Page 9 of Angel of Water & Shadow

We darted for an open window, warm and inviting and beckoning our hungry souls, when one of the adjacent shadow huddles stirred and broke into five towering, beefed-up individuals.

“River,” the head of the pack crooned before us, his wide upper body dimming the snack shack’s neon bulbs.

My body became stiffer than a board.

Ugh, that baritone drawl lined with a sexual vitriol. I had the misfortune of being able to recognize it anywhere: Chet Jennings. Star of our rival water polo team. Prick of the century.

Zero attempt was made to hide the loathing in my voice. “I should’ve known you’d be here.”

“Nice of them to combine our Grad Nights, right? It’s like we’re one big happy family.” His cronies snickered into bottles they no longer bothered to conceal with paper bags. Each of them, utter clones of the six-foot, steel-eyed, bastard in my direct path.

Javi scoffed. Couldn’t blame him. I bit my tongue, hoping the nip of pain would stop the anger from rising and bursting out of me.

Even with half of Chet’s face shaded by dusk, I could make out the ire flickering in his glazed-over stare. He turned to Javi, letting forth an inebriated snarl, before his wavering stance fixed on me again.

“So how are you, River?” His smile was wicked, uneven.

I didn’t return it.

He reached for my waist, maybe my wrist, but didn’t get, either. I recoiled from his touch, from his intentions, from his nasty acetone breath, and as I tried to squirm away, his hand brushed my chest. Ugh. He’d never even have considered talking to me if it hadn’t been for our unfortunate fling at a house party following the homecoming game. I knew I was nothing special, but I guess by his standards Javi and I were decent enough to get singled out for a night as playthings for the varsity rulers. I should have been suspicious of the hearty welcome, the drinks thrust in our hands, the games of flip cup that resulted in the chugging.

Lucky for Javi, he’d spent the rest of that evening vomiting under the stars. Unlucky for me, I’d spent it half-aware, twisting in the sheets under the Chet Jennings.

An honor, he’d told me while he wiped away my tears, readying for another round. Until the Voices found me, and then I was no longer Baby. But Crazy, Psycho, and Slut.

You’ve got issues, he’d said.

Thank you, I’d whispered as the stifling air retreated, as my senses left me for a welcome blackout.

It took one look for Javi to know what had been done. And he still didn’t forgive himself, would never forgive himself, for not being there to protect me. For being stripped of his will, and I of my clothes. I’d cried into his barf-stained shirt, in the backyard of whoever’s house we were at, until the sun wrapped us in its hug.

But this time, Javi was here, and he stepped forward, answering for me. “We were great, until you came along.”

This time Chet moved to my friend, his bone structure even more cutting with his wrath, like it had been carved with indifference, as he sized Javi up. “That last time I saw you, you were puking into my jacuzzi. That cost my parents a lot of money to clean.”

Oh. So that’s whose house we’d been at.

Chet inched a step closer. Javi stood his ground.

“Fucking lightweight,” Chet growled into his face and slammed a palm into his chest.

Javi stumbled backwards, but I caught his arm, planting his feet alongside mine.

I glowered at the over-toned, sandy-haired “specimen” peacocking in the night before us. Positioning himself so the shadows lengthened his square chin, and the setting sun sharpened his cheeks, and the testosterone curled his fingers and lip.

All a front for some scared, small, little boy inside who couldn’t get validation outside his unwilling conquests. It was sick.

“How’d that last game go for you again?” I tilted my head. “Your parents disappointed you didn’t score enough points? Or do you just count the ones you score in the bedroom?”

The idiots in Chet’s wing let out various yelps of surprise, their stilted laughter stoking his fragile ego. I could practically see the rage simmering in his reddened face.

“Get out of our way.” I wielded my words like a knife.

“Or what?” he breathed.

Then I struck. My hand screamed at the impact, bright pink in its wake.

I was about as shocked as he seemed to be. But these feelings, this fury…they had been brewing for months now, roiling beneath my skin. Channeled into bitten cuticles and screams the ocean swallowed up while surfing.

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