Page 116 of The Bright Lands
“Let’s pretend you never said that name,” he said with his father’s political smile. “Now, some guys spend their whole night in Glory Days—that’s where the cards and the titty porn is.” Mitchell pointed at the red trailer, then turned to nod at the tall triple-wide Luke had seen earlier, the one with the big porch. Tomas Hernandez was stepping out of its door and tucking something into his sock as he walked, a cigarette on his lips. His fingers were shaking. “If you’re ever short on cash you can go in that one there but, well—you’ll see.”
Luke saw the dark spots in the dirt where his blood had fallen earlier. He remembered the cop with all the tattoos who had cut his thigh. He glanced again at that little black camper with its dark windows. “Do you get to keep coming here after you graduate?”
“You’re all about the questions. But yes, youcancome back to be a Hand, but you don’t want to. And youdefinitelydon’t want to start dating one of the Hands off the clock.” Mitchell let out a funny, humorless laugh. A few more boys arrived, Luke saw, and now they milled around the doors of the trailers in twos and threes, drinking, smoking, talking without meeting each other’s eyes. It was strange, Luke thought: the way two dozen guys could feel like a wild party. If this was what a party felt like.
Mitchell stopped near a silver Airstream. The trailer was surrounded by a white picket fence and a bed of fake flowers. White foil packets of lube glinted among their stems like eggshells.
“Listen, man, it’s simple. Don’t think about this stuff. Let what you do at home stay at home. Let what you do here stay here. ’Cause what we’ve got here is just a few guys doing what we feel. It don’t mean we’re about that faggot shit, yeah?”
Over Mitchell’s shoulder, inside the dim silver trailer, Luke saw Garrett Mason throw his head back in a moan. Stevey Turner was braced on a couch.
Luke knew one thing and one thing only: he was definitely, definitely about that faggot shit.
He forced a smile. “Of course, bro.”
“Perfect. Now repeat after me.”
Mitchell fished an amber vial from his sock, shook it briskly, unscrewed the cap and pressed it to his nostril. He took a snort, switched sides. Let out a long quavering breath.
Luke did just as he was told. The liquid inside smelled of paint thinner. By the end of his first drag he felt a tingling in his face. By the end of his second he was flush all over with a warmth anchored somewhere inside his balls. He saw spots. He said, “Oh shit,” and it felt like the most profound thing to ever come out of his mouth.
Luke felt a finger run up his ass. He turned to see the stunning redhead from earlier regarding him. The boy jabbed the finger deeper. Luke winced—even with the poppers it hurt like a bitch—but smiled back and told himself this was exactly what he’d always wanted.
BETHANY
Dear Jesus.Bethany wasn’t sure what exactly she was seeing from the windows of Luke’s truck parked on the dark side of the ring of trailers, but she knew in a heartbeat that more than one boy here would kill her to keep it a secret. She saw Tomas Hernandez step out onto the porch of the tall triple-wide and light a cigarette. His eyes seemed to settle on hers.
Bethany ducked down, her heart thudding.
Steps in the dirt outside. A truck’s door opening, slamming. A laugh.
She pressed her hand to her lips and counted to thirty. Thirty-five.
The laugh faded. Quiet around her.
Deep breath. Deep breath.Bethany reminded herself that she was a very strong person, a very capable person, a very—
No. Stop.Bethany realized, in that cold quiet moment, that if she wanted to survive this mess she was going to have to stop telling herself what kind of girl she was and start living like that bitch while she still had the chance.
Get your shit together, Tanner.
She noticed something. During the entire ride here, she had been certain that the golf bag sliding around the truck bed was going to strike her in the face. Now, however, she saw that it wasn’t a golf bag at all.
It was a black vinyl rifle case.
What had Dylan called her that one time, that rainy morning this past spring when Bethany (and her .22 bolt-action) had rounded on him in the shelter of her father’s deer stand and asked (possibly demanded) to know why her man hadn’t fucked her in weeks?
The Sharpest Shot in the West.
Bethany pulled the rifle bag toward her and spun the business end outward. She fumbled with the zipper.
JOEL
He was vomiting, though he felt only vaguely connected to the throat clenching and burning as bile fell to his feet. Such bright new floorboards down there, he noticed, so out of place in this moldy old trailer.
“Don’t you ever say Broadlock’s name again, you fucking faggot.”
Parter stood so close his spit struck Joel’s eye.
