Page 4 of Are You Scared, Krowe?
The guys outside each take one side of the gate and pull it open before Krowe drives past the gates slowly. He pauses, ducking to look in his rear-view mirror.
I can't see anything past the fog that suddenly seems thick enough to choke us all as it presses into the truck like it wants to swallow us. That's why I jump a moment later when a palm slams against the glass behind my head.
Krowe takes that as his signal to carry on. I realize why a few minutes later, as we follow the paved road through the cemetery, fog hovering above tombstones that seem to stretch into infinity. This place is massive.
I'm surprised he obeys the speed limit since there's clearly not a ton of people visiting the cemetery at nine p.m. In fact, I'm pretty sure, based on the iron chain that was slung around one side of the gate, that it's meant to be closed.
"You believe in ghosts, scarecrow?"
I glance over to find him watching me expectantly. The ever-present smirk on his face deepens when he waits for me to answer.
"I've seen them." I tell him honestly.
I leave out the part where sometimes I see them before they're actually dead, like how my dad showed up outside the window of my Algebra class thirty seconds before the principal paged me to her office, or how one night when I was a child I woke up to my grandma Lores with an arrow through her heart, which turned out to have been a freak accident at the community center.
"Really?" He sounds impressed more than dubious. I don't know why I told him the truth anyway, but I can't un-ring that bell. "You see any out here tonight?"
I can't tell if he's making fun of me or not. "I'll let you know."
Satisfied with that answer, he puts the truck in park and turns to me.
His eyes look almost gold in the shaft of moonlight that slips between us, and it serves to make him even more beautiful than he already is.
"Just try and have fun tonight, okay? Let go and it'll all be fine."
I appreciate the sentiment. Now that we're parked, I can hear the music blaring from somewhere ahead of us, and the reality of what I'm doing has my nerves threatening to unravel. It's just a party, but I've never enjoyed the process of meeting new people. Awkward small talk, explanations of where I'm from, and now the inevitable "What brought you to Hollow Fields?"
"Wanna open that bottle, or..."
His words trail off as his eyes flick to the bottle of bourbon I took from the house, which now lays on the bench-seat between us.
"Yes, please." I laugh, grateful for the chance to focus on something other than my sense of impending doom.
Krowe grabs it before I do, twisting the cap off and lifting it to his nose to inhale.
"Smells expensive, New Girl. What'd you do, rob the liquor store?"
I robbed a drunk, but he doesn't need to know that.
"It's the only thing I had, and I can't do this sober." I laugh, hoping I don't sound like a lush. I don't drink that much, usually. I prefer to stay in control, since I have to be the responsible one most of the time. But liquor also gives me liquid courage, and I need it like the Tin Man needs a heart. After a single drink, I can pretend I don't want to crawl out of my skin when someone talks to me. After three, I can people with the best of them.
"Well, let me help you with that." Krowe tips the bottle against my lips; it takes a moment before I realize he means for me topart them, and another moment for me to decide to trust him not to waterboard me with it.
The bourbon burns the tip of my tongue, and Krowe must recognize that because he grips the back of my neck, pulling me away from the car seat so that I can tip my head back further. It slides down the back of my tongue slowly at first, and I don't know if the alcohol burn is hotter or his gaze on mine as he watches me.
When he finally pulls the bottle back, I swallow the rest of what's left in my mouth half a second before a coughing spell hits.
"Not too bad, New Girl." He praises me, grinning before bringing the bottle to his own lips and taking a healthy swig.
When he pulls the bottle away, it's to shake his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he does.
"That's good shit. Leave it here so we can finish it ourselves, hmm?"
I blink, taken aback by the request. "It's not a BYOB?"
"Jackson's dad owns the land the town is built on. He can afford to share the cheap shit."
"Okay." I agree, warmed by the prospect of enjoying the bottle with him… alone.
