9. Dark Hearts

NINE

Dark Hearts

"What did you do last night?" Nicholai asked me as I fell into the chair opposite his desk.

He had asked me the same question on Monday and again Tuesday.

"Define ‘night.'" I reached for the little red container he slid across his desk for me, but he didn't release it, waiting for my response.

Our fingers were almost touching.

For some reason, that had my heart beating so fast that I wondered if he could hear it, and I quickly spoke to cover the thumping noise in my ears.

"I tried to give Satan a bath."

He released the container. In shock, it seemed—though he recovered so fast I might have imagined it.

"Satan?" he asked evenly.

"The cat."

"You have a cat?"

"I said the cat."

His lips twitched in that stunning half-smile I was starting to see etched across the backs of my eyelids when I closed my eyes at night.

"Okay. You didn't succeed, I'm guessing?"

"He almost gouged my eyes out, splashed water across my entire trail—home, jumped out the window, and tried to tunnel inside a tree."

"He didn't succeed, I'm guessing?" The little half-smile was still there, taunting and teasing me.

"Runs in the family, I guess." I shrugged. "He ended up climbing the tree to get as far away from me as possible. Pretty sure he's still up there."

"Oh, he's family now?"

I pressed my lips together, realising I had unintentionally claimed the stupid cat. "I don't see the resemblance."

"I imagine if someone tried to care for you, you might react the exact same way."

"Try to give me a bath, and you'll find out."

He froze, and the smooth, golden fingers he had been drumming against the lid of his salad container stilled, falling with a heavy thump. He stared at me, wordless, expressionless, his eyes cast in shadow as the light from the window only slanted across his firm lips, and below. They appeared black, all of a sudden. Dark and glittery and otherworldly, full of a strange type of malevolence that made no sense in our situation.

He slowly roused himself, reaching beneath his desk, tearing his eyes from me for a moment as he pulled something from his soft leather briefcase. A book. He slid it across the desk to me and turned to his laptop, tapping one of the keys to bring his screen back to life.

"Eat," he ordered.

"I—"

"Please," he interrupted.

I reached for the book, glancing at the cover. A battered little classic with a plain orange cover.

The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus .

"Why can't I ask you any questions?" I asked, setting the book on the ground by my chair.

"Because you don't need to know me. I only need to know you."

"Why do you have music tattooed on your arms?"

He reached into his bag and pulled out another book, sliding it over to me. Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges.

I set it aside. "Is Jennifer your girlfriend?"

He pulled out another book. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath .

"Do you usually carry all these books around?" I grumbled.

He levelled me with a flat look.

I pressed on, "So, you have a fellowship at Stanford?"

He opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out another fucking book. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut.

"Nicholai," I sighed out. "I?—"

"Mr. Fell," he corrected, keeping his attention steadfast on his laptop screen.

"I hate to break it to you," I continued, ignoring him, "but you have an old man book collection, and it's actually a little embarrassing. You should be embarrassed."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "They're called classics."

"They're called boring."

He opened another drawer, pulled out another book, and slid it toward me.

The Crucible by Arthur Miller.

"There's no way you have a sixth," I taunted, setting the fifth book down on top of the others. There was a little spark of something in my stomach.

Nerves, perhaps. Or nausea. Or pleasure. Giddiness. Fever.

I couldn't tell if I liked it or not .

Nicholai opened his drawer again and pulled out a sixth book, but he didn't slide it across the desk to me. He pushed back his chair and stood, forcing my eyes to trail over the way his shirt briefly outlined the hard muscles of his torso. He rounded his desk and bent forward, catching my eye as he slapped the book down across my thighs a little harder than necessary.

The Trial by Franz Kafka.

"I wouldn't bet against me," he whispered.

I clawed my fingers around the book, clutching it as he calmly switched his attention between my eyes before sucking in a deep breath and lifting away. He seemed restless, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching again as he strode to the window, contemplating something outside for a moment before he returned to his work.

I began eating only when he did and began reading only when he started actually replying to his emails instead of pretending he was replying to his emails. I sank into the story despite promising myself I would only read a page, and I was surprised when the bell rang to signify the end of lunch. Nicholai glanced up from his laptop at the sound, blinking at me as though only just realising that I had been quiet for the better part of half an hour. His eyes flicked to the cover of the book clutched to my chest, and his little half smile returned, twitching, his dimples appearing. A deep chuckle rumbled out of him. I didn't understand the joke.

There was a genuine spark in his eye, appreciation and exasperation mixed together. I wanted to shove his book into my bag and leave, as though stealing it would teach him a lesson, but he reached over the desk and plucked it out of my hands before I had the chance. He slid it onto the bookshelf behind him, between the pamphlets on suicide and pregnancy.

I was sure he did that on purpose.

I fled his office without a word, pressing my teeth together until my jaw began to ache. An itch was sparking in my limbs, crawling up the back of my neck and prickling across my scalp. I suddenly felt … violent.

Nicholai was trying to make me feel again. He knew I was drawn to him, and he was using his pull to monitor me. He was relying on the fact that I couldn't resist him to keep me coming back, to keep me thinking about his warnings. He was feeding my obsession to keep me in place … but he was only willing to go so far.

He didn't want to flirt with me.

He didn't want to touch me.

He didn't want me smelling his frigid ocean scent when I huddled beneath the cold water of the shower.

Nicholai Fell thought he could break just the right amount of rules to keep his job and keep me in check, but I wasn't just unhinged. I was also stubborn.

Whatever he was doing … it wasn't enough. It was just making me angry.

There was something inside me. Some kind of disgust, or contempt. For myself, or for the rest of the world—I wasn't sure which, but I knew I needed to do something about it. I needed to let it out, otherwise it would consume me.

I ran to my Chemistry classroom and waited by the door for Mrs. Hawkin, cornering her before she could enter the classroom.

"I feel sick," I blurted. She only blinked at me, so I tried again. "I feel really sick. Can I go and see the nurse, please?"

She nodded, examining me nervously. I was sure that my eyes were brighter than usual, shining with the mania I could feel kicking up inside my chest. The restless feeling was building with every second. I muttered a thanks to Hawkin and then turned on my heel, hurrying back down the hall. I made it out to the parking lot just as Nicholai exited the building, his soft leather briefcase hanging off his arm. I quickly ducked behind the nearest vehicle—an older Mustang with the top down. I watched as Nicholai unlocked a black SUV and got behind the wheel. For some reason, I had expected a shiny, expensive sports car—something a Palo Alto brat would drive. Instead, it was just a big, black Ford. It wasn't even new.

I watched him drive out of the lot before I straightened, and then something pressed against my back, forcing me to stumble into the Mustang. I quickly turned, not as surprised to see Trip as I should have been. All my excitement, surprise, and annoyance had driven off with Nicholai.

Only a thin echo of my anger remained, spluttering weakly for oxygen.

"Hey," I said.

Trip's eyebrows inched up, his arms folding over his chest. I watched as the muscles in his forearms bunched and released. He seemed angry about something.

"I just caught you messing with my car, and that's all you have to say?" he growled.

"I was just …" Hiding from the guidance counsellor?

He shook his head, visibly shedding the anger right there in front of me. "I meant what I said before, pup. The more Dick takes from me, the more I take from him."

"Okay." I was getting a little bit sick of everyone talking about Duke. Not that I was feeling defensive of him; I was just sick of everyone mentioning him, like I needed to know all their opinions about him. Like it was my business for some reason. "And? "

"And … I'm curious." He smirked, his Adam's apple bobbing against the tattoo that coiled around his neck. "Why are you with Dickie, huh? You seem like a good girl."

I dropped my attention to his tattoo, examining the design for a moment. It looked like a few lines of script. A poem, a saying—but I couldn't make sense of it without moving closer and I didn't feel like doing that.

"I'm not a good girl." I pushed him roughly out of the way and walked out of the lot, not even bothering to check if he followed or not.

I walked the rest of the way home, the itching in my legs only growing worse despite the exercise. I wasn't walking fast enough to outrun this particular demon—I would need my muscles to burn for that. Still … I told myself I couldn't run.

It's too hot.

I ran yesterday.

I'm not wearing the right shoes.

I don't really feel like it.

There was no telling if any of it was true, or if I just wanted the demon to stick around for a little while.

"Duke!" I shouted, banging on his trailer door.

He opened it seemingly naked, which didn't shock me at all. His top half was leaning into the opening, his eyes hazy. "What? Grey-girl? "

I looked over my shoulder and then back at him. There wasn't anyone else there. I waited for him to realise the same thing.

"Come in, babe."

He stepped back, revealing that he was, indeed, naked. I followed him inside, letting the door fall closed behind me, and watched as he walked back towards the bedroom.

Did he really look like Nicholai?

Is this what Nicholai would look like if he stripped off his business shirt and teased his belt free from his pants? Would the muscles of his back flex the same way? Would his thigh muscles twitch the same way?

Did he have any other tattoos?

"Miller!" Duke yelled, rapping on the wall beside the door. "You gotta go now!"

The door cracked open, revealing a girl who was somewhat recognisable. I thought she might have been the one to insult me at Duke's party. She definitely looked like she wanted to insult me again. I walked over to the fridge and pulled it open. It was mostly stacked with beer, but I had expected that.

I pulled one of them out and then another—because the girl was still staring at me. I offered it to her, and she scowled, disappearing back into the bedroom and slamming the door.

"I mean it!" Duke pounded on the wall again .

Her head popped out once more and she reached a bare arm out this time, grabbing Duke and pulling him to the door opening. She was whispering to him, and I saw her hand move down his chest, to his hip, and then lower. She wrapped her hand around his dick, drawing an immediate groan from him.

"… didn't even finish," was all I caught of her whispering before I decided I should probably wait outside.

I grabbed two more beers, letting the door shut behind me before curling up onto one of the fold-up, cloth chairs. Only a minute later, Miller was moaning. She seemed to be moaning pretty loudly, too.

I wasn't sure who she was performing for, but she was putting her whole back into it.

I finished the first beer and started on the second, pausing halfway through that one to tip my head back and close my eyes. I had to concentrate a little bit to drown out the dramatic noises from inside the trailer, but after a while, it all seemed to fade away. My mind flitted from surface thought to surface thought, restless energy triggering each transition.

Why did everyone have a tattoo these days?

Where was Nicholai?

What did Jennifer do for a living?

Was she at college?

Did she live with him ?

Did they want children one day?

What would their kids be like?

Would their kids have a good life?

Would their kids ever see the red, like I did?

And then, bidden by my thoughts, the red came flooding back. It seared every corner of my mind in a painful assault that caused me to cry out, the bottle tumbling from my fingers and cracking against the ground. I could feel cool liquid spreading over my feet, and my breaths were coming harder and faster as dark spots flashed before my eyes.

"Mika! Mika-baby! Wake up!"

Mom's scream had torn me from a deep sleep, wrenching me from one world to another, leaving everything disjointed and blurry.

I had never experienced real terror until that moment, but I was suddenly surrounded by it. It shivered along the walls of our home and penetrated my lungs, poisoning everything I had ever believed in. It poisoned my past, clouding memories and stealing my most precious moments. It poisoned my future, ripping apart a life I hadn't even had the chance to live yet.

I followed the screams, my heart pounding faster and faster. Eventually, I realised that I didn't want to go any further. I didn't want to see. I wanted to turn around and run back to my room. I could climb out of the window, go across the street … and just keep going. I wo uldn't ever have to see or experience what was happening at the other end of the house.

"MIKA!"

I kept going, my feet walking without my permission.

Run , the voice in my head tried to warn me. That little coping mechanism that kicked into motion whenever I heard the screams. I started sobbing, trying to convince myself.

Go the other way .

Run.

"MIKA!"

I couldn't go. I couldn't turn around. I couldn't escape. It was too late.

The sound of Duke's trailer door banging open dragged me back to the present, and I watched with sweaty palms and blurry eyes as Miller—now fully dressed—kissed him noisily goodbye and flounced past me, utterly pleased with herself.

"Grey?" Duke appeared before me, wearing pants, but no shirt. "Are you—are you crying ?"

I was struggling, each breath as sharp as a blade going down my throat, my chest constricting tightly, and my lip trembling. I pulled myself to my feet, grabbing onto him to remain upright.

"L-let's g-go," I managed, watching the world spin around me. "Let's go d-do something. "

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I took s-something," I lied.

He blinked, apparently surprised, and then he was laughing. He grabbed my face, his lips pressing hard against mine. "You beautiful fucking mess ."

He left me then, saying that he would get dressed and then we could go to a party. I stepped over the broken glass on the ground, grabbed the third beer and moved to another chair to wait. When he reappeared, he pulled me up and grabbed my chin, forcing my head up so that he could see my face.

"You're not upset about Miller, are you?"

"Miller?"

"You should know who Miller is. She just came like ten feet from where you were sitting. She made sure you'd hear it too, the crazy bitch."

"Oh. I know. What about her?"

"Are you upset about her?"

It clicked, then. He was wondering if I was jealous. The idea was laughable. I couldn't have cared less even if I had tried. In answer, I only stared at him, finishing the rest of the beer in one last, slow pull. He watched me, making a slight groaning sound.

"I'm ready to go again already." He laughed. "They should bottle you. You'd outsell Viagra. C'mon, let's go."

By the time I slid into his truck, the panic was locked securely away. I wasn't thinking about it, but it was still affecting my body. My heart wouldn't stop racing, and my legs were still trembling. I turned up his radio, trying to drown out the echo of my own thoughts. The music rattled through me, shuddering against the window as I rested my head there. Duke didn't seem to mind. He really didn't mind much of anything, even though I did some weird things.

Maybe he was a real friend? That elusive, ever-present, stand-by-your-side creature that everyone was always talking about. But then again, maybe not. I was apathetic to most people, and that didn't mean that I liked them. It meant that I didn't care about them.

Just like he didn't care about me.

"We're here," he announced as we skidded to a stop in front of an outdoor grill, his truck swaying with how suddenly he had pulled on the emergency break.

It didn't look like the fanciest place: a line of Harleys guarded the front, handlebars glinting in the afternoon sun, helmets and backpacks resting on seats. Maybe their owners were really chilled-out and trusting, or maybe the red cobra sticker on the back of each bike was supposed to be a warning that all the locals would understand. I didn't even know where we were because I hadn't been paying attention to where Duke had been driving. A separate line of cars were parked beside the grill, the wheels propped up against the curb, trying to edge off the road.

I jumped out of the truck, following him inside and trailing him through the main bar. It curved from the front room and around to an outdoor area, extending the property into something much bigger than it first appeared. It stepped down onto the beach—though it wasn't a particularly pretty beach. The rocks were too big, the sand strangled by swamp-like vegetation. Still, the lawn leading down supported a massive crowd of people, all drinking and lounging in beach chairs. Music thumped from a set of massive speakers set up in an undercover patio halfway down the lawn, and I could barely make out a man behind all of the equipment, bobbing his head beneath a set of giant headphones.

I definitely wasn't old enough to be there, but nobody even looked twice at me. They definitely looked twice at Duke, in a way that told me they were surprised to see him there. I found that interesting, but not nearly interesting enough to ask about it.

"Want a drink?" Duke jerked his chin back over his shoulder, toward the bar.

I nodded, and he disappeared, leaving me to survey the sea of people on my own. When he came back, there were four beers in his hand. He handed two to me, and tucked one under his arm, raising the last to his lips. He must have assumed that I liked beer. I actually hated it. He wandered off to the water, and I supposed that I was expected to follow him, but I didn't feel like it. Instead, I turned back to the main building, climbing onto the tiny balcony and plonking myself into a chair.

"You should have gone with him," a voice declared over my shoulder, a moment before Trip appeared in front of me.

He blocked my view of the people with his body, leaning back and notching his arms against the railing as he fixed his gaze on me. I continued drinking, staring at him since he wasn't going to let me stare at anything else. How the hell did this guy keep popping up? Had Duke brought me here deliberately—knowing that Trip would be here?

"Aren't you a bit young to be running with this crowd?" he eventually asked.

"Aren't you in my class? Meaning … aren't you my age ?"

"You mean the class you have with Duke's brother, who spent half the hour staring at you?"

"It's not like that."

"Is that what you do, pup? You just bounce from guy to guy, passing the time?"

I shrugged. I didn't think it was what I did, but the evidence probably suggested the opposite. Not that it mattered anyway. Was I developing a reputation ?

"What's it to you?" I asked.

"I feel like being next."

"I don't feel like you being next."

"Because Duke's so much better." He laughed, tossing his head back and lifting the shadow from his collar tattoo.

"What does that say, anyway?" I pointed to it with the lip of my beer.

"It's part of a song," he told me, without coming any closer so that I could read it. "The letters wrap around twice. That's why it's hard to read."

"What song?"

"It's called Busted . I wrote it myself."

"Cute." I sneered. For some reason, he was annoying me. I stood, kicking the chair out of the way and retreating toward the stairs.

"Don't bother wasting my time," he said, his tone carrying an edge. He surged forward and caught a hold of my wrist, pulling me back to where he stood. He fell into the chair that I had vacated, tugging me down with him. "I won't bend to your authority."

I began telling him to fuck off with his authority , but then I caught it. I saw the words on his neck—he was narrating his tattoo to me. I stopped fighting, allowing him to turn me around so that I was sitting forward on his lap, looking back out to the field of people.

"Don't bother pulling me into line," he continued, one of his hands landing on my thigh, the other sliding up to my neck. He pulled me back, so that my head fell against his shoulder. "I won't fit into your society …"

He pressed against my neck, making it a little more difficult to draw breath, as his other hand slid under the hem of my dress, pulling it further up my thigh. "Don't trust me, little lamb." He was whispering the words now, his voice deepening, his hands tightening. "Don't trust me, because I'll do it again." His hand reached my panties, cupping me through the material, his breath beginning to rasp. "Don't count on me, I'll hurt you too."

"Stop," I managed, finally feeling a spark of something. Fear. Anger. Disgust. I wasn't sure which.

"Don't trust me," his voice switched to a growl, "because I sure as fuck don't trust you."

"And I'm not what you're used to." I pulled my beer bottle up and dumped the contents over his face, when what I really felt like doing was smashing the bottle over his head.

Nicholai's words flooded back to me as Trip laughed, pushing me off his lap.

Don't get confused, Mika. I'm not what you're used to …

I was sick of him always being inside my head, even when I was trying to escape him.

"I think it's time I greeted Dick, don't you think?" Trip asked me, moving for the stairs. "Give him a good handshake? Let him know where my hand has been?"

"Get lost, Trip. You aren't as bad as you think you are."

He paused for a second, his smile frozen in place. I watched as it slowly melted away, revealing what was beneath.

Hatred.

Fury.

Vengeance.

Whatever this was, it didn't have anything to do with me. I was just a tool, a piece in the overall game. He was upset about something far beyond our few interactions.

"We'll see," he muttered. "Later, pup. Thanks for the cuddle."