Chapter Eight
A iden woke to bony fingers jabbing him in the side. He squirmed away, whining.
Shay fit his palm over Aiden’s mouth, effectively muffling a tired fuck off, and hushed him. “Get up,” he whispered. Pain filled his voice. Aiden blinked. Glassy eyes stared back at him. “ Now , please.”
Shadows cloaked the hotel room. Georgia snored faintly, curled under the comforter, and Dylan buried his face in a pillow. Aiden followed Shay around the corner, smacking his toe against the dresser as he went.
“What the hell, Shay? What’s so goddamn important?—”
“I’m bleeding, asshole,” Shay snapped, voice hushed in the chilly bathroom. He lifted a shaky hand away from the bandage on his stomach, revealing a dark, red spot reaching through the white.
Panic flared. Aiden swallowed and knuckled at his eyes, pawing sleep away. Anxiety insisted, like always, that something was dangerously wrong, oh no, Shay’s dying again, shit shit shit, but after a grounding breath, he gently lifted the bandage.
“You must’ve re-opened it,” Aiden said, and gestured to the toilet.
“Sit down. I’ll get the. . . the tape and stuff.
Hold on.” He stumbled into the room, grabbed his backpack, and rejoined Shay, tugging the bathroom door shut behind him.
“You’re such a baby. Don’t touch it— stop —your hands are filthy. ”
Shay worried his lip with one fang. “What if it gets infected?”
“It’s not infected, chill out.”
“Yeah, but what if ?—”
“Shay. Enough .” Aiden knelt, pressing wet toilet paper against the wound.
Shay’s breath hitched and his stomach flexed.
A fissure split the scabbed skin, probably spurred by Shay’s performance last night.
Aiden used disinfectant, taped the gash closed again, and wrapped fresh bandages around his stomach.
“It’s healing but take it easy ‘til we get to Vegas. If you keep re-opening it, it’ll never get better. ”
“Think I need real stitches?” Shay asked.
“Maybe. If you do, we’ll figure it out. DIY on Youtube, or something. Let’s give it a few days, though. How’s it feel? Better?”
“A little, yeah. I’m starving—not like starving , but. . .” He closed his eyes. Shook his head, dramatically. “Starving for pancakes,” he blurted. His cheeks pinkened. “Breakfast. Whatever.”
“Yeah, I could go down on some pancakes. You sure you don’t want a fresh virgin or something, though? I bet we could?—”
Shay palmed Aiden’s face and shoved him backward.
They ate at a hole-in-the-wall diner a few blocks away from the hotel.
As Aiden drizzled syrup over a stack of strawberry pancakes, Shay loudly announced the ten o’clock appointment he’d made with a psychic.
Yeah, like, an actual five-stars-on-Yelp psychic.
Aiden closed his eyes mid-pour, frozen by sheer lunacy, until Shay reached across the table and tilted the bottle upward.
“Don’t drown your breakfast, too,” Shay mumbled.
Aiden set his teeth. “I’d bet cold card cash this chick is a fraud. How much did you spend on the appointment?”
“Three hundred.”
“ Dollars? ”
“No, Aiden. I sent her three hundred rats in a box. Yes, you idiot.”
“Scam,” Aiden said, matter-of-factly, and jabbed his fork at Shay. He stuffed soggy pancakes into his mouth and said it again, one cheek bulged. “ Scam .”
“Well, you successfully bargained with the devil, so I’ll take my chances.” Shay poked at his scrambled eggs. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything about. . . anything.”
Aiden leaned over his plate, smile thin and sarcastic. “If she’s really psychic, you won’t have to.”
Shay dunked a crispy piece of bacon in the syrup puddled on Aiden’s plate. Irritation tightened his face. “I guess that’s how we’ll know, then.”
“Perfect, awesome, great. If she gets a whiff of cannibalistic murder, we’ll let her in on the ritualistic sacrifice. Good plan, Shay.”
“This is your fault,” he said, baring his teeth.
Aiden had never seen a person drink orange juice angrily until that morning.
He tipped his head, watching Shay lick pulp from the rim of his glass, and said, “Sure, fine. My fault. Still doesn’t change the fact that this is—I cannot stress this enough—a fuckin’ scam.
We need to do more research, like, literally, any research before booking appointments with reiki certified internet psychics. ”
“She’s Ramírez certified, actually,” Shay said, and flipped his phone around, displaying the Ramírez Botanica website. “Don’t freak out. I didn’t call Camila—I just browsed. This psychic lady’s advertisements are all over the place. Look, Cami endorsed her.”
Aiden snatched his phone. The Ramírez Botanica had been his mother’s pride and joy for twenty-something years, passed onto Camila—the better child, the daughter who embraced brujería, the responsible one—yet always used against him.
Passive aggressive landmines well, you could be helping out with the business and why don’t you ever come by and our blood is a blessing detonated whenever humanly possible.
He swiped through the website, wrinkling his nose at the clean, black lettering on the bottom of the AFFILIATIONS page: Famous folk healer, Camila Valentina Ramírez, has partnered with world-renowned Reiki Specialist, Kelly Angelica Crawford, to bring ethical, comforting, and affordable spiritual services to Southern California.
“Cami, you damn sellout,” Aiden whispered, sighing. “Fine— fine! Whatever. But do not contact Cami, Shay. You know my sister—she’s weirdly intuitive, okay? She’ll know and?—”
“ I know ,” Shay said through a groan. “But I can’t avoid your family forever. You’re stuck with me for next three years, minimum.”
“You have nothing to do with my family, and my family has nothing to do with the band,” he said, but he saw Shay flinch, and the lie burned like a brand on his chest. Shay had been an everyday habit in high school.
A constant, cherished presence in Aiden’s life.
Being tossed aside, after everything , had festered in Aiden’s heart for long enough to make murder a feasible equalizer.
They loved you , he wanted to say . And it was true.
His sister, his mother, everyone. Sometimes I think they wanted to trade me in and keep you.
He braved another glance at Shay, drumming his fork on his plate, and changed the subject before he punched Shay in the mouth.
Or kissed him. Or apologized. “You seemed right at home last night. On stage, I mean.”
“You did, too. Any negative feedback on your Instagram yet?”
“Just the obvious. Knight’s Blood isn’t Chain Reaction and a few comments about you jumping ship whenever you get the chance.”
Shay hummed and stuck his fork in one of Aiden’s pancakes, dragging half of a cake onto his plate. “You gonna eat this?”
Aiden blinked. “Apparently not. Notice anything weird besides the teeth?”
“Nightmares,” he said, simply.
Aiden was well-acquainted with guilt, but that didn’t make shame any easier to swallow.
He let the conversation die. Drank the rest of Shay’s coffee while Shay ate the rest of his pancakes.
Flicked through his phone, liking comments on Instagram, and then typed a text to his almost-estranged sister.
Aiden Moore: you employ gringa “reiki masters” at the botanica now?
Camila Ramírez: What are you talking about?
Aiden Moore: kelly? the scam-artist you ~endorsed~ on the website. does mom know?
Camila Ramírez: She’s not a scam, you huge manchild. Why does it matter? You can’t afford her anyway.
Aiden Moore: it doesn’t
Camila Ramírez: If you helped out once in a while, you’d know about this shit. She’s responsible for 40% of our online sales. I send people her way, she sends people our way. Win win.
Aiden Moore: oh so you’re just using her for her for the $$$$$. i see.
Camila Ramírez: At least I’m getting paid. One of us should.
Aiden sent a clown emoji and a middle-finger emoji.
Aiden Moore: we’re goin on tour
Camila Ramírez: Don’t die and don’t miss Mama’s birthday.
Aiden sent a thumbs-up emoji.
They split the bill down the middle and hopped into Shay’s car.
Aiden kicked his boots on the dash and lowered his sunglasses over his eyes.
Sea-spray cooled the fishy air and summer weighed heavy on the beach-side city, but despite their similarities, San Diego felt different than Los Angeles.
Gentler, easier, closer to home. The last time he’d been this far south, Shay had driven him across the border for cheap beers and abuelita’s pozole.
They’d been eighteen, booking mid-day festival gigs, smoking cheap cigarettes with the wind in their hair, and Aiden had been happy.
So, so happy. Two months pre-top surgery, madly in love with the future, stealing glances at his beautiful best friend as they sang along to the radio.
Taylor Swift or Lady Gaga or My Chemical Romance or?—
“What’s wrong?” Shay asked .
Aiden stared out the passenger window. “Nothing, why?”
“I’ve known you for ten years. I can tell.”
“I miss my grandma,” he said, and wished he could scoop the words back into his mouth. He kept talking, too quickly, prodding the glass with his pointer finger. “Where even are we? If I get out of the car in this neighborhood someone might call the cops. I’m dead serious.”
Giant immaculate houses with long driveways and manicured lawns lined the street.
They followed a windy road, rising high above the city.
Pocket-sized sports cars and pretentious courtyards glittered in the morning light, and Aiden knew, immediately, that he did not share a world with Miss Reiki Master Kelly Angelica Crawford, and neither did his sister.
“It’s not that bad,” Shay said.
“Oh-hoh, I am never letting Cami live this down.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Bet this psychic lady’s vegan.”
“Aiden.”
“Got kombucha on tap.”
“ Aiden .”
“Probably calls LSD a spiritual journey .”