6:30 P.M., Present Day
Somehow, Joe convinces me to stay to eat. He tells me that his parents are headed out of town to preach at a revival, and he and Rina will just be hanging out. I don’t know why I say yes.
The longer I’m on the Kenzie farm, the more I put this family in danger, yet I tell myself that I’m staying to make sure they’re safe, that Ángel’s boys aren’t stalking us.
At least that’s what I try to convince my brain, but I’m too tired to lie. I’m lonely—lonely and exhausted from hiding, from pretending to be something that I’m not. With Joe and Rina, the weight from the world vanishes, and I can be myself. Mum’s haunting voice quiets here with the beauty of pixie girl’s honesty, an authenticity that makes her beyond beautiful.
Later, we sit on the low-hanging roof below Joe’s old bedroom window. The roof is flat here, the metal shingles warm from the sun, and a perfect place to watch the sunset over the mountains. Joe’s made hotdogs with coleslaw, and we balance our paper plates of food and cans of Dr. Pepper.
Rina has the darn kitten on her lap, and she caresses the creature with her hand every few minutes, checking her to make sure she’s okay. We stuff our mouths in silence for the first few minutes as the ball of fire dips lower in the sky, coating the world in dusk.
Golden light reflects over the red and orange trees of autumn, and, up here, the air smells like earth and falling leaves and wet grass. The blue sky mingles with pink clouds, and a milky moon slowly climbs into its rightful place above us.
“Who were those people?” Joe asks me in a quiet voice.
Food catches in my throat. “What people?” I ask innocently, though even I can detect the caution in my tone. A chilly wind wraps its fingers around me, and I pull my leather jacket closer.
“Yeah, what people?” Rina sits on the other side of Joe, but she leans toward me. “Who are you guys talking about?”
“It was nothing,” Joe says. “Just some speeders back near the Marshall’s place who were driving dumb as—.” He stops at Rina’s threatening glare. “I didn’t say it,” he mumbles as he takes a bite of his coleslaw. “Anyway, Sean looked like he recognized them.”
I don’t answer for a moment. “They looked like some people I knew in New York,” I reply at last.
Joe doesn’t miss a beat. “Were they?”
I stuff my mouth, giving myself more time to answer. “No,” I say after a swallow. “I was wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
I meet his steely eyes without flinching. “Positive.”
Joe searches my face for a moment as if daring me to give something away, but I return an equally stony stare. Finally, he turns away, picks up his plate, and climbs back through the window to get more food.
As I return my attention to the country landscape, my stomach twists in knots and I no longer crave food. The Kenzies don’t deserve to have my troubles heaped upon them, to be exposed to my demons.
I’m a dangerous man, and no amount of pretending will prove otherwise. To even sit here this evening could give my enemy the idea to use Rina and Joe as bait to get to me, to prove the gang’s bitter point. They will find a way to hurt me in every way possible.
And I refuse to let that happen.
I straighten and snap out of my gloomy thoughts. The gentle breeze turns the evening chilly with the fading sunlight. Rina sets her Dr. Pepper can down on the roof, and I’m hyperaware of her every movement.
For some reason, I feel both a nervous and excited twinge that I’m completely alone with her. I don’t glance her way, only concentrate on my hotdog, pretending I’m too moody for chitchat, but inside, I’m a storm, and my world slowly grows darker with the realization that my past is never far behind.
In fact, it appears to have arrived in town.
I take a drink of my Dr. Pepper, wincing. I like the flavor, but I don’t like the carbonation any more than I did in high school... I guess some things never change. Rina is being oddly quiet for her upbeat self, and I wonder if she’s thought about our conversation after the party, if she’s still ticked off and thinks I’m a jerk.
I hate myself for even caring, but two words pop out of my mouth that I don’t admit often. “I’m sorry,” I say at last, knowing that Joe will be back any minute and I need to say it. I’ve finished my food, and I set my plate down on the roof beside me. I still don’t look at Rina, afraid that I won’t be able to hide my emotions from her, that she’ll see the criminal that I am.
“For what?”
“The other night. I was too brash with the things I said. I don’t know you well enough to speak so plainly.”
“You don’t know me at all,” Rina says with a laugh, and my heart rate picks up a notch at the sound. “But I guess I forgive you.”
I give her a sideways glance. “You guess?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” she says playfully. “If I must.”
I swallow, fixing my eyes back on the setting sun. Joking with her feels too easy, coming far too naturally, and I don’t like it. It means something I don’t want to think about.
Something I’ve never really felt before.
We’re quiet again, but it’s not an awkward silence, only a peaceful moment that settles deep in my soul. The birds sing their farewell to the day, and fog rolls over the valley.
I wish this reality could last forever. I wish I could blink the past away, that I could be a little boy again who could hide under the covers when life becomes too scary. I wish innocent, untainted things like watching the sunset are the only things that matter, that I could remain here forever in childlike bliss.
“‘I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.’” I don’t know why the words come out, but something about the night, sitting there watching night conquer the day, makes me recall the haunting line I once read. It’s always stuck with me.
Rina glances at me in surprise. “Nietzsche.”
“Yeah.” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m a little shocked, to be honest, that you recognized the quote.”
“What made you say it?” Rina asks.
I shrug. “I dunno. Kinda slipped out, I guess. It reminds me that in every person, there is a demon at war with the light inside. A constant battle of beauty and pain.”
“Not me.” She says the words so firmly, I laugh. “No, really. ‘But he who is not afraid of my darkness will find banks full of roses.’” Her voice grows softer now. “Like, it reminds me of the beauty that can be found in each life if we give it a chance, if we don’t fear its darkness.”
Her words strike a chord in me—warmth, heat, summer’s dying light.
Hope.
Rina brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “This is my favorite place, up here on the roof. I came up here all the time when I was a kid. You know, like an escape where I could get away from the world.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Rina stroke Toby, the creature closing her eyes and purring softly. I wait for Rina to continue, and when she does, her voice is so low, I have to scoot closer to hear. “Sunsets remind me that the darkness won’t last forever, that the light will come if I only wait for it.”
Her words cause my throat to clog with emotion, and I don’t even know why. I’m a grown man, and grown men don’t cry.
I don’t even realize how close we are until her arm brushes mine as she leans back. Every part of my body tenses, then a soothing warmth radiates from the point where our arms touch. She doesn’t pull back, and suddenly, more than anything, I want to put my arm around her, for us to lean into each other, to know that I have someone who’s got my back, who will walk with me when the darkness becomes too much.
My breathing hitches as I dare to glance at her, knowing that she’s a breath away. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest and tells me to continue forward, to catch her gaze, but then my head warns me I’m only playing the fool.
Being with this girl feels all kinds of dangerous, and my heart whispers thoughts that scare me. She oozes honesty and authenticity that’s almost brash but still speaks volumes about her solid character. She doesn’t pretend to be anything she’s not.
“You remind me of my mum,” I say suddenly. I don’t plan it, but the words come out, and without a doubt, I know I mean them.
My eyes raise to hers and I search her face. We’re so close, I can count the cute freckles on her nose. The day I had met Rina, I’d thought about the Gaels believing that freckles were a map so they could always remember the stars. Up here on the roof now, talking about light and dark, the myth seems even more fitting.
Rina continues to stare at me, not blushing or glancing away. “What makes you think I’m like your mom?”
I know Joe’s going to come through that window any second, and the last thing I want is for him to catch me this close to his sister. I slide further away, as I pretend I’m adjusting my position to get more comfortable.
And, suddenly, she feels ten miles away instead of a foot, and I want to curse at how much I miss her closeness. I’m not a softy. I don’t live on weak emotions. This is not me, and yet I can’t help myself.
I don’t really know this girl, but there’s something about her that makes me want to get closer, to know everything about her. I want to learn her hopes and dreams and fears, her favorite songs, books, and Sherlock Holmes stories. I want to know more, and something tells me that even discovering those things won’t satisfy me.
“Mum died ten years ago.” The words barely push out of my throat, suffocating me with their terrible truth.
Rina’s gaze drops to my lips and back to my eyes, strands of hair dancing over her face. The action causes me to go dizzy, and, for a moment, I forget everything around us, forget everything but us.
Lips have more nerve endings than any part of the body, the simple action of a kiss producing feel-good chemicals.
And for the first time in my life, I wonder what it would be like to press my lips to this beautiful girl who has the constellations on her face, who watches the sunset to remind herself that the darkness will not last forever.
“I’m sorry,” Rina says with the whisper of a breeze. “That must have been hard.”
My mouth bleeds dry, and the breath squeezes from my lungs. We barely know each other, yet there’s this pull, like a magnet that drags us closer and closer.
She’s light, hope, and rainbows to my darkness, despair, and storm—her disposition a contradiction of everything I’ve ever believed about life. She treats love as an action, while I’ve only ever seen it as an emotion with the cold fact: feelings change.
“Sean?” Rina says. She searches my face, and heat floods me in waves. I gulp for air as well as sanity. “What’s your last name?”
“What’s happening, kids?” Joe lowers his lanky form through the window and slides between me and his sister as he balances a second helping of hotdogs. The mood evaporates from a fraction of a second before, and I take a swig of my soda, trying to regain my composure.
“Nothing,” Rina replies, her voice light, casual, as if we hadn’t been sitting there looking at each other’s lips. “Sean was telling me that I remind him of his mom.”
I turn back to the sunset but not before I catch Joe’s narrowed eyes. My supper settles hard in my stomach, and I turn back to the sun, to pretend that Joe isn’t shooting fiery darts in my direction.
New York City (Three Years Earlier)
Loud voices circled around me, some angry, others cheering me on.
“Hit him.”
“Slam him!”
“Dude, sick!”
The concrete was firm beneath my combat boots. Sweat stung my eyes and dripped off the ends of my hair. I stared down my opponent, his gaze showing no emotion, his dark pupils nearly the same color as his skin.
We both panted and our chests heaved in unison from our first tussle as we waited for the other to make the next move. Ángel’s voice echoed in my head.
Weakness separates the wolves from the dead men. Only dead men show that they are weak.
“Come on, boys. A little action.”
Ángel’s words jarred Simon into movement. He sounded a war cry as he barreled forward. I stepped out of the way just in time to deliver a hard kick to his groin. He doubled over. I saw my chance and shot an uppercut to the jaw.
His eyes rolled toward the sky, and his body jerked back. Cheers erupted, followed by screams and shouts of a hungry mob. I craved the blood of others, and I fed their hunger with my actions.
I dove for Simon, ready for the kill. The world around me blurred, and all I knew was that I had to win this fight if I was going to be accepted, if I wanted to prove myself to this man called Ángel, who had promised me a place of belonging.
Suddenly, pain shot up my leg as my ankle twisted to the side.
God, no.
But my prayer was in vain, and I tripped over rubble, causing me to curse as I tried to right myself.
My klutziness was my undoing. Before I could grasp what was happening, Simon grabbed me around the neck. His nails dug into my skin as he slammed me to the ground.
The breath fled my body
and
I
was
drowning.
Simon put me in a chokehold, squeezing the life from me, and I kicked in an attempt to break free. We were wolves, but now I was the prey.
And I had exactly one minute to escape before I lost consciousness.
My hands reached back, searching, trying to find something to distract him. Black dots formed around my vision.
Panic.
Panic.
I am going to die.
My hands scraped the pavement, and the skin of my knuckles tore at the rough concrete. My heartbeat roared in my ears and deafened the cries of the Fénix Blood. Where was Ángel in the fray? Was he going to let Simon lay me out? Would they bury me in a dumpster and leave my body to rot while my soul went to hell?
Then I hit gold. My fingers closed around my victory weapon, and without hesitation, I slammed the broken piece of concrete into the side of Simon’s face. I felt a sweet release and rolled away. Without waiting to regain breath, I was on top of my opponent, ignoring the blood that streamed from his busted nose. My hands wrapped around his throat.
I lifted his head and slammed it back onto the ground. He groaned, and his hands grappled for me, closing around my arms, his nails once again breaking skin.
But my fingers pressed down. Simon gasped, and his eyes bugged out.
The cheers of the boys rang in my ears, and I was pulled off of Simon.
“That’s enough.” Ángel stepped through the crowd of boys and helped Simon to his feet.
My chest heaved with my labored breaths, my heart in overtime.
Ángel held both our hands in the air. “And that’s a real street fight.” The members of Fénix Blood cheered, but I didn’t smile.
Simon didn’t either.
Everything inside and outside my body hurt, and my head pounded like a hammer at the base of the skull. Simon’s nose gushed blood, and someone handed him a rolled-up T-shirt. Another guy handed me my leather jacket, and I tossed it over my shoulder.
“Boys.” Ángel’s dark ponytail exposed his cheekbones, his pale skin the color of delicate porcelain, both flawless and sharp. “You’re top dog because you’re not weak. It’s the pansies who allow someone to control them, who are captive to their jobs or people or their ambitions or addictions or emotions. We’re free because we answer only to ourselves, because we know how to fight anything that tries to tell us otherwise.”
Ángel smiled and clapped Simon and me on our backs. But above the clapping and whistling, he leaned close to me. “That was fly, kid. You’re one of us.”
This time, I smiled, because I’d craved those words for so long—to hear affirmation that I was good for something, appreciated for who I was. I glanced around and soaked in the joy of acceptance.
“Alright, get cleaned up,” Ángel told us. “We’re going to celebrate our newest member, Sean Brogan.”
Pride zapped through me like an electric current that gave me a high no drug ever could. Turning, I shook Simon’s hand, the contrast of the dark and light skin another sign of unity I never saw with anyone my father associated with.
Simon nodded. “Dope fight, brother.” He grinned despite the blood on his face, and flashed the peace sign as he headed back to the building where we spent most of our time.
I followed him to the restroom, a single room with a cracked mirror and pink countertop from the nineties. The green carpet was stained and ripped around the toilet, and the whole place smelled like mold and mothballs.
I waited my turn, checking my mobile as Simon washed his face and hands. Dad had texted me twice to ask where I was, but I ignored them both. I slipped the mobile back in my pocket.
Dad had promised to let me go to England to see Grams and Pops this summer, but later, he broke the promise when he said he didn’t trust me to travel overseas alone.
He probably suspected that I was mixed up with the wrong crowd. No one particularly disliked Ángel Andrés, the thirty-something with a selfless reputation, but people like Dad would never associate with anyone from the streets. He would consider my new friends a sign of disrespect toward him.
Once Simon stepped out of the bathroom, I looked in the cracked mirror dotted with old water spots. My lip was busted, the blood dried to a red crust like a mustache under my nose. I opened and closed my jaw and touched the tender areas around my mouth.
I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water, scrubbing away at the blood and dust. Weariness settled over me like a heavy blanket. I was still in shock over my acceptance, over the fact that Ángel sought me out.
Someone came up behind me and thumped me on the shoulder. “Ángel told me to get you some Tylenol.”
The voice thickened my blood to ice. I swallowed, slowly turning, my hand accepting the pills. “Davis.”
“Brogan.”
Jake Davis, the last person I assumed would be in this type of gang. The gang seemed too bent on brotherhood and unity for Jake. Almost two years had passed since he and his brother started those rumors about me and my sexual identity, two years since I began counting down the days until my high school career would come to a close.
“Ángel had told us he’d found his guys,” Jake finally said. “I don’t know why he thought you were so hot.”
“Maybe because I am,” I said, applying the snide extra thick.
Jake stepped forward until he was nose-to-nose with me. I could smell peppermint gum on his breath, hear him smack it between the teeth I longed to smash in. “Real talk. I’ve been Ángel’s favorite since day one, and no one is going to think he can waltz his butt in here and take the spotlight. Step one toe out of line, brother, and I’ll make you bleed in front of everyone you love.”
“Good.” I locked eyes with him, not giving him the chance to turn away. “Because I don’t know how to love people, Davis. I don’t have a heart.”
I stepped back, pulled on my jacket, and stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “See you around.”
Turning, I headed back into the main room of the warehouse where Fénix Blood spent most of its time. Several old tables with folding chairs lined the far right, littered with books and school supplies where the guys did their homework. A punching bag sat in the center of the concrete, skylights in the ceiling the only source of light to see by.
I didn’t know who owned the building or why Ángel was allowed to use it, or even if anyone knew we used it. No one questioned Ángel or what he did; we only followed. I was the last one to join when others were recruited at fifteen. He wanted me even though I was sixteen, after he already told his boys that his circle was complete.
But Ángel had his reasons, even if he didn’t explain. He was the master at collecting the outcasts and using them, about making us feel like real men with purpose. That day, for the first time, I felt like I truly belonged.
When I re-entered the warehouse, the Fénix Blood members whooped and whistled, and several of my new brothers crowded around me and slapped me on the back. They pushed me toward several slabs of giant concrete in one corner of the warehouse, lighters in their hands.
The slabs stood about four feet high, piled up in a scattered tower, abandoned in the corner by someone who didn’t know what else to do with them. I took a seat at the edge as a boy with an Afro lit a blunt. It was shoved into my hand, and the earthy scent swirled with the smoke around me.
I held the blunt to my lips, inhaled, breathed, and drew into my lungs the victory smoke.
I passed the blunt around, and each boy took his turn.
At that moment, I realized Jake Davis wasn’t with us. He stood on the opposite side of the room, his eyes on me, a smirk on his lips. Maybe I was imagining it, but I had the sickening feeling that I was in something more than a simple high school conflict with a bully, who, for some reason, was jealous as heck of me.
As Sherlock Holmes once said, imagination can be the mother of truth, and I wasn’t about to let my guard down.