0577651001373397368 ls 00.7- ta (2 page)

The guy now standing in front of me smiles, though the smile doesn’t make it to his eyes.

‘Why don’t you stay and hang out with me?’ he asks.

‘I just need some air,’ I tell him, shouting to be heard over the feedback from the mic.

‘I just want to talk,’ he says, maneuvering his substantial bulk fully in front of the door.

Liar. His aura is brown as sewage. Like he’s been swimming in a septic tank.

I force a smile --- act like I am actually considering his proposal, but really I’m gathering myself, trying to fight the nausea and to clamp my mental focus into place.

My grandma spent a lot of my childhood preparing me for the gift, as she called it. And one of the things she taught me as a necessity is how to protect myself from all the creeps in the world. And I’m not talking pepper spray and knees to sensitive groin areas. She taught me instead how to manipulate moods. That’s not to say I can turn a serial killer psychopath into a law-abiding lover of all humanity, nor that I could start my own cult by inducing joyous rapture in an unsuspecting crowd, but if I focus on one person, or even a group of people, I can change the colour in their aura and hence, their mood. It’s not easy, which is why I hardly ever do it, and the effects are short-lived, but at time like these I thank the gods my grandma taught me how.

It’s a bit like pouring paint thinner over an oil painting --- I can dissipate jealousy, douse lust and destroy anger. I can generate feelings of love, inspire happiness, confusion, sadness… you name it. If I focus hard enough I can make a grown man cry.

So I do. I narrow my eyes and stare at the man’s forehead just above his monobrow and I send a spear of grayish mauve light his way. The snaking thoughts recoil instantly.

He drops my hand and staggers backwards, his face crumpling and his lip starting to quiver. Tears well behind his eyes. He doesn’t know why. He frowns --- confused ---

and blinks at me. The tears start to roll down his jowly cheeks. I keep focused. If I let it slip, sadness can become embarrassment, which can become rage, which isn’t what I want.

His aura now swirls, mustard yellow flattening to grey.

Sadness and despair muting out his other impulses. Enough that I can slide past him and out of the door, leaving him blubbing like a baby into his hands behind me.

Outside, the cool air hits me like a sigh. I draw it in deep, leaning against the wall of the alley, and wait for my head to clear and my heart to stop pounding.

Away from all the people everything stills and a wave of exhaustion hits me that’s so deep it makes my knees buckle.

When the door slams open I barely manage to jump out of the way before it smacks into the wall right where I’d been standing, leaving a dent in the cement.

I’m already backing away down the alley, towards the street, my legs poised for flight (my brain having dismissed the idea of fighting --- I’m fully spent on that front) when I register that it isn’t Santa’s fat ugly brother coming to find me, it’s the boy with the fishing hook smile. And the shiny aura.

‘You’re OK,’ he says, relief flying across his face. ‘I saw that guy hassling you from across the club but I couldn’t get to you in time.’

He was coming to rescue me?

He kicks the door shut with his heel, muting the noise from inside. ‘What did you say to that guy anyway?’ he asks, jerking his head towards the door.

‘What guy?’ I stammer.

‘The guy who looks like he eats teenage girls for breakfast and who’s now bawling his eyes out. What did you do?

Tell him his Harley got repossessed? Diss his tattoos?’

My breathing is suddenly all over the place. ‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything to him.’

He narrows his eyes at me, not buying it for a second, then he cocks his head to one side, and a slow and easy smile spreads across his face.

‘If I talk to you are you going to make me cry too?’ he asks, taking a step nearer.

I consider him. My throat is so dry that when I answer it sounds like sandpaper rasping against brick. ‘Depends,’ I tell him.

‘OK,’ he answers, nodding, weighing it up. ‘I’ll take the risk.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Ryder,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

I draw in a deep breath. I hate this part. I don’t do touching and I’m already feeling battered blue by all the aura whacking I’ve just endured. But the alternative is looking rude. So I clear my throat. ‘Amber,’ I say. And then I reach out, bracing myself, and take his hand.

People talk about sparks flying, about electricity jolting and I know better than most that those things are true. When two auras collide, in good ways and bad, sparks can fly.

But this is different. There are no sparks flying when Ryder and I shake hands. There are no electricity jolts. Instead, the feeling is akin to diving into and ice-cold river.

Instantly I’m swept up in a rushing eddy, and then whipped away on a wild current. It’s total surrender. No fight. Just pure adrenaline thrill ride.

When Ryder lets go of my hand I gasp like I’ve just surfaced into blinding sunlight. I blink at him. He stares back at me with a queer expression on his face.

‘You OK?’ he asks.

‘I… err… yeah, I’m fine.’ Clearly, he didn’t feel anything quite so dramatic as half-drowning in arctic river rapids when he shook my hand. What was that?

‘You sure?’ he asks. ‘You look a bit… breathless.’

‘Yeah, I just…’ I frown at him, then smile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘So you like The Gnarly Surs then?’ he asks me now, his eyes glinting in amusement.

‘As much as I like hairy biker guys sporting Aryan Nation tattoos.’

As though on cue the door bangs open and said hairy biker guy sporting racist tattoos comes bursting out. His eyes ---

bloodshot and red-rimmed --- light on me and he snarls.

But Ryder steps calmly between us, smiling at the man as though he’s his long-lost brother. I take a breath, wondering if I’ve got enough energy to try and blast him again --- but before I can try, I watch Ryder lay his hand on the guy’s bicep. My eyes pop and my voice gets stuck in my throat. What are you doing? I want to yell. Are you insane?

‘Hey pal, you looking for something?’ Ryder asks.

The guy switches his attention to Ryder and for a split second looks likes he’s about to rip his face off with his bare teeth, but then, as I watch, the sneer vanishes, replaced with the kind of blank expression you might see on someone who’s taken one too many Valium. He blinks at Ryder, frowns, then shakes his head, befuddled.

‘No,’ the guys says, scanning the alley, his eyes glancing over me before coming to rest back on Ryder. ‘I just…’ He shakes his head one more time, clearly bewildered.

Ryder drops his hand from the guy’s arm and the guy turns around and shuffles back inside. The door bangs shut behind him, but I can’t tear my eyes off Ryder. What the hell just happened?

Ryder turns back to face me, smiling innocently. ‘This is a really classy establishment. You hang out here often?’

That’s when I remember Nancy. ‘Oh God, my friend!’ I gasp. ‘I’ve got to go. She’ll be worrying.’

Ryder moves fast, blocking my path to the door. ‘You’re not going back in there. I’ll find her for you.’

I hesitate, scanning him, immediately suspicious. But he’s clean. His aura’s pristine. No lies. I’m so surprised that I wonder if Nancy was right about me being a cynic. But I’d rather be a cynic, I tell myself, than be found lying dead in an alley having succumbed to southern charm and a smile.

Serial killers come in many forms after all.

‘OK,’ I finally tell him, and then I describe Nancy to him.

‘Oh yeah, I remember seeing her --- dressed like Nikita in the episode she escapes from the Russian gulag?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ I say, smiling.

‘Wait right here. I’ll be back in a minute,’ he says. ‘And if any of those biker guys show up while I’m gone, run. Don’t start tossing insults.’

Before I can say anything else he vanishes back inside. I stand in the alley, wrapping my arms around myself, and stare after him --- or more precisely I stare in wonder at the trail of light he’s left floating in his wake.

‘There you are!’ Nancy comes flying at me across the alley, the boom boom of music acting as rocket fuel to her feet.

She hurls herself at me. ‘What happened to you? I was dancing and then I looked around and you were gone and there was a hysterically crying biker sitting on the ground.’

‘I just went to get some air.’

‘Some air, huh?’ she asks, cutting her eyes, oh-so-subtly, in Ryder’s direction. He stands amused a few feet away, his gaze fixed on me.

‘I came to her rescue,’ he says.

‘I didn’t need rescuing,’ I shoot back.

He shrugs, his eyes so lazy-lidded he looks like he just woke up. Nancy stares between us --- little pink stars blossoming all around her.

An inclination of the head. ‘So, we going, then?’ Ryder asks me.

I frown at him. ‘Where to?’

‘You agree to come on a date with me if I went and found your friend.’

I open my mouth to protest that I did no such thing but the look of hope on his face and the way he’s holding my gaze with such intensity makes me close it again. There’s also the small but freaky matter of the chandelier aura and needing to figure out what it might mean. And what the hell he just did to that biker.

‘So shall we go?’ he asks.

Nancy has been observing this with utter glee and now hugs me, whispering in my ear. ‘Go, go, go. And tell me all about it in the morning.’

‘I’m not leaving you here,’ I protest.

‘I’m going home anyway. The Gnarly Surs finished their set and the next band sucks.’ She grins. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at work, OK?’

We walk Nancy to her car and watch her drive off, then I turn to Ryder --- awkwardly. He’s smiling at me --- a cat that got the cream smile --- and though I try to ignore it and I’m not even touching him, I feel the current snapping at me, urging me to jump right in.

‘In-N-Out Burger?’ I say, glancing across at Ryder. ‘This is where you’re taking me on our first date?’

He pulls on the handbrake and stares at me. He has hazel-coloured eyes. Did I mention this? ‘Our first date?’ he says, smirking. ‘That would suggest there are going to be more to come.’

I blush. But thankfully he doesn’t see. He’s already out of the car, walking around the tennis-court sized bonnet to my side and opening the door for me.

The ancient Chevy stands out among the newer Fords and Toyotas in the lot. It was his grandfather’s and inside it smells of wet dog and surfboard wax. On account of the fact he inherited his grandfather’s dog along with the car and that he likes to surf, as I discovered on the way over here.

We walk inside and I’m pleased to discover that In-N-Out Burger is fairly deserted at this time of night. There’s just us, a couple of truckers, a few kids too young-looking to get into any bars and some bored-looking servers.

We order and take our trays over to one of the tables by the window.

‘You grew up round here?’ Ryder asks as we dig in.

‘Just up the coast, actually. We moved here a few years ago.’ I keep going in response to his questioning look. ‘My mom started dating some guy from round here.’

‘You don’t like him?’ Ryder asks, dunking a fry in a pool of ketchup.

I pause. He’s astute. I don’t like any of my mom’s boyfriends. The ability to detect lies (and general unsavouriness) skipped a generation, so my mom judges potential boyfriend’s characters on the make of truck they drive and whether they have a hyphen in their first name.

Or so it seems, judging from Billy-Bob, A-Jay and Ricky-Ray, all of whom have driven white Ford pick-ups, and none of whom have stuck around for longer than it takes for milk to curdle.

‘What about you?’ I ask, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation about my mom, who’s currently hooked up with a guy called Archie-Lee, owner of the local trailer park. ‘What drew you to this place?’

He slurps his milkshake. ‘Savannah has its limitations.’

‘Admit it,’ I say. ‘You’re a Gnarly Surs groupie. You follow them across the country.’

He laughs, and my stomach flips as a cotton candy cloud blooms in the air over him. Pink is not just the colour the princesses. It’s also the colour of lust and love. The two are hard to tell apart, hence my wariness around members of the opposite sex. But with Ryder I note my usual wariness is strangely absent.

‘Yeah, you got me,’ he says. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

Just then his eyes flick behind my head to the door and I watch as all the blood drains from his face. The cotton candy bloom withers away, and the air around him becomes concrete grey. I spin around.

Two guys have strolled into the restaurant. The rays bursting off them make the biker crew back at the Majestic seem like a bunch of kids high on ice-cream. Thunder clouds of roiling black and grey swim and pulse around them.

There are several Latino gangs in Oxnard up the road who like to cruise town --- I guess as some form of pissing contest with the local biker crews. One quick glance at these guys (and a glance is all you’d want to give them) and it’s clear that the In-N-Out Burger is not attracting more unsavoury types than my mother.

I turn back to Ryder. He’s staring at the guys, his hands fisted on the table, his shoulders bunched tight. The easy grin has fallen away and been replaced with grimly pursed lips. The chandelier spectacular above him now emits lightning strikes of red.

My body starts tingling as though an electric storm of Marvel Comic proportions is whirling in the atmosphere above In-N-Out Burger. Footsteps. The hairs bristle on the back of my neck. Out the corner of my eye I see a black boot come to a stop right by our table.

‘Scoot over.’

My heart slams into my mouth and wedges there, beating thickly against my tongue. I glance up at the guy who’s stopped by our table. He’s talking to me. I look at Ryder whose jaw is clenched tight. Flames crackle in the air above him.

Suddenly I’m being shoved further into the booth as the guy slides in beside me. I don’t take much persuasion. I edge as far away as I can, snatching a look at him, trying to gauge what’s going on and if we’re about to die. I spot one of the servers staring at us, gormless, eyes wide as burger patties. I try to urge him silently to call the cops but he just stares blankly at us.