Sway Page 3

  Instead of answering, I walk toward the battered guy, now attempting to sit up. He’s groaning in pain, but that doesn’t stop me as I lean down and hold the pill in his face. “Do you want to answer that?” I spit the words out. “My friends want to know what this is.”

  In spite of his swelling face, his eyes still manage to go wide. He holds up a hand to block another blow, but I’m way past that. The anger I felt before has been replaced by something else. Something once described to me as a holy fury. The words are right, because even though I could lay my fist into the guy again, I won’t. I’m too eerily calm now.

  “Look man, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says.

  I lean closer, our faces only inches apart. “Nothing by it. Is that right?” We can both hear the threat in my tone. “You just meant to get her drunk, add a few drugs to her drink to get her good and passed out, then stuff her in your car, and drive somewhere to take advantage of her in peace. Is that the ‘nothing’ you meant by it?”

  He stumbles to his feet, clearly thinking I’m one word away from killing him right here. What he doesn’t know is that in another life, I might have.

  “Look, just let me go.” He’s walking toward his car, tripping over his leather lace-ups as he goes. I spot the brand as Prada. A rich boy, and he needs to drug a girl to score. The thought only adds to my nausea, gluing my feet to the pavement.

  Maybe I should call the cops, maybe I should hold him hostage, but right now, my only concern is her. Getting her out, keeping her safe. After that…I have no idea.

  “Not with her, you’re not. Scott, help me get her out of the car.” He takes one side, I grab her from the other, and we lift her out. Shooting a prayer toward heaven that she remains blissfully unaware, I grasp her under her legs swing her up against me. Once she’s secure, I glare toward the pervert, already situated inside the car. “Get out of here. And if I ever see you here again…”

  I don’t get to finish that sentence, because his door slams shut at the same time his engine roars to life. A small bag flies next to my head and lands on the pavement next to me. Two seconds later, he’s out of the parking lot. I stare after his taillights, conflicted in a dozen different ways. The girl is safe, unharmed. But who’s to say he won’t be back at it tomorrow? Slap a little make-up on his face to camouflage the broken skin, whip out the pills once again, and use them on another unsuspecting girl. I glance down at the one settled in my arms and slowly exhale. I can only pray that what almost happened to her won’t happen to someone else.

  The sound of Scott’s voice stops that prayer before it’s complete.

  “So, is that a date-rape drug you’re holding? And he gave it to her?”

  I look down at my hand, only just now aware I’m still clutching the pill. It burns into my palm until I release it. When it settles onto the pavement, I crush it under my hiking boot, grinding it into powder that disappears into the gravel. “I’m pretty sure he gave her a few. Enough to keep her knocked out until he got the job done. Probably more than once.”

  I see the grimace that crosses both of their faces at my harsh words, but sometimes life isn’t pretty. Sometimes, it’s ugly and scarred and brutal. And right then and there, I decide these guys should know it. After a moment, Scott’s eyebrow slides up.

  “I have a feeling this isn’t what you had in mind when you said ‘let’s go to a bar.”

  Whether he intended the words as a joke or not, I can’t help the smile that tilts my lips. I shake my head. “Not even close. I’m going to be in so much trouble tomorrow.”

  Scott and Matt look at each other and shrug. “For what? We’re not saying anything,” Matt says.

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Scott echoes the thought. “My lips are sealed. Except I do have a question.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, aware that this girl is getting harder and harder to hold. She’s still snoring, still passed out. Letting me do all the work while she just lays there, limp.

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  I blink at him. Blink at Matt. Blink down at her near-lifeless form. All that blinking has gotten me nowhere. Then I remember her bag. “Someone open that up and find her I.D. Maybe then I’ll know what to do. But first, can you bring me my car? Keys are in my back pocket.”

  Matt fishes them out and sprints away while Scott reaches for the bag and opens it. “Are you sure I should be doing this?” he asks.

  I shift my weight, and hers, to my other hip. “It’s either that or we leave her here. Or I guess we could take her to your house…”

  Scott rips at the bag like a tiger attacking a steak. Pulling out a rectangle card, he holds it up. “Found her license. It says she lives on third and Hudson. Apartment 213B. Hope that helps.” He looks up at me. “Isn’t that Clearwater apartments?”

  It’s Clearwater. And it helps. In the way that a pack of cigarettes helps an ex-smoker.

  I sigh. “Yes, it does. Now, I just have to get her home.”

  On cue, my car pulls up. Scott opens the passenger door and I slide her inside, then turn to face the guys, my arms screaming in blessed relief. I rub my hands together, hoping to convey an authoritative edge.

  “Alright, who’s coming with me?”

  4

  Kate

  “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”

  —The Smiths

  I’m moving. Swaying back and forth, my head giving an occasional bounce as we hit what feels like a pothole. My mind feels fuzzy, my vision is blurred, but I’m aware enough to know that I’m not in this car alone. But who is with me? I remember my friends, I remember the tattooed guy at the bar, I remember the other guy that bought me a drink and told me I was beautiful, that I was the present he’d been waiting for even though I was the one celebrating the birthday. I remember all of those people.

  But I can’t remember who I left with.

  I’m stopping. Being lifted and carried and cradled while someone fumbles with a lock. A door opens. It shuts. It’s dark inside the room, and I’m glad. I think even a pinprick of light might make my head explode.

  My head.

  It’s spinning.

  It’s spinning and I’m moving and I’m twirling and I’m stopping. Someone lays me down. Someone tucks a blanket around my shoulders. I’m cold, and then I’m warm.

  My eyes crack open for the slightest second, long enough to see muscle and tightness and strength and man. He’s warm, too, so I kiss him and giggle and kiss him again. He doesn’t kiss back. I don’t understand much, but this isn’t how a one-night-stand is supposed to go. But then I wasn’t supposed to have a one-night stand. I was supposed to drive my drunk friends home.

  His presence confuses me. His reaction confuses me. My lack of friends confuses me. My head confuses me. The cold confuses me. The wetness around my mouth confuses me.

  The odd sensations come all at once, overwhelming me until blood rushes to my head. I sink my head into the pillow, letting my arms and legs go limp on the mattress. This feels good, this feels normal. This is perfect.

  Everything goes black.

  5

  Caleb

  “Diamond Eyes”

  —Deftones

  Accident-prone was the term my mother often used to describe me. My elderly neighbor was less gracious—he often shouted “klutz!” at me across the driveway after another fall from a bike, a trip over skates, a stumble over my own two feet.

  While the cranky old man kept going with his taunts, without fail, my mother came rushing. After a wet rag and a well-placed Band-Aid and a smile, she routinely made my pain better with a kiss.

  I learned at a young age that a kiss always makes things better.

  It wasn’t until I grew older that I quit believing that lie.

  Of course I’m alone. Every one of those idiots tucked tail and ran the second I invited them along. Matt claimed a sudden sore throat. Scott blamed his curfew—the guy is freaking twenty-two but still answers to his m
other. And Kimball…for all I know he’s passed out cold in a garage somewhere.

  My friends. What a bunch of worthless losers.

  Guilt chases that thought and I kick the front door closed with the heel of my foot. Once we make it inside the empty apartment, I bump nose-first into a bedroom door, try not to curse, then lay the girl down on the first bed I can find. I reach for a blanket to cover her. Even in the dark, I can see that it’s a bright shade of pink—just like her coat. This is obviously her room, which has me seriously questioning this girl’s sense of taste. Pink is nauseating. Pink is shallow. Pink is sororities and air-kisses and chicks who talk about manicures—everything I despise.

  Pink was my mother’s favorite color.

  That thought comes from nowhere, and suddenly I’m angry. I don’t even know this girl and she’s making me revisit things I would rather not remember…things I can’t change or undo or wish back. Not that it’s her fault, and not that it matters. I’m out of here in ten seconds. Hopefully less.

  I tuck the headache-inducing blanket around her shoulders and stand, intending to walk out. But then she moans, rolls over, and shivers when the blanket falls off. I’ve seen these kinds of drugs at work before, so the coldness doesn’t surprise me. The fact that she isn’t completely out of it does.

  Tugging the blanket up across her shoulder again, I push back a long strand of curls that manages to spread across her cheek. Her hair is silk, like lengths of gold chord that slip through my fingers, imprinting their memory long after they fall back onto the pillow. I stare for a moment, a strange longing to feel them again coursing through me. My heart picks up speed, and I know I need to leave.

  Before I have a chance to move she rotates onto her back, and two soft hands slide up my arms. Her fingernails are short, blunt from a recent clipping. The edges are sharp as though she didn’t bother with a file. I’m not sure if it’s the absence of pink or the plainness of the cut or the fact that she’s touching me at all, but it surprises me. She doesn’t get manicures? As I’m mulling this thought, she yanks on my shirt and pulls me down, pressing her lips to mine. Shocked doesn’t describe my reaction. I know she’s unaware. I know she’s out of it. But the contact rushes to my head and makes it hard to breathe.

  The breaths I manage to grab turn shallow when her arms snake around my neck. Her lips touch mine again as my own hang slack. I’m stunned, but not enough to keep from noticing that her lips are soft, inviting, warm in a way I haven’t felt in forever. They taste like butterscotch, rich and liquid. A longing burns in my gut, fierce in its pull, and I feel myself falling.

  Falling.

  Pressing into her, I lower my mouth over hers as desire numbs everything but the way this feels…the way she feels…until her teeth nip at my bottom lip and bring me to my senses. With my pulse hammering a painful beat into my neck, I rip myself away and stand, giving her a gentle push onto the mattress. She’s drunk and I’m a jerk. The back of my hand instinctively moves to my mouth to remove her taste, but it doesn’t quite work, and I’m mad all over again. She begins to giggle, and I blink at her change in demeanor, puzzled by her random mood swings. The sound melts away my anger, because it’s musical. Funny, even. I find myself smiling down at her as she curls into the mattress and laughs. It goes on and on until I begin to think she’s losing her mind.

  But then she stops. Goes completely still. Turns white. And loses her dinner instead.

  Twice.

  All over the bed. And of course on my leg.

  And now I’m right back where I started. My life could not possibly suck more than it does now. And all I can think is why the heck didn’t anyone talk me out of going to that stupid bar?

  *

  I pull her bedroom door closed behind me, leaving it cracked just a little just in case—in case, what?—and walk into the living room, bumping my leg on something sharp in the hallway. It turns out to be a table, and I’ve smeared vomit all over it now. Finding it hard to care, I go in search of a towel, locating one lying on the porcelain kitchen sink next to a box of handy wipes and two bottles of Germ-X. I reach for the towel and wet it, and as I swipe it across my jeans, all I can think is that any minute now her roommate might show up and call the police. I could be arrested for breaking and entering, and since I have a prior record the excuse But I used the key I pilfered from her purse probably will not get me out of trouble. All the talking in the world would likely wind up with me locked in an eight-by-eight cell.

  But I just don’t care. Her friends left her at the bar. Abandoned her drunk and drugged. Entrusted her with a guy she’d never met. A guy who would have taken advantage of her in five more minutes if he’d been given the smallest chance. They left her, and I find myself hoping each one of them will walk in just so I can yell at them in person.

  Seriously, why are some girls so stupid?

  I pump soap into my hands and scrub them together, then flip the water off and shake them out, trying to decide what to do. Patting them on my backside, I survey the room, looking for an answer. Staying seems to be the worst option, but the girl has already thrown up once. What if she begins again? Or what if the guy at the bar slipped her more drugs than I think, and she…tries to jump out her window? Or hangs herself with an extension cord from her ceiling rafter? I have no idea if date rape drugs make a person delusional, or suicidal, but I sure don’t want to read about her self-inflicted death in tomorrow’s paper. I can’t have that on my conscience, especially when Matt, Jordon, and Scott know I’m here.

  And my concern has absolutely nothing to do with those blond ringlets I can still feel gliding through my hand. Or the butterscotch kiss that still lingers on my lips.

  This is about her safety.

  This is about her—

  “What the heck?” My gaze lands on her white wicker bookcase. More specifically, on the rows of thin, worn cardboard lining the bottom three shelves in vertical rows. I don’t need to see the sleek turntable planted above them to know exactly what I’m looking at, and my pulse picks up speed. By the time I kneel down to examine them more closely, my pulse is at a full-out sprint. Her record collection is mind-blowing. I flip through indie bands like Bon Iver, Sleeping with Sirens, The Civil Wars, The Lumineers. Classics like Buddy Holly, Etta James, Elvis, The Beatles. The ridiculous like Wham!, Wang Chung, The Bee Gees, the soundtrack for The Breakfast Club. They go on and on. The name Kathryn darts out at me repeatedly, her name written in black Sharpie on the top left corner of each album.

  Kathryn. Kathryn’s records.

  Kathryn’s LP’s and forty-fives. Dozens of them. Hundreds. All alphabetized and categorized by genre. By size. From left to right in descending order. I can almost see her kneeling on the floor, painstakingly organizing each one until they all flowed together to offer easy access. I glance at the still open bedroom door, my mind drifting to the girl on the bed—Kathryn—currently knocked out and lying in the leftover remains of what looked like tuna on wheat.

  But never mind all that. Kathryn what’s-her-name has the coolest record collection I’ve ever seen.

  I should know. I have many of these same albums at home. But not all of them. Some are way too expensive for a person living on my salary.

  I’d like nothing more than to sit here for a few more hours and stoke my jealousy, but I can’t. I feel like a stalker for being here this long, and this apartment has at least one other inhabitant. I don’t belong here. Probably a good idea to make myself scarce before whoever she lives with decides to show up.

  I’m preparing to stand when I spot one more album tucked away behind all the others. My heart, usually so even-keeled and dependable, stops cold. Dead in my chest. A weird, girly squeal comes out of my throat, and I look around, thankful the only other person in the apartment won’t be awake anytime soon. The thought should make me feel guilty, but worries about my manhood usually trump everything else.

  Turning back around, I lock eyes on the object as full-on lust slams into me. There, situated
inside an oversized glass frame—protected and hidden from curious eyes that might be able to spot it for what it is, eyes like mine—is the only album I haven’t been able to find in all my years of collecting them. Not that I would be able to own it, but I’ve always wanted to see one in person. With shaking hands, I reach for the frame. I have to hold it, if only for a second. My whole body goes numb as I stare at Bob Dylan’s The Freewheelin’ in my calloused hands, and it’s all I can do not to let out a whoop. Websites tout this album as exclusive. Collectors tout it as impossible to find. EBay touts it as worth forty thousand dollars.

  I tout it as un-freaking-believable. Some kids wished for Disney World. I’ve always wished for this.

  I flip it over in my hands and try not to feel disappointed when I’m greeted by a sheet of laminated mahogany wood. I want to see the back, but like an idiot I’ve forgotten about the frame. Deciding that it probably isn’t a good idea to pry it open with the pocket knife tucked inside my pocket, I study the front again, still not quite believing what I’m seeing. Why that girl keeps an album like this hidden inside an Oklahoma City apartment building is beyond me. It’s ridiculous. It’s irresponsible. This thing deserves to be locked inside a safe deposit box, secured by keys and bars and bank tellers with stern expressions.

  I want to wake her up and tell her so, plus I’m suddenly flattened with a need to see the eyes of the girl who has the world’s best taste. But I don’t. I’d scare her anyway, since other than her drug-induced come-on that she’ll never even remember, she has no idea who I am. Probably best to leave it that way.

  With a regret I haven’t felt since being hauled away in handcuffs, I return the album to the shelf. It slips easily back into place, as though it was never disturbed at all. Another pang of disappointment runs through me at leaving it behind, but I’m not a thief anymore. I said goodbye to that life years ago with no regrets, and until now, I haven’t once been tempted to revisit it. Rising from the bookcase, I make another pass around the room. Kathryn might need to find her purse, so I prop it on the floor against her bedroom door. Hopefully she won’t trip on it in the morning, but her morning-after hangover issues aren’t my problem.