Blood doesn’t look like it does in the movies.
My ears are still ringing as Micah guides me into the middle row of the van. My arms and legs tremble, and I hope he can’t feel it. Fumbling into the backseat, I find his seat belt and pass it to him. The van lurches to life, and soon we’re far from the scene.
On the surface, we could be anyone—a bunch of college kids on their way to the bars, or a rock band, breathless and high as we leave a gig where the crowd was screaming our names. But we’re not. We are the Stags, and we just shot a guy on the steps of Mission Dolores.
“What are you gonna do?” Micah asks Jax.
“What do you think I should do?” our leader replies.
Micah is steady. “We should find out who he talked to. If he’s right, then working with the Boars is gonna get you killed.”
Jax ponders this a while, the only sound in the van that of raindrops starting to hit the windshield. “I need to think on this,” he says finally. “But until I say otherwise, the Boars are our allies.”
Micah sits back in his seat. “To go against the Herons?”
“Bingo.”
“It’s a good idea,” Nianna says coolly from Micah’s right. “The Herons are getting too cocky, capitalizing on the Silicon Valley bimbos and their money.”
“Ty’s heard more, too,” Jax replies. “The new police chief they hired last year—Ty thinks he and the Herons are going to try and oust us.”
“How?” Micah asks.
“Some program to make it seem like they’re fixing us evil, evil gangs. We’re gonna find out.”
The road turns sharply, and I fall into Micah’s shoulder—I remembered his seat belt and forgot my own. I take a breath and clip myself in, fingers shaky.
I witnessed a shooting tonight. The gang I’m sworn to has teamed up with the one I hate to take down the group that the guy I’m in love with belongs to. Sounds like a movie trailer, I think bitterly. Only this isn’t a movie, it’s my real fucking life and I don’t know what I can do. Worst of all, I signed up for this. Still …
I am part of Jax’s game, or whatever this is. I’ve met a gang leader and did my part in participating in—or, at least, consenting to—what happened to Michael Hennessy. I’m one night closer to earning his trust and finding out who it was that shot Leo, and that’s what I’ve wanted all along.
We get home and Jax starts drinking. We all do. I down my first beer quickly and a second just as fast. All I want is for the image—the sound of Michael shrieking, the smell of blood—to go away. Mako fires up the PlayStation, and soon the boys are lost to their games.
The alcohol hits me. My mind switches off. Something else switches on.
“S’cuse me,” I say, scooting past Kate and into the kitchen. I open drawers one by one until I find what I need.
I shouldn’t do this. Everyone says it’s bad. Lyla made me swear to call her—anytime, any day—instead of doing it. But it’s not a problem. I don’t do it all the time. It’s not a problem. It’s a last resort.
I head for the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind me. The scissors smile in my hand. No one saw me take them, right?
I unbutton my jeans and tug them down. My right side, always the right side. I don’t know why. I bring the blade down, press it onto my skin—then jerk my arm back. Slow then fast. Slow then fast. Breathe. Breathe. Tell no one.
I exhale, nearly sobbing in relief. It works every fucking time.
Two more cuts. Always three. One for each letter.
L-E-O.
When I’m done, I tug my pants up and wash the scissors with soap and water.
Someone knocks on the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah!” I shout back. Clearly I’m fine.
The cuts are not the worst I’ve ever done—two or so inches, wider in the middle. Blood beads along the edge but doesn’t drip down. Plenty of people cut way worse than me. I’m not even cutting, really, just scraping.
I turn and stare down my own reflection in the mirror, like I’ve done a million times before. “You were his big sister,” I whisper. “It was your job to be there. You should have protected him.” My voice cracks. “You can’t now, but you can protect other people. You can stop the Boars from killing any more innocent people.” Michael Hennessy wasn’t innocent. He chose this, just like I did.
I slip back into the kitchen and tuck the friendly scissors in their place.
Kate’s leaning into the fridge, one arm draped over the open door. She twirls the end of her braid around her pointer finger, then lets it go and grabs a can of beer.
“You want one?”
I wave her off and motion to her hair. “I don’t know how you keep it so long.” She didn’t see me put the scissors back. She’d have said something if she did. “This is about as long as I get before I go crazy.”
“I love having long hair.” She teeters on her feet even though she’s still holding the door. “My mom had long hair like mine, then she got cancer and poof! It all fell out. I asked her if she wanted me to cut mine—like, was it painful for her to look at, you know? But Mom said no, because when she looked at me she could see something beautiful. Then we weren’t able to afford her chemo and she died and I had to go live with my shitbag of a dad.”
There’s so much in that one breathless confession and each part splinters my heart in a different way. “Oh my god, Kate. I’m so sorry.”
The corner of Kate’s lip twitches. Her hand goes to her back pocket, and she pulls out a square of neon paper. She pinches the corner, and I want to say something—anything—but Mako cuts me off.
“Kate, stop hogging Valentine and get over here. We’re taking shots.”
“Okay,” is her reply. I catch her eye and she gives me a weak smile. “Go.”
I pretend to take the shot, but leave half of it in the glass. This doesn’t feel good. For the next ten minutes or so, I think I’ve gotten away scot-free, that I’d stopped drinking in time. Then, slowly, I begin to slide away. I’m lifting. I’m a thousand helium balloons, light and free in a blue sky. I feel blizzardy. Blizzardy. Is that even a word? I don’t know. I don’t care. Blizzardy blizzardy!
Everything is hilarious. Everyone around me is radiant and perfect—and I want to tell them. I am going to tell them.
Music booms from the speakers as I dart from Stag to Stag. I kiss Kate on the cheek, and when Mako protests I kiss his cheek, too. Nianna, Jax, and Micah are trying to set up some drinking game, but I ignore their process and flit to each of them. Micah is welcoming and gentle. Nianna is beautiful and strange.
My mind is a tangle of downed wires on the side of the freeway. Downed by a blizzardy blizzard. Little sparks.
But I’m in control enough to know that when I reach Jax, he puts his arm around me first, and kisses the top of my head like I’m precious, like I’m special.
Like I’m his.