Chapter 12 Wren
Thousands of lights zigzag above the promenade, shimmering down on frost-kissed walkways. Christmas classics and laughter bubble out of the bars and restaurants lining it, and in about an hour, so will the locals and tourists as they move on to the nightclubs.
Usually, Cove during the party season never fails to put a little pep in my step, but tonight, the electricity in the air has me on edge. Everybody is celebrating, blissfully unaware—or willfully ignorant—of the disaster playing out just outside of its dome.
It’s sickening. It’s been five days since the Devil’s Dip port explosion cut Rory’s wedding short, which means five days of working double shifts at the hospital and five nights of helping out with the cleanup mission too.
Three workers were pronounced dead at the scene; another dozen are still fighting for their lives, and yet, the coast’s famous party town spins madly on.
What’s even worse, the rest of the world doesn’t care either.
The explosion barely made local news, let alone hit mainstream media.
Everything I’ve learned of its cause is from the rumor mill and passing conversations not meant for my ears.
All explanations, both reasonable and farfetched, point in the same direction: it was someone with a vendetta against the Viscontis.
I chew on my bottom lip, wondering if I should go home, as a gaggle of girls staggers past in matching sexy Santa outfits. Every cheer and clinking of glasses feel like an insult, and here I am, standing in the midst of it.
Then I think of all the girls who will need me tonight. The ones with blisters and boyfriend problems, no cellphone battery, and mascara-stained cheeks.
The thought alone is enough to straighten my spine.
I guess the show must go on.
Leaving my pop-up stand, with my SOS bag under a red-and-white striped streetlamp, I step into the middle of the road, adjust my pink elf diddly boppers, and snap a selfie in front of the twinkling “Happy Holidays!” sign strung from one telephone pole to another.
After some subtle editing and a few filters, I tug off a glove to tap out a caption.
The Ho-Ho-Helpful Elf is back, and she’s ready for some (safe) festive fun! I write, along with some cute Christmassy emojis. Too much eggnog? Holiday heels hurting? Come and find me on the corner of the Visconti Grand Hotel. I’ve got your back! #HolidayHero #DrinkResponsibly
As I press upload, a high-pitched whine pierces through the air and puts me on high alert. It’s coming from a girl on the other side of the road, wobbling past the champagne bar.
I grab my bag and break into a jog over to her.
“Are you okay, honey?” I place a hand on her bare shoulder and tap the name tag pinned to my pink hi-vis vest. “I’m Wren, and I’m here to help!”
A slurred response comes through her lipstick-smeared mouth. Luckily, I’m fluent in drunk and realize she’s lost her friends somewhere between a restaurant and a cocktail bar.
Usually, I’d take her into Tayce’s tattoo parlor to warm up with a hot cocoa, but she’s shut up shop for her yearly vacation, so I sit her down on the entryway step instead.
“Here.” I tug a foil blanket from my tote, wrap it over her shoulders, and press a bottle of water into her hand. There’s no point dealing with her tear-stained makeup or messy hair; she definitely needs to call it a night. “Where are you staying?”
“Hotel.” She hiccups.
How very useful. As I rifle through her purse for a key card, I hit her with my usual monologue.
“Sip the water, don’t gulp. When you get back to your hotel, drink two more glasses of water, and eat these.
” I drop a pack of crackers into her purse.
“And don’t forget to take your makeup off.
” I find a card for the Hilton at the end of the strip, then get to my feet to wave to the taxi rank across the road.
The first cab in the line flashes its headlights and crawls down the street toward us, patiently waiting for the gaggle of partygoers to pass by.
I sit back down and rub the girl’s back.
“Make sure you charge your phone, okay? And sleep on your left side, it’ll help you feel less sick …
” A white light snags the corner of my eye.
She’s wiggled her cell out of her bra and is now clumsily scrolling through the contacts.
I squint over her shoulder; she’s typing something out to a boy’s name with a broken heart emoji next to it.
“Is that your boyfriend?”
“No—” She hiccups. “I wish.”
I pry the device from her hands. “Absolutely no drunk texting boys unless your keys unlock the same front door,” I scold. Fiddling with the contact settings, I change his name to Dentist, slip her cell into her purse, and hope she doesn’t figure out what I’ve done until she sobers up tomorrow.
The taxi pulls up to the sidewalk, and the window rolls down, revealing a glare from under bushy eyebrows.
“Are you shitting me? It’s not even nine p.m.”
“Hello, Roger,” I chime, helping the girl to her feet. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite taxi driver?”
“Several times. I’m still not taking her for free.”
“And I wouldn’t expect you to, honey.” I fish through my tote for a Ziploc bag of candy and toss it through the window. “The macaroons are homemade.” While he mutters and grunts about having a mortgage to pay, I fold the girl into his back seat before he can protest. “To the Hilton, please.”
“Aw, come off it, Wren. That’s only a ten-minute walk.”
“Does she look like she can walk? Besides, I’m too busy to take her.”
“Fine,” he grunts. As he starts the engine, he nods behind me with a smirk. “Isn’t that your friend’s shop?”
I turn to find a man in the doorway of Tayce’s shop, a stream of pee running from between his legs and splattering the step.
“Ew! That is not a public restroom,” I shriek, reaching for the whistle around my neck and giving it a hard blow. “Shoo!”
The night only gets busier. It passes in a blur of Band-Aids, hand holding, and consoling.
I’ve chipped a nail trying to break up a cat fight between two girls who stepped out wearing the same dress, patched up bloodied knees, treated sprained ankles, reassured worried parents over the phone.
By the time the last nightclub slams its doors shut, my SOS bag is nearly empty and I’m exhausted.
Leaning against the streetlamp, I chomp through the last of my crackers, watching the final few strays stumble out of late-night food joints and into waiting cars.
Crumpling the empty pack in my hand, my weary sigh floats down the bare promenade. The last bus back to Devil’s Dip left over an hour ago, and my bones groan thinking about the long, cold walk home ahead of me.
It’s times like this I wish more than anything that guilt didn’t riddle me like a disease.
That I could slide into the warmth of a taxi without muscle memory twitching my hands, and the anger, betrayal, and injustice flooding my vision red.
That I could leave the memory of what I did about it under the dust sheet in Uncle Finn’s workshop, like I did with the weapon, or bury it six feet under like I did with the consequences.
But my heart is pounding and my knees are trembling at the mere thought of it.
I gather up my stuff and start walking.
It’s only taken a few hours for the strip to transform from a winter wonderland to a deathly obstacle course. My boots crunch over broken beer bottles, and I tread carefully around the ice patches and puddles of vomit.
I’m stooped to check if there’s any ID in an abandoned Gucci purse when a prickle of awareness skates over my shoulders.
I glance up. Farther down the road, there’s a blond-haired man with an unsteady gait making his way toward me.
“Are you okay?” I shout. “Do you need help?”
His laugh rolls down the promenade, booming and slightly unsettling. “Hey, you’re the girl who works at the dive bar!”
As he passes under the light of a streetlamp, I study his brown eyes, slender frame, and button-down shirt, waiting for a spark of recognition, but I draw a blank. He’s not a local, and out-of-towners in The Rusty Anchor are so few and far between that they always stick in my mind.
I’ve never seen this man in my life.
But then he trips over a fast-food carton, and my unease turns into concern. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”
He laughs again. “Of course not. But, uh, I do need some help.”
The knots in my shoulders loosen. “Sure, that’s what I’m here for,” I say brightly. “Have you lost your friends?”
“Yes, and for the life of me, I can’t remember where we’re staying. All these hotels”—he staggers backward as he sweeps an arm over the horizon—“they all look the fucking same.”
“Do you have a room card?”
He pats his pockets and sighs. “Lost it.”
“Bummer. Can you call a friend?”
“Phone’s dead.”
I tut. “You should never go on a night out without full charge. But not to worry, you can use mine.”
His gaze burns down on me as I rifle through my bag for my cell. I tap the screen, and nothing happens. Frowning, I hold down the on button, only for an empty battery sign to appear on the screen.
“Lllooks like you ssshould take your own advice.”
Dammit.
When I look up, he’s a step closer. Too close. Drunk people rarely have any sense of spatial awareness, but there’s something about his hot breath grazing my cheek and the way he towers over me that drags a thread of discomfort down my spine.
I glance over at Tayce’s shop on instinct, suddenly feeling the void of her constant glare through the window, then I shake off the discomfort, paint on a smile, and step back.
“There’s a telephone booth down the road, you can call from that.”
Our lonely footsteps echo along the empty street, our shadows distorting as we pass under pulsating lights. When we reach the phone booth, I tug open the door and step aside to let him in.
Instead, he leans against the frame and studies me for a moment too long. There’s something off about his gaze—it’s dark and murky, darting around too fast for comfort.
“I’m so drunk I can barely see straight,” he whispers. “Could you dial the number for me?”
My gaze drifts into the phone booth, to the naked bulb swaying from the roof and all the corners its light doesn’t touch. A shiver vibrates down my spine.
Suddenly, Gabriel’s haunting words graze my ear like a whisper in an empty room. “If it happens in the dark, it didn’t happen.”
It’s sat like an itch beneath my skin all week. I can’t stop scratching it, wondering why it’s there, and why it won’t go away.
Sensing my hesitation, he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Please? You’ll be so much quicker than me. I’m so drunk I’m seeing double.”
Well, he’s right about me being quicker. I’m cold, tired, and hungry, and the sooner I can get home, the better.
The small voice at the base of my skull whispers a warning, but the call of my bed is louder, so reluctantly, I step inside.
As soon as I cross the threshold, the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The air is thick with regret and the stench of urine, and when I grab the phone receiver, it’s ice cold to the touch.
With a trembling hand, I dig around in my pocket for some quarters, then drop them in the slot with a hollow click.
“W-what’s the number?”
The dull thud of the door closing reverberates through my bones, and the sudden warmth brushes my back.
Deep down, I knew it was coming, yet I still stepped inside.
Christ, Wren. Why did you step inside?
Movements heavy with dread, I grip the receiver tighter and turn around to face the man caging me in.
Hindsight is everything; mine tuts in my ears and calls me an idiot. The bulb overhead casts him in a new light, illuminating all the things I should have noticed before: the steady gaze, the bad acting. The lack of liquor on his breath.
Swallowing a lump of panic, I slide my gaze up to his.
“What’s the number?” I repeat as steadily as my nerves allow.
A cruel smirk twists his thin lips. He reaches up, and I flinch as his palm grazes my bauble earrings, and settles, damp and hot, on my jaw.
There’s not enough space to twist out of his reach. Or enough oxygen in here to scream, and even if there was, it’s not like anyone would hear me.
My stomach twists when his fingers slide south, down the curve of my neck to my thumping heart, carving a slimy path to the cup of my bra.
“Please don’t,” I whimper.
It’s not my pathetic plea that stops the roaming hand but a sudden flurry of wind. It ruffles my hair and jangles my earrings, bringing icy air and an inked fist, which wraps around the man’s throat and yanks him backward out of the phone booth.
My gaze darts from where he falls, to the large boot stopping the door from closing again.
I don’t need to look up to know who it belongs to.