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  He’s right, of course. Rudy is a . . . a jackwagon. But he is also the only person who isn’t afraid of me. Who will help me escape. I need him. And he needs me. A couple of years back Rudy got caught driving high. He took out a farmer’s fence and killed a cow or something. He’s been on probation and has to submit to random drug tests. After the arrest he had the genius idea to get me high and then have me touch him so he feels it, too. No bad blood tests, no hangovers. And once a week I get to escape into the nothing for free. So our arrangement is . . . mutually beneficial.

  “He isn’t all bad,” I say carefully.

  “So you guys are together?” he asks again.

  “No.” I shudder. “He’s . . . kind of a friend.”

  “What the frick does that mean?”

  I blink. “Did you say frick?”

  “Yes.” And without shame, apparently.

  His eyes lock on mine and the mockery dies in my throat. I wrench myself back to my sketches. “Look.” I dig my pencil into the notebook. “You don’t know me. And you don’t know this town. So . . . leave it alone.”

  “Why?” he replies quietly. “You’ve got so many friends you want to turn your back on a new one?”

  I scoff. No one offers up friendship like that. He has to have an angle.

  I meet his gaze and point my pencil at him with my good hand. “You don’t have a clue, okay? You’ve got nice clothes and a shiny new Jeep. I’m betting next year you’re going to head off to some private college that your parents can pay for. They probably applaud every time you sneeze.”

  He opens his mouth, but I put a hand up to stop him.

  “You’re lucky, and good for you, and all that. But that’s not my life. You don’t know me, you don’t understand my life, and I sure as hell can’t understand what it would be like to have yours, so don’t judge me, okay?”

  Chris’s guarded expression falls away. He sits up. I watch him because I know this is it—the moment he flees.

  “I’m not judging you, Tully,” he says quietly. Calmly. “I’m . . . afraid for you.”

  It takes a second to register that my mouth has fallen open. I close it with a snap and duck my head back to my sketch.

  The truth is I’m afraid for me, too.

  Absolutely, fucking terrified.

  Chapter 8

  The Barn is a couple of miles out of Riverside, where the trees haven’t yet given way to farmland, but the houses are marked by fire numbers. I walk there from my place in boots, a short black skirt, and a tank top, with my plaid shirt tied around my waist for later when it gets cold. I walk through shadows and wonder if the trilling in my stomach is anticipation or fear.

  I can’t stop seeing Chris’s face, can’t stop hearing his questions in my head. Will he show up tonight? It isn’t like the Barn’s a secret, exactly. I drive the thought away and keep walking. Chris isn’t why I’m here tonight.

  Eventually the highway curves and a gap opens up between the trees, a gravel driveway that’s little more than two stony lines with grass and weeds growing between them. The Barn is exactly that—an old barn in the middle of a clearing. It has two levels and more than a dozen little rooms that I think used to be stables. The wide aisle down the middle is now the dance floor and the upstairs loft is . . . well, there are no lights up there.

  For years people have collected old furniture and carted it out here. A couple of Christmases back someone laced fairy lights through the rafters. It’s become the place to be when you’re looking for trouble because it’s far enough out of town that the sheriff won’t show up unless someone calls him, and there are no neighbors for miles. There are a couple of kids at school that have it even worse than me. For a long time I’ve suspected they live out here. But even they regard me with fear, so I’ve never asked.

  I head for a side door, the only way to avoid the chaos on the dance floor. As I push open the creaking door, Chris’s face flashes in my head again, the frown of confusion and, yes, fear. No one has ever been scared for me before. I shake my head to remove the image and step onto the ancient floorboards scattered with wisps of hay. My boots clomp hollowly on the moldy wood and I take a deep breath. Chris has no place here. Someone like him wouldn’t understand.

  Thrashing bass, growling screams, and distorted guitars overwhelm everything else. Shuffling carefully down the dark aisle, I swing open the first door to find six or seven guys sprawled on couches and beanbags. Beer cans litter the large box they’re using as a coffee table. They’re bathed with blue light from a TV someone’s hauled out here. I can’t hear anything over the music, but a quick glance makes it clear the guys are watching something that I don’t care to see.

  They all look up when I walk through the door, their eyes lighting up when they see my skirt. But when they’ve raked their way as far as my hair, the light dims and they all turn back to the television. Without turning from the screen, Rudy’s best friend, Aiden, waves his beer toward the hallway.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” he says.

  I head back out into the darkness and find Rudy in the “kitchen.” Lit by the soft glow of a camping lamp, his lean frame casts a ghostly shadow on the wall. He’s propped up against the dirty countertop next to the sink, kicking idly at a can and some fast food wrappers someone dumped on the floor. He’s got a phone pinned between his shoulder and his ear, and he’s smiling. His eyes—little more than black holes above his angular cheekbones—cut to me as soon as I step into the room, darting first to my legs, then my chest, then my face. His grin turns wicked.

  “Bro, I have to go. Something just came up,” he says.

  My skin crawls. This is the hard part. The part where I have to put up with his crap until I can escape.

  He isn’t off the phone yet, but he’s digging in his pocket and reaching into a little cooler on the counter behind him. He says “Hell, yes!” into the phone as he picks up a beer and pops the top. It releases with a snap and a hiss and then he’s holding it toward me, still talking.

  “Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  I join him against the counter, take the beer, and chug two or three times, needing the sober part of this evening to pass quickly. Rudy’s got that look of sharp anticipation that makes me want to throw up. He extends a hand and I know my freedom is almost here. My heart pounds and I hold out my bandaged hand for the present he’s about to give me.

  He drops two pills into my palm. He doesn’t want to touch my skin. Not yet. “Happy Friday, Tully,” he says, shoving his phone into his back pocket.

  “You too.” I toss the pills onto my tongue, swallowing the beer until I’m sure they’re gone.

  “Will that be a problem, you think?” Rudy asks suddenly, pointing at the white wrapping on my hand.

  I shrug. “One hand, two hands. Doesn’t make any difference.” Any contact with either of my hands, even the tiniest touch, and I flow out of myself. Rudy should know that by now.

  “So, tell me about your week, honey,” he says sarcastically as he turns to pin me against the counter with his hips. “Mine was great. Except for the part where some asshole wanted to punch a hole in my face. Because of you.”

  His hands are on my waist. I’m careful to keep my good hand over his shoulder as he leans in and kisses my neck. “You’ll like those,” he whispers in my ear. I have to stop myself from flinching. “I got you something special.”

  “Thanks,” I say again. I’m not sure if it’s the beer on an empty stomach or the pills, but warmth is already pooling in my chest, making me fuzzy around the edges. Rudy pulls me forward, shuffling out of the kitchen and into the dark hall. The growling music stops for three seconds. Three seconds where what’s on the television in the other room breaks through and sounds of gasping and groaning fill the air. I’m grateful when the music crashes back in, creating a force field that thumps through every inch of the Barn, sh
aking dust loose from the ancient walls.

  Rudy catches my elbow and pulls me sideways toward a dark room. The fuzziness grows, seeps past my edges and closer to my middle. This is what I’m here for. But the idea of following Rudy into that blackness still makes me shudder, so I pull back.

  “What’s wrong, Sugar?” he says, trying to sound playful. But I can hear the edge in it.

  “Let’s dance first.” It’s too soon. I need time to let it all soak in.

  With the light from the main aisle behind me, I can just make out Rudy’s face. His eyes are pinpoints of light, fixed on me. There’s a second where I think he’s going to push, and fear trills in my chest. But then he grins that awful grin again. “Why not?”

  Relieved, I start down the floorboards toward the dim light of the dance floor. The growling music gets louder. More bodies materialize. There’s a keg in one of the stalls and a dozen guys gathered around it. This is the only place in town where you’ll find jocks rubbing shoulders with junkies, and cheerleaders sharing air with the likes of me. No one wants to lose the Barn. There’s an unspoken truce to uphold every time you walk in here.

  Doesn’t mean I don’t know what they’re thinking.

  I ignore the catty glances from a couple of girls in the corner, pretend I don’t notice them whispering. Most of the people dancing are already drunk, so they don’t care when I brush past. But the guys around the keg nudge one another and smirk at us.

  I lead Rudy to the center of the dance floor and turn to find him already right there, hands on my hips, pressing into me. I sway a few times and close my eyes, let the music create a bubble around us until all I’m aware of is my body, Rudy’s hands, the growing sense of separation in my head. I beckon it forward. Welcome it. It’s what I’m here for. It’s why I’ve been with Rudy almost every Friday for two years, ever since that night, ever since That Man.

  Rudy’s hands are all over me as we sway and lean into the music. Whatever he’s given me is kicking in now, bringing that wonderful, floaty feeling I ache for every day. It picks me up and transports me to the place without awareness. Without pain.

  I press into Rudy’s chest. Chris’s face flashes in my head once more, and this time I don’t push it away. As the drugs take hold, I grab at his image and keep it in my mind’s eye.

  When Rudy drops his head to kiss to my neck, I pretend they’re Chris’s lips there. When Rudy’s hands slide up my sides, I imagine they are Chris’s warm, strong fingers. When Rudy whispers, “That’s it, pretty girl,” in my ear, I pretend they’re Chris’s hushed words.

  A couple of songs later, my breathing ratchets up. Rudy circles my waist and presses me forward, off the dance floor, his body plastered to mine. But when we reach the dark, it’s Chris who slides his palms down my arms slowly, slowly, slowly, until our hands meet.

  I can ignore the muttered curse in my ear as he fumbles with my bandaged hand, because it’s Chris who twines our fingers together, and who hisses as everything I’m feeling becomes a part of him—all the heat, all the thrill, all the lighted fuses just waiting to explode. The rest of me is empty, but my body is heat and he absorbs it.

  It’s Chris I turn to and let my hands slide up his chest. It’s Chris’s neck I circle, his lips I kiss, his hair I tangle my fingers into.

  And as we tumble into a darkened room and I’m pressed onto one of the mattresses, I don’t smell the mildew and mold. I don’t feel the cold. I feel only Chris.

  It’s Chris I’m touching, pouring myself into.

  It’s Chris inside my skin.

  Chapter 9

  Sex is a dance, one my body was made for.

  I tell myself this every Friday when I’m walking toward Rudy and his escape.

  Every time I remember that night.

  Every time a masculine hand presses me down, or back, or pulls me in.

  Tonight, with Chris in my head, I’ve found escape easily. But I have to keep resetting the image. In my mind’s eye, he questions me, his gaze full of concern. His hand draws goose bumps to my flesh, but his wary expression unsettles me until I’m struggling to hold on to the high. As Rudy fumbles with my skirt, I’m grasping for the image of Chris again but there’s a sharp jangle right next to my ear. Rudy curses and I can’t make myself see Chris’s lips form the word. He reaches for his phone and the room is bathed in blue light.

  “You here, man?” Rudy says in a husky voice.

  I let my head drop back, keep my eyes closed, embrace the nothingness.

  “Find Aiden. We’re in the room next door. Yep. See ya in a minute.” He tosses the phone aside and pushes up my tank top.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask blearily.

  “Nah. Got a present for you,” he says, and pulls my hips up.

  There’s a tiny alarm sounding in the back of my head, so far away. I need to reach for it.

  “What is it?” My lips feel full and too soft. They struggle to form the words.

  “My friend Jake,” Rudy says.

  I slump back to the mattress, trying to think through the haze. “Whaddya mean?”

  Rudy levers himself up on his elbows, my hand fused to his. “My friend Jake is coming. He wants to meet you. He doesn’t believe me about what you can do.”

  I’m frozen in shock. “Wait. Wha . . . ?”

  “Don’t worry, Princess.” Rudy leers. “He’ll just watch. Mostly.”

  The alarm bell rings louder and clearer. Clearly enough that even though I’m floating, I twist my hand to break Rudy’s grip, and try to push myself up.

  “What’s wrong?” Rudy growls.

  I try to shove him off, but he slides sideways and then catches himself. I’m still on my back, trying to roll over, trying to get out from under him. But all my muscles are slack.

  “Tulip, what the fuck?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I spit, and tug my tank top down.

  “What are you doing?” He grabs my waist and holds me tight, his fingers digging into my hip bones. “I gave you the stuff, now it’s your turn to give me mine!”

  I bat at him with my bad hand, but he doesn’t let go. My arms are shaking and my legs feel weak. I can’t think clearly, except that Rudy’s bringing a friend, and I didn’t sign up for that.

  “I’m not here for . . . your friends,” I hiss, and try to crawl out from underneath him.

  “Is that all you’re worried about?” Rudy says. His hands slide up, under my shirt. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Just touch him once, so he knows what you can do.”

  He kisses my neck and everything inside me cries out.

  “No!” I grunt and elbow him again.

  He swears, grabbing me. Then we’re struggling. I’m getting weaker every second as the drugs in my system get stronger. The fact that Rudy’s not letting me go feels wrong. So wrong. But I’m apart from it. Floating. I can’t make the words to tell him how serious I am.

  The door creaks behind us and I try to panic. I know this is wrong. I didn’t ask for it. Didn’t agree to it. I heave my shoulders up to push him off. But I only get a couple of inches off the mattress.

  A weird noise escapes my throat.

  Something—Rudy’s hand?—presses my shoulder down. I turn my head until my cheek is against the mattress. I smell mildew and sweat. Try to push up, away. Shadows move, voices growl, out of time with the music. Then without warning the weight is gone. A deep voice shouts. I pull myself into a ball.

  There’s a strange grunt, then another. The smack of flesh on flesh.

  Someone speaks and the voice warms me. I risk opening my eyes, but the room is blurry around me. Whatever Rudy gave me is stronger than usual. I try to sit up only to loll back on the mattress. My eyes flutter closed and soon there’s nothing left but darkness.

  Chapter 10

  A voice calls to me from some faraway place, pulling me out of the dark.r />
  Tully.

  Tully!

  Tully, wake up. What did you take?

  “Tully, look at me. Can you open your eyes? I need to know what you took.”

  The voice is deep and edged in a tension I want to soothe. I try to open my eyes and they flutter. All I catch in the dark is a tight frown on a handsome face. Chris. I try to push away the imagined Chris’s hands, pressing on my shoulders as he leans in.

  His voice is a low mutter. “Need to go to the hospital.”

  Panic slaps me awake. “No!”

  Through fluttering lids I catch a glimpse of surprise and relief on his beautiful face. Is he really here?

  “Talk to me, Tully. Tell me what you took.” He pushes hair off my face and I try to bat his hands away, but can’t seem to aim right.

  “Dunno . . .” My eyes drift closed again. If he’s here, it’s safe to sleep.

  A heavy sigh sounds over my head. “Tully, we need to get you checked out. What if you took too much?”

  “Lotsa times. I be fine.”

  “Tully.” There’s a warning in his voice.

  I force my eyelids up and try to reach for him. My bandaged hand waving like a flag of surrender. “Can’t do hospidal. Home. Please.”

  He drops his chin and I know he’ll listen. A door creaks and the music becomes muffled. My skin prickles with the cold. The crunch of footsteps on gravel is loud. I jostle in his arms and my hand falls on the open neck of his shirt. I touch skin and the world tilts.

  “Whoa!”

  Then I’m juggled and my hand is tucked into my lap. There’s panting in my ear and I blink back cold tears. What is happening to me? I’m sinking again and I can’t stop myself from going under. The last thing I’m aware of is the creak of a metal door and a voice sighing, “Thank goodness.”

  I laugh.

  He never swears.

  ~

  I drift awake slowly.

  I’m warm. There’s a lofty, dreamlike quality to everything as I roll over and pull something over me that’s heavy and keeps out the cold. I can’t see clearly. It’s dark, but the shapes feel familiar. Then I blink again and my room comes into focus. I’m lying in my bed, still fully clothed. The red numbers on my clock say it’s 2:03 am.