A Want So Wicked (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

W
hen Harlin goes inside the convenience store, I leave for home—the dread returning. In just a matter of days, my life has begun to spiral out of control. Hallucinations, memories . . . visions. On top of that, my sister is disappearing all the time, my dad is overworked and worried, and I have a sort of date with Abe tomorrow.

And of course, now there's Harlin.

When I pull up to my house, the front door opens. Lucy bounds toward me as I park the car. She's dressed in all black except for the light reflecting off her eyebrow ring.

“You're late,” she says, reaching out her hand for the keys. “Thought you'd be home a half hour ago, but thank God for small favors, right?” She climbs into the driver's seat, cringing as she does. She raises her eyes to meet mine. “Stupid lady parts,” she says.

“Wait, what about Dad?” I ask, checking the time on my phone.

“I'll be back before then.”

Our father does a midnight service on Wednesdays at his church. A lot of his parishioners can't make it in the morning or on the weekends because of their jobs, so he started this to accommodate them. It's been a big hit, but I know he worries about us when he's gone. I hope he doesn't call to ask about Lucy.

“If you hear from him, just tell him I'm in the shower. Then text me and I'll call him.” She slides a CD into the stereo, cranking it up.

“Lucy—”

“Don't worry,” she says over the loud music. “It's going to be fine.” Her expression falters for a second, but she recovers to smile at me. “Promise.”

I watch my sister back out of the driveway and then I go inside, opting to spend the next few hours researching the web for out-of-body experiences. I turn up little to explain what's happening to me. I think back on Diego, on Paul—they were surrounded in some kind of light.

There's nothing online about bright lights other than near-death experiences—and I'm pretty sure I didn't die. Or at least I hope not. I end up spending a half hour looking up past lives. It feels wrong, especially since my father is a pastor. Still, the idea is fascinating—the thought that a soul can return—sometimes with flashes of memories. The more I read, the more plausible it seems.

As I sit at the kitchen table, I rub my eyes. Seriously, Elise. Past lives?

I push back in my chair and click off the computer. I decide to get some rest, hoping it'll help clear the fog in my head, maybe help me come up with better answers. As I lie in bed, I hear my sister's car return, the engine idling a long minute before the front door opens.

I sit up, glancing toward the hall. I want to ask her what's going on—
really
going on—on these late-night rendezvous. My sister may date a lot, but she's not completely irresponsible. She doesn't drink or sleep around. At least she never used to.

My feet touch the cool floor as I stand, but just then I hear the shower turn on. I sit back on the edge of my bed, debating whether or not to knock. It's nearly twelve thirty and I know my dad will be home any second, so I decide that now might not be the best time to start an intervention. I prop myself up on the pillow, my eyelids getting heavier with each blink. And then they close altogether and I drift off.

 

I'm standing on a sidewalk in London, the street bustling around me. People walk past, not seeing me, and I realize I'm in a vision—but it's not my own. I see the woman from the rooftop and remember her—Onika. She's strolling past, beautiful as ever. Her wrist is looped through the arm of a handsome young guy. He's distinguished looking—blond hair, tan sports coat, and loafers. They look absolutely in love.

I wonder what happened to her since her time with Rodney, when he turned her skin gray. He welcomed her to the Shadows, but I don't understand what that means. She seems fine now, content. Just then, Onika flinches and darts a look toward the bus-stop bench.

I follow her line of sight, spotting the man sitting there, his hair a mess, his clothes wrinkled. Onika's eyes narrow on him as she passes, her teeth gritted as if she's fighting back a pain.

My heart skips a beat when I see a fine crack appear in her skin, racing over her cheek. She reaches up to touch it, shooting an alarmed glance at her boyfriend. But he doesn't notice. He's talking and holding her as if all is well.

“Give me a minute, lover,” she says to him, her voice silky and warm. She untangles herself, turning quickly before he can see her face. Her hair flutters in the wind as she spins, walking back to where the man sits at the bus stop.

Her boyfriend stays where she left him, staring into a store window at the jewelry, his mouth pulled into a soft smile. Onika's boots clack on the pavement until she reaches the man on the bench. She slides in next to him, tilting her head in his direction.

“Poor, sweet Charles,” she whispers, drawing his gaze. “I'm so sorry to hear about your wife.”

A flash of pain crosses the man's face. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Shh . . .” She puts a gloved finger to his lips. “I am no one. But you, darling,” she murmurs, fresh cracks rippling through her flesh. “You should go home, find the gun that's hidden on the upper shelf of your closet. And then, Charles, you should teach that wife of yours a lesson, yes?”

“Yes.”

“That's right. You'll show her. You'll show them all.”

“I'll show them all,” he repeats, a sense of bravery in his voice.

Onika smiles, inhaling deeply as if relieved. And then her face is beautiful once again, flawless. And when the man on the bench gets up, rushing away, Onika stands and goes back to meet her love on the sidewalk.

 

I wake up with a start, the dream staying with me—or at least partly. The woman, Onika, is a haunting vision. And like my memories of a life that's not mine, she feels real. As if she's not just a figment of my imagination.

Unsettled, I wander out to the kitchen to get some juice and find my father sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a stack of papers. When he sees me stumbling half-asleep from the hallway, he offers a weary smile. “Hey, kid. How was the doctor's?”

“Vitamin deficiency,” I offer, the ridiculousness of the diagnosis clear now. I pour a glass of orange juice and sit next to my dad, peeking over at his papers. “What have you got there?” I ask, pushing one aside to see a black-and-white photo underneath. “Who's this?”

My father picks it up, studying it closely. “This girl,” he says. “She disappeared a while ago, the daughter of a member of the church.”

“A missing person?”

“Maybe. I've had this picture on my desk since the day I started, her mother asking me to say prayers that she'll return.”

“That's so tragic,” I murmur. She can't be more than fifteen. When he's quiet for a long moment, I lower my eyes. “Dad,” I ask. “Do you believe in past lives?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Just thinking about it. If it's possible.”

“That doesn't really go along with our faith, Elise.” He pauses. “But I suppose there are other views out there—who's to say what's right anymore?”

Surprised by his answer, I turn to my dad to find his eyes welling up as he looks over the picture of the missing girl. His heart breaks for this family he hardly knows, always putting the problems of others above his own. I lean to put my head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” I say.

“Is that a real ‘I love you'?” he asks. “Or an ‘I want something' ‘I love you'?”

“The real one.”

“Then I love you, too, kid.”

When I straighten, he sets down the picture of the girl, sniffling back what was the start of tears. I decide then not to tell him about my encounter with Paul or the memory of being in bed with a boy I couldn't see. I don't even tell him about the dream of a woman with a broken face. Even though I've always been honest with my father, I'm afraid that these episodes will only worry him more—taking him away from others who need him. And I don't think I can be that selfish.

It occurs to me then to ask someone who may have a better idea of what is going on, even though I'd have to be absolutely out of my mind to follow through. But something happened the other night. I felt it. She felt it too. So I decide that in the morning, I'm going to track down the old lady from the parking lot.

And hope she doesn't really want to gobble me up.

 

My Thursday shift at Santo's ends at seven, long enough to take the brunt of the dinner crowd but early enough to avoid the late-night stragglers. Harlin never materializes, which sort of hurts. But then I remind myself that he's practically a stranger and I have much bigger things to worry about.

I'm distracted as I think about the old psychic. During a lull in customers, I corner Mario behind the counter and ask him if he knows of a woman who hangs out in the parking lot. He scratches his neck where his tattoos poke out from the collar of his uniform shirt and stares blankly at me.

When Margie walks by, I ask her and she says the only psychic in town is Madame Marceline. She lives on Mission Boulevard and is, as Margie puts it, “bat-shit crazy.” I thank her, and plan to find the woman in the morning.

Abe's been silent through most of the shift—which is totally unlike him. He hasn't even mentioned the fact that he asked me to dinner. I think he's changed his mind.

I'm a bit deflated by the time I punch my timecard at 7:05, and take out my phone to call my house. If I'm going to be stuck there, dinnerless, I should at least bring some burritos with me.

On the third ring Lucy picks up. “What?” she says, her voice low and irritated.

“Hey,” I respond, furrowing my brow. “It's me. It's Elise.”

“Oh, sorry. Hi.” She doesn't go on, and across the room Abe walks in, eyeing me curiously.

“I just got done with work,” I tell Lucy, “and I was checking to see if you wanted me to bring home food?”

“Naw. Dad made mac 'n' cheese.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly.” She makes a soft groan off-line.

“Are you still having pain?” I ask. “Lucy, this isn't normal. I'm going to tell Dad.”

“Please don't,” she says. “Just stay out of it, Elise.”

“Out of what? And no, I won't stay out of anything. In case you've forgotten, ignoring medical problems doesn't exactly make them go away.”

My sister is quiet, and I feel my eyes begin to tear up. It wasn't right of me to bring up our mother like that. But I'm scared and worried. I'm not sure what else will get through to her.

“I'll talk to the doctor,” she says quietly. “Will that make you happy, tyrant?”

I smile. “Yes.”

There's a rustling on her end like the phone is being shifted. “I'm glad,” she says sarcastically, sounding like herself again. “I'll see you when you get home.”

We say good-bye, and the minute I slide my phone into my pocket, Abe comes to lean against the wall in front of me. “Trying to get out of dinner?” he asks with a slight edge to his voice.

“I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

“Never.”

I like how seriously he says it, as if it's impossible. And right now, it just feels good to be wanted—especially with all the uncertainty around me. All the worry and fear. Abe's interest in me seems unwavering.

I wait quietly while he counts his money, checking out with the hostess. My mind swirls with all the different possibilities for dinner—not that Thistle has much to choose from. I even wonder if it'll be romantic. And I wonder if I want it to be.

Abe meets me by the exit, a devious smile on his lips. “I'm an amazing date,” he says.

My stomach flips. “Thought you said this was just dinner?”

Abe opens the glass door and holds it for me. As I pass by him, he lowers his head so that his voice is close to my ear. “It's never just dinner.”

And then we walk outside.

CHAPTER 9

W
hen we get into the parking lot, the sky is brighter than it has been in weeks. I can actually see stars. I'm standing there, looking up, when Abe comes over to pluck the keys from my hand. “I'll drive,” he answers.

“But—”

“This is a little out of the way, so you're just going to have to trust me, Elise.” He walks around to open the passenger side first. “Sort of exciting, right?” he asks.

My heart races, nervousness churning in my stomach. This is an adventure, a new experience. I'm not one to take risks, but with Abe I almost have to. He's so tempting.

Once inside the car, Abe adjusts the seat and pulls out a CD from his backpack before inserting it into the stereo. “If it'll calm your nerves,” he says offhandedly as he turns up the heavy blues music, a rumbling voice rolling out of the speakers. “I won't ruin you, Elise. I know how innocent you are.”

“
Ruin?
Well, glad to hear it,” I respond, smiling at his choice of words. “That would probably make for an awkward silence later.”

Abe turns, his dark eyes raking slowly over me until they stare back seductively into mine. “Or maybe I'll ruin you just a little,” he whispers.

I hold his gaze for a second before facing the window, the parking lot outside slowly emptying of cars. Although Abe didn't touch me, I'm covered in goose bumps—feeling vulnerable. Exposed. But I'm also drawn to him, and slowly look at him again, almost like I can't help it. He smiles and then backs out of Santo's lot.

The stores on Main Street are closed as we drive past, the town sleepy and empty ahead of us. I think about the old woman, and how I still have to find her. Abe begins to accelerate and I notice he's merged onto the freeway.

I lower the stereo. “Where exactly are you bringing me?”

“You get one hint,” he says. “It involves fire.”

“Fire?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” I laugh. “Now I'm scared.”

Abe turns the music back up, the bass vibrating in my bones. “You should be.”

 

* * *

 

It's nearly thirty minutes later when we pull onto a sandy street in the middle of the desert. And I mean the middle of the freaking desert—only cactus and hills of sand surrounding us.

“Abe,” I say, my voice a little strained. “Where are we going? For real.”

“I need a place to bury your body, right?”

My expression falters and Abe looks at me, his eyes hidden in the shadows of the night. Then he chuckles. “Dear God, Elise. Get a sense of humor.”

But it's like I suddenly realize how alone we are, as if waking from a dream only to realize I've wandered onto the ledge of a building. The only light outside of the car is from the headlights, and I'm scared. I tell him so.

“Aw, you're making me feel bad,” Abe says sincerely. “I was kidding around about murdering you. We're hanging out at a campsite. See the fire over that hill?”

Sure enough, I see a flickering light just over the next mound of sand. My tension releases slightly, and as we get closer, I notice a Jeep and another car pulled to the side.

“Camping?” I ask, feeling ridiculous for being so paranoid. I watch as the glow from the fire fills the car, illuminating Abe's face in soft amber. He's so handsome, so inviting.

And yet my heart tells me that something is off—like that anxiety you get when you're not sure if you've locked the front door. Or maybe it's guilt. Although I can't think of a reason to be sorry for being out with Abe. It's not like I have a boyfriend waiting by the phone for me to call.

Abe reaches to take my hand, as if reading the hesitance in my expression. “It's not a sleepover, Elise. I just wanted to introduce you to some of my friends. Cook some burgers. It's all innocent. I swear.”

My worry fades. I'm flattered that Abe wants me to meet his friends. As if he's proud to show me off. His skin is warm on mine. “I hope these burgers are better than what they have to offer at 7-Eleven,” I say, trying not to sound nearly as nervous as I feel.

“Doubtful.” Abe takes his hand from mine to undo his seat belt. He looks past me to where the party is. “But we should head over. I wouldn't want you to miss your curfew. Not on our first night.”

He gets out, walking ahead to where the people are. When they see him, a few jump up—girls hug him, guys slap his hand. Abe has that way about him, attracting people without even seeming to try. Maybe that's what's worrying me, the idea that Abe is so much more experienced than I am.

I push back the anxiety that continues to linger, and open the passenger door to cross the sand. The night has cooled considerably, but as I get closer, the flames from the huge fire lick out toward me. The heat is divine on my skin.

“There she is,” Abe announces, as if he was just talking about me.

“Hey, Elise,” a cute guy with a pierced lip calls from where he's sitting on a canvas folding chair.

“Oh,” I answer, surprised he knows my name. “Hi.”

“That's Craig,” Abe says, coming to stand next to me. He leans against my shoulder but doesn't put his arm around me. Instead he points out a stunning redhead. “This is Marissa. She's feisty, so watch out for her.”

Not sure how to respond to that, I just say hi and she does the same.

“Bridget,” he continues, moving down the line. “Of course, Molly.” Molly has short brown hair, kind of like Lucy's, and she giggles the minute Abe says her name.

The girls are practically drooling over him. This is going to be so awkward.

I meet Fernando, Johnny, and Pete, but before the introductions go on too long, Abe finds me a seat on the far end of the half circle. I've barely sat down when Marissa calls to Abe, using her finger to invite him over. Abe touches my shoulder as he passes, saying he'll be right back.

“Drink?” Fernando asks me, motioning toward the cooler.

“No, but thank you.” I'm still watching Abe. And I know it's stupid, but I'm a tiny bit jealous. This is supposed to be my date, not a visit to the Abe fan club.

Craig is readying the hibachi with charcoal when I catch Abe close to Marissa, whispering something in her ear. She closes her eyes, leaning into him, and a sinking sensation fills my chest. Just then Abe notices the insecurity on my face.

He stands, Marissa's hands falling from his shoulder. He ignores her when she calls his name and he crosses the space between us, stepping right over the fire as he heads toward me. My heart speeds up.

“Sorry,” he says simply, and drops down in the sand next to my chair. “Had to tie up some loose ends.” He looks sideways at me, waiting for my reaction.

“I'm sure,” I mumble, surprising myself with how bitter I sound. But I'm not going to let Abe humiliate me. I don't care how cute he is.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That shoulder is cold, Elise,” he whispers, glancing past me. “I wasn't flirting, if that's what you think.”

“I didn't—” My breath catches as Abe reaches over me, his arm across my waist as he opens the cooler to pull out a can.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs.

His touch sends my pulse racing once again, and I don't feel insecure anymore. Instead, I'm smiling. “You could have asked me to get that for you,” I say.

“I know.” Abe pops the top on the soda and takes a drink.

 

When the charcoal is ready, Abe moves to help me grill my hamburger, burning the outside for what he claims is “maximum flavor.” At one point he even brushes his lips over my ear when leaning in to talk to me. I'm so comfortable with him. I can't believe I haven't known him all my life.

About an hour after we arrive, his friends are a little drunk. Abe and I are roasting marshmallows, quiet and close as he sits at my feet in the sand. I listen to their stories about setting a fire in Santo's back room in an unfortunate silverware-in-the-microwave incident. Abe launches into one about an ex-server who was caught hooking up in the walk-in freezer, and soon I'm laughing so hard I can barely hold on to my marshmallow stick.

“He wasn't always so cool, you know?” Marissa calls out to me suddenly.

“What's that?” I ask, still chuckling a little bit.

Her face tightens in the orange glow of the fire. “Abe,” she goes on. “He wasn't always like this. He used to be quiet.” She meets his eyes. “Not nearly as sexy.”

Next to me, Abe is sliding sand away from his sneaker, silent.

“Uh . . . okay,” I answer. I'm not exactly sure what reaction she expects from me, but I want to defend Abe. He's been nothing but nice to me, no matter what he's done in the past.

“In fact,” Marissa says, her voice beginning to drip with contempt, “Abe used to be in love with me. But I wouldn't give him the time of day.”

“Give it a rest, Marissa,” Craig says from next to her, taking a sip from his drink. But Marissa's watching Abe, a story obviously under the surface. I hate that he's silent in return, as if she's demeaning him somehow. I want to punch her for that.

“Things have obviously changed since then,” I say seriously. “As far as I can tell, you're the one in love now.”

Her eyes snap to mine, and from next to me I hear Abe snort back a laugh.

“It would seem that way,” she says. “The question is, why?”

“Be quiet now,” Abe murmurs. I wonder if he broke her heart and if that's why she's lashing out now.

Marissa's eyes blaze, but she falls silent, opting to watch the fire instead. Craig changes the subject, something about Margie once coming on to him when Santo was out of town.

The party goes on for another hour, the laughs slowly coming back. Abe does a dead-on impression of Santo, and it's hilarious to hear about Molly's new job at a local breakfast place. Turns out they're all servers somewhere.

Marissa doesn't participate in any of the stories, and she avoids any conversation with Abe altogether. She won't even look at him. This entire night would be uncomfortable, it should be, but I'm wrapped up in the moment. It's the first time since Colorado that I feel like I have friends.

Next to me Abe yawns, lifting his arms over his head before resting one casually across my lap. He bends his head closer. “We should go,” he says. “It's late.”

I nod, checking the time. If we leave now, I'll still make curfew. Abe gets up and says good-bye to his friends. Across the fire Marissa sits motionless, not acknowledging any of us.

I try not to stare at her as I say good-bye to the rest of the party, but her eyes have glazed over, the lower lids brimming with tears. Sorrow fills me, and I take a step toward her before Abe takes my hand, pulling me in the other direction.

We walk back to the car, the desert air getting crisp the farther away from the fire we get. “Did you have fun?” Abe asks, opening the door for me.

“I really did. Maybe next time I'll actually camp?”

“Intriguing thought.”

I catch something out of the corner of my eye and turn to see Marissa standing on the hill, the light from the fire illuminating her from behind. Her arms hang at her sides and her shoulders are slumped. She looks absolutely desperate.

“Elise,” Abe says, smiling softly at me. “I'm gonna go say good-bye.”

“Sure.”

He leaves, walking toward Marissa as she moves to meet him halfway. I open the passenger door and get in, closing it quietly. My window is still down from the drive up and I can hear them talking. I feel like I'm spying.

“That wasn't very nice of you, Riss,” Abe says, reaching to brush her red hair behind her ear. “I thought we were past all this.”

“I'm sorry,” she answers automatically, without reacting to his touch.

“I know you are.” He leans forward and kisses her forehead, pausing there a long moment. When he pulls back, Marissa grabs his forearms as if trying to keep him close.

“You don't need me anymore, do you?” she asks, her voice choked off.

“You were out of control tonight,” he says quietly. “It hurt my feelings.”

Marissa doesn't respond. The whole conversation is surreal and I have no idea what's going on. They must have had a romance gone tragically wrong. I don't want to be in the middle of something like this.

“Be careful of the cliff beyond the tents,” Abe tells Marissa. “It's a nasty fall to the bottom. Don't go wandering off by yourself, okay?”

Marissa is frozen, and at first I'm not even sure she heard him. But then she nods slowly, before leaving to walk silently up the hill back to the party.

Abe seems rejuvenated when he gets in next to me, the interior light illuminating him. “Marissa's not a fan,” he says. “But she wanted me to tell you good-bye.”

She didn't say that, but I don't want to admit that I was listening. “She seems pleasant,” I respond. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“Sort of. But she hates me now, in case that wasn't obvious.”

“Oh, it was.”

Abe chuckles, doing a three-point turn to get the car turned around to head back toward town. When we're moving, he reaches to brush his fingers down my arm, over the place where my scratches are now fading. “As long as you don't hate me, Elise,” he whispers. “The rest of them can go to hell.”

My eyelids flutter and I'm suddenly tired, completely drained as if I've been working all night. I lean my head back against the seat, Abe's hand slowly caressing my skin. Comforting me as I drift into a light sleep. We're not far when a high-pitched howl breaks in the distance. Startled, I sit up, Abe's hand falling from me. I try to see out the window but it's too dark.

“Coyotes,” Abe says, clicking on the radio. “They come out late at night around here. Lots of vicious things do.”

The car's headlights cut through the desert night, and ahead of us the world is blank. A film reel of desert playing over and over. I see Abe's fingers twitch as if he means to reach for me again, but instead he adjusts the volume and puts his hands on the steering wheel.