Page 67 of Heathens
The smell of piss and sweat fill my nostrils. I look at the other girls, and then at Evelyn. All of us are wearing the same expression.
Terror.
Unabashed, unrestrained terror at what comes next.
The engine starts, and I clench my jaw. Something primal overtakes me—some sort of animalistic need to survive this. I meet the eyes of every girl, though all of them look away, their tear-stained faces shell-shocked.
That’s okay.
I will fight for all of them.
I will fight for all of them.
Untitled
We’re Here to Set the World on Fire
Lily
Present
The light pink hue of the morning sun stirs me awake. Looking around groggily, I smile when I see Salem asleep on the chair across from me. His head is back, his mouth closed, and one of my smutty books is in his lap. I throw the blanket off of me and trudge to the kitchen. Once I make enough coffee for both of us, I sip mine and wander around. That’s when I see the dress hanging on my bathroom door.
Walking over slowly, I touch the coarse, scarlet fabric, thumbing it between my fingers. Standing back, I admire the design—the sweetheart neckline, the thin straps, the tulip shape, the red-as-sin color. Poking the tag through the hanger, my brows lift in surprise when I see that it's my size and that the designer is ‘Tempest.' It must be one of Felix's dresses. But... why?
“Morning,” Salem mumbles. I twist around as he stretches out on the chair, and my heart melts. One side of his hair is flat, and the other sticks straight out. Blinking slowly, he looks around. I want to wake up to him every morning. Especially if he always looks this adorable.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” I say slowly, walking into the kitchen and pouring him a cup of fresh coffee. Handing it to him, I sit on the arm of the chair and kiss the top of his head. I don’t know what makes me do it, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. “That is one wicked dress,” I add, quirking my eyebrows up. “So either you’re a cross dresser—which is fine with me, by the way—or it’s for me.”
He laughs, and the sound is honey and sugar and everything good in the world. “It’s for you. Also, wicked?”
I shrug. “I’m from Massachusetts,” I explain.
“I’ve never heard that expression.”
Smiling, I sip my coffee. Sometimes I forget he’s not American—that he’s lived in two countries, and speaks multiple languages. That his worldview is so different from mine, and yet, we understand each other completely.
“I think you’re wicked cool,” I continue, giggling. “Your hair is wicked messy, and the book you’re reading is wicked naughty.”
He laughs, a full-bodied laugh this time. “She was a wild, wicked slip of a girl. She burned too brightly for this world.Emily Brontë,” he says, his eyes gleaming. I like the way he sayswicked—the way his accent rolls the word around his mouth like he's never said it before. I set my coffee down, and he does the same.
“Wuthering Heights,” I reply, giving him a close-mouthed smile. “A man who quotes Brontë...”
“A woman who knows what I’m referencing,” he counters, and I bend down to kiss him. It’s a quick kiss this time—slow, lazy, sweet. I taste his black coffee and hope he can’t smell or taste my morning breath. Reaching a hand up, he places it behind my head and pulls me onto his lap. It’s like he was made for me—a pious, kind yet untamed man who takes care of me and tends to all of the dark parts of me. Like a gardener, watering the dead plants. Soon, I’ll be good as new. I deepen the kiss, and he groans into my mouth. I can feel his arousal on my ass, and I squirm.
“I bought the dress for Monaco,” he says into my mouth. His breath is bitter, like coffee, and sweet—like milk and honey.
I pull away. “Monaco?”
“You’re coming with me.”
I pull away further, eventually standing up and taking a few steps back as his words settle into me. “No. Salem, I can’t facehim.”
His face softens. “You don’t have to see him. But,” he hesitates, his features open, exposed, powerless— “Ineed you there.”
His confession softens my expression, and I amble over to where he's still sitting. “Youneedme there?”
He raises his eyes to mine. They’re clear—and rimmed with red. And the last few days—the last few weeks slam into me suddenly. The fact that he’s studying to become a priest, yet he’s willing to give it all up for me. That he wants to help me—and the things I plan on doing to Auguste aren’t exactly legal, let alone reverent. That he can’t go two days without seeing me—that heneedsme.
