. He tugged so hard, my legs went out from under me. My elbow hit the hard packed soil and broke the fall, but I wasn’t aware of the boulder behind me. I heard a crunch as my head made contact. Stars flashed behind my eyes. Still, I didn’t feel any pain. The dog mauling my neck was the last thing I remember, and the sound of his pack mates arriving. I was thankful of the blackness engulfing my vision. I wouldn’t have to die while they devoured me alive. I’ve watched National Geographic enough to know they disemboweled you first. The thought was less than appealing if I do say so myself.

  Chapter 2

  I woke to the sound of voices, but my first half-conscious thought was, I should be in a world of pain. But I wasn’t. I mean, sure, my head ached, but it was tolerable. My throat felt thick with sleep. My mouth was dry. And my neck itched terribly. Absently, I lifted my hand, discovering a large square of gauze taped gratuitously from my neck to shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” a voice warned.

  “JesusMaryandJoseph!” I gasped, holding my heart in my chest. My pulse raced beneath my palm, wrenching me mercilessly into full consciousness. From the corner of the room, emerged a trifle girl with long brown hair. She wore it in loose curls, held back only by a blue satin ribbon. She had large, brown eyes and an odd smile that she meant to look timid, but looked wooden and unnatural.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Where am I?” I asked, struggling to sit up right. Flitting toward me in a movement that left me reeling, she nudged me back down into the mattress with more ease than I would’ve thought possible. She couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds, give or take.

  “You really shouldn’t move yet. Not until Icarus checks your injuries.”

  “Who’s Icarus?”

  Pondering the question, the girl bit the inside of her cheek. “He’s right. It might be best if he answers your questions. I’m afraid I couldn’t answer them with the same discretion.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stared blatantly, neglecting to speak any further. She made me feel like a spider under glass, or a puddle of vomit. Neither depiction was savory.

  “Maybe you should get Icarus,” I suggested.

  “No need,” she purred, unwilling to leave my side. Cocking her head to the side, she stared expectantly at the bedroom door. In the hall beyond, I heard a booming voice above the susurration of others, ordering them to disperse at once. They promptly dispersed. I could hear their rambunctious footfalls thudding up and down the hall, accompanied by a medley of raucous laughs and hoots and the occasional sound of protest. Something tickled the back of my skull, leaving me with the niggling urge to disperse, too.

  “I think I should go,” I told the girl, trying again to stand. “I’m late anyhow.”

  “Icarus!” she shouted unhappily, wrestling with me. It was a futile effort on my part. Either she was unusually strong or I was very weak. Maybe both, I dithered. The girl was eerie.

  The door clicked open and through it emerged a tall, dark haired man that appeared to be around thirtyish. He was tall and lean, but not over-muscled, wearing a pair of faded khakis and a white tee. His eyes flashed to the bed where I sat struggling under the girl’s hand. “Rest, he said simply. I rested, the back of my skull tickling a
gain. The small exertion left me feverish and exhausted, a battle lost. And why was I trying to leave anyway? Resting was a much better idea. Resting was good. I closed my eyes briefly, allowing the spinning in my head to abate.

  Lord was I hung over.

  “They keep opening the door and peeking in,” the girl complained in a tone that said she didn’t share their interest. “And they woke her up.”

  “Hailey, why don’t you run to the bathroom and find some fresh dressings while I speak to…”

  “Thaleia,” I said, when his eyes set on me. Nice eyes they were too. Stunning actually. They were a pale white-blue, striking against his stark black hair.

  Disgusted with myself, I quickly shook off my stupor. I had no idea where I was, or how I got there. I wasn’t in a hospital, and judging by the male oriented décor I wasn’t even in a clinic and there I was ogling men.

  “Thaleia,” he repeated, testing the sound of it. “Do you have a nickname, Thaleia, or a last name?”

  “Thale. Llorente,” I said separately and concise. I much liked the way he said Thaleia better. So did he, evidentially.

  “Well, Thaleia,” he said, pulling up a wooden desk chair and dropping onto it with complete insouciance. “Can you tell me what happened to you last night?”

  “Why don’t you tell me where I am, first?”

  “My humble abode, but I think your story takes precedence at the moment.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “No I mean, why didn’t you take me to the hospital?”

  “You’re health is in no danger. You’re stable. Now, I’ve answer two of your questions. And you’ve yet to answer mine.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything from the beginning.” There was that tickle in my skull again. Perhaps it came with the brain injury. “Start with the party.”

  While the compulsion to answer was nearly irrepressible, there was no way I was prattling away my problems to some stranger. Or getting Jack in trouble for underage drinking. I wasn’t a hypocrite or a nark. I gritted my teeth. “What party?”