Chapter 1
1
R AIN
Nobody knows where they come from.
Some people say they travel from afar, the other side of the hills, perhaps, where the wealthiest estates of the County share the beautiful scenery of Aspen and the well-guarded privacy of big money, but they could drive from farther away.
They arrive with the first signs of fall when days are still warm, and light looks like golden honey pouring slowly into a glass jar.
When the nights grow colder, and the gilded aspen leaves flutter under a blue, cerulean sky during the day.
When homes like Eve’s and mine smell like cinnamon apple pie, and smoke drifts from the piles of leaves burning outside.
They drive through town like living ghosts while we spend our evenings tucked under warm blankets, sipping tea, and eating cookies, spinning stories like this.
But some people swear they’ve seen them all year round, mainly at night, and almost never during the day, and that’s why it’s so hard to believe the legend.
As they sweep through town, the whispers become murmurs before turning into gossip, the stories, old and new, resurfacing, revived, spurring restlessness amongst the youngsters and skepticism amongst the older.
The men brush the idea off, huffing and puffing while turning a deaf ear to the women’s ramblings.
People often spot their cars or bikes, yet only a few lucky ones get to see them. And it’s certainly not us who just finished high school and live in a world of our own.
Women are the ones who mainly spread the rumors, but their stories should be taken with a grain of salt.
Regardless of what people say or don’t say, tales and mysteries abound.
My best friend, Eve, and I both love the legend, but unlike her, I refuse to admit it out loud.
Some say they’re usually headed west, outside town, where an old estate sprawls on land that stretches for miles with a thick forest in the background.
The road ends where their place, the notorious Dark House, rises next to a majestic lake, shrouded in mystery, just like them.
Tucked behind solitary trees with thick crowns and leafy branches pushing toward the sky, and a park with snaking alleys, wooden benches, flowering shrubs, chiseled lampposts, and a wall of bricks draped in perfumed, wild roses, the property––if we are to believe the story––belongs to them.
Neat footpaths cross the land, and an old abandoned tunnel rises in the woods behind the house.
Other than that…
Some people have spotted them at Red’s, the swanky private club downtown catering exclusively to an affluent clientele.
With dark walls, red stairs, and tinted windows, the opulent building has been dubbed ‘the playground’ of the wealthiest men in town, and perhaps the entire County, for a reason.
It’s their favorite place for wheeling, dealing, and closing financial deals with a handshake before enjoying guilty pleasures away from other people’s eyes and ears.
Now that story is even harder to believe if you ask me.
That’s not to say it’s not possible.
Throughout the years, the place we grew up in has become a portal between the old and the new, the truth and the darkest secrets, the pure and the damned, while stories like this have only made this town feel more alive.
“Wait for me,” Eve shouts as I steer my bicycle away from her.
The wind blows in my hair, the afternoon sun trailing the horizon while kissing my cheeks and warming my skin.
“I’ll meet you down there,” I say, pointing to the bottom of the slope.
Holding my hands up, I let the bicycle glide, exhilarated, enjoying the adrenaline rush.
Gaining speed, I grab the handles and pedal rapidly, zipping down the road until I reach the end of the slope and yank the levers hard, the brakes squeezing the rims before my bicycle comes to a halt.
Pebbles spit from under the tires when Eve stops next to me, her cheeks flushed just like mine.
“That was fun,” she says, running her hand through a curtain of wavy dark hair.
“Let’s go,” I say, pedaling up another slope.
She follows me as she always does––beaming with trust, curiosity, and excitement––the road taking us through a few wooded hills and an open field still green, not yet tarnished by the rusty colors of the fall.
Minutes later, we roll our bicycles onto a cobblestone street downtown, cruising past historic buildings, small shops, and an idyllic park.
A delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee and grilled food drifts from the restaurants while chairs and tables draped in crisp linens sit on the sidewalks.
The few cars crawling by cautiously slow down, yielding to the distracted pedestrians walking in and out of the boutiques tucked behind colorful awnings.
Close to downtown, we make a left, slide past the Public Library and City Hall and follow the right lane until Red’s, the club of the affluent, comes into view.
The building seems deserted, looking dull in bright light, and the parking lot is completely empty.
The place must be closed.
Without giving it a second look, we move away.
Moments later, we pull in front of Cherry’s––the place named the best Italian ice cream parlor in the area for two years in a row––to enjoy some frozen desserts.
“I’m buying,” Eve says, propping her bicycle against a wrought-iron bench. “What would you like to eat?”
“Strawberry cream and crunchy hazelnut with chocolate swirls. A scoop of each.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Nope.”
She spins around and vanishes inside the tiny shop while I pull my phone out of my pocket and take pictures of the street and the ice cream parlor.
Seconds later, I'm playing with several filters while editing the photographs.
It doesn’t take long before the door swings open with a loud bang, slamming into the wall, and Eve bursts out, screaming at the top of her lungs, empty-handed.
“They’re here. They’re fucking here.”
She sprints to me, eyes glinting with excitement.
I shush her, glancing around, embarrassed, hoping no one has heard her.
Luckily, it's only us.
Grinning from ear to ear, she hops onto her bicycle.
“Where’s my ice cream?” I ask, not at all excited like her.
“We’ll get it when we return,” she says, suffocated with impatience. “Let’s go.”
“How do you know it’s them?” I ask as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
She shoves her phone into my face.
“I know someone who knows someone who’s spotted them driving this way. We can catch them at the crossroads if we hurry.”
“Why do you want to see them?”
“I want to know if they’re real.”
“They must be real if someone just saw them.”
Her eyebrows wiggle into a frown.
“Stop being a smartass. I want to see what they look like.”
I shrug, set to tease her a little more.
“Big fucking deal. Who cares what they look like?”
“Come on, Rain. Don’t be a pain in the ass.”
“I’m not,” I say, sliding my phone into my pocket. “I just don’t understand.”
Impatiently, she gestures at me again.
“Regardless. Start pedaling. We’re losing them if we’re not there on time.”
“Okay… All right,” I mumble, my heart still set on that ice cream.
Fifteen minutes later, we stop next to a weed-covered run-down brick fence outlining an abandoned property outside town.
Thick trees and blossoming shrubs pull a dense shadow over the grass when we lay the bicycles on the ground and perch ourselves on a wooden bench.
Her eyes glint with effervescence and anticipation.
“I told you they are real. You didn’t want to believe me,” she says.
“They may be real, but the legend is some bullshit made up by the spinsters in this town.”
Her lips curve into a soft grin.
“You and I are virgins, but not everybody in this town is. And those women are not spinsters. Trust me. They’re quite the opposite.”
“Whatever,” I murmur. “I don’t believe their stories. These women have too much time on their hands and have nothing better to do than spin a yarn.”
“Yarn or no yarn, the men are real,” she says, enthralled.
“Whatever…” I mumble again, waving her off, drawing wicked pleasure from teasing her, although it doesn't affect her that much.
Her eyes are trained on the road, beaming with joy as if we’re about to witness a fucking miracle.
Moments pass, and no car shows up.
Sighing, she runs her hand over her pink shorts and smoothes her white cotton shirt before raking her fingers through her hair.
It doesn’t take long, and her expression shifts, sadness coloring her eyes.
“What’s the problem now?”
Bitter, she looks away, her chin quivering a little.
Oh, I know what the problem is.
We’ve talked about it at length.
“It can’t be that bad,” I say, patting her on her back.
“We’re the last two virgins in the County. How can you say that?” she jokes, venting her frustration at the same time.
It sounds comical, but this is serious business.
At least to her, it is.
I choose not to think about it.
She props her elbows on her knees, rests her chin on her hands, and roots her eyes on the road while I grip the back of the bench.
Melancholy glints in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be back,” I say.
“It’s the end of the summer. Do you see him back?” she murmurs.
I stay silent.
“He’s spent two months in Italy with his friends, and not once has he called me,” she says, making a good point. “He doesn’t care about me.”
“So fucking what? You think that sleeping with him would’ve made him care?” I toss at her, puzzled by her logic.
“Yeah. That must be part of the reason.”
“Oh, come on… If you must sleep with him to keep him interested in you, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“We’re eighteen, and we’ve never been with a man,” she retorts, talking about our ‘problem’ like it's a communicable disease.
“So what?”
“People do that kind of stuff much earlier than that.”
“It’s not as if we’ve planned it that way. It just happens that we haven’t met the right people,” I say, not very convincing, though. “I don’t get it. Why are you so obsessed with your virginity? Or him? He would’ve probably left you anyway.”
Her sigh breaks my heart.
“It’s not only about him. I don’t want to be a virgin forever.”
I laugh softly.
“Shut up. You won’t be.”
She cuts her eyes at me.
“It’s easy for you to talk. You’re not even bothered by it.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel good?”
She shrugs.
“I don’t know. You don’t seem interested in men, anyway.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Maybe you are, but Daria gets all the dicks in that family of yours.”
I chuckle, amused.
“Stop saying that. She’s my sister.”
“It’s the truth,” she grins.
“She’s older. Of course, she gets them,” I say, defending my evil sister.
“That’s the problem with older sisters. They get all the dicks,” she murmurs.
“She can have them. I’m not looking for dick.”
My voice trails off, my eyes moving to the road.
Decades-old trees line the path, their branches creating a canopy of leaves above the ground.
“What are you looking for then?” she asks softly.
I muse for a second, my eyes still trained in the distance.
“I don’t know. Something different, I guess… Something I could never forget,” I murmur, longing for things unknown to me as my mind drifts away.
A few seconds pass before I swivel my head to her and notice the melancholy in her gaze.
It doesn’t take long, and a rumbling sound rips through the air, bringing reality into sharper focus.
We flick our eyes to the road, the loud noise of revving bikes permeating the air.
She claps her hands, ecstatic, and we crane our necks, our eyes rooted on the sunny meadow peeking through the trees where the road turns slightly.
Almost forgetting how to breathe, we wait, our mouths agape, our eyes wide.
“Oh, my God...” she murmurs when the first two bikers enter our line of sight, a black car with tinted windows right behind them.
I count two more riders in the background.
Mesmerized and unaware that we look like fools, we stare at them.
The more they draw closer, the more we zoom in on their faces, taking inventory of their stern expressions, dark sunglasses, muscular arms, jeans-clad thighs, biker boots, and tight T-shirts stretched deliciously across their chests.
The wind tousles their hair.
Blonde, brown, dark, and blonde again.
We slip off the bench and stand tall on the side of the road like we witness a parade.
The first two motorcycles pass us by, and the car inches closer as we stare at the tinted windows.
Swiveling my head slowly, I squint at their ride, although I see nothing inside.
“The return of the Kings...” Eve murmurs, swept into a trance, the deafening roar of the motorcycles drowning out her voice.
Our eyes stay on them as they approach us.
The black car slows down even more as the passenger side window begins descending in the back, revealing the profile of a man with
a straight nose, a chiseled jaw, and his fist tucked beneath his chin, a few blonde bangs swooping down over his eyes.
It’s hard to tell whether he is looking at us since his eyes are hidden in the shadow.
I glance inside, shifting my focus where buried in the darkness of the car glows the red-orange tip of a cigarette, a man’s seductive lips arched into a crooked smile around it.
A strange sensation flows through me as if he undresses me with his eyes.
“They’re looking at us...” Eve murmurs, out of breath, on the cusp of passing out.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
“Uh-huh…” I say, not much better than her.
Our heads swivel as they drive past us.
It takes a few more seconds before the window rolls up, and the backs of the last two riders vanish out of sight before a deafening silence falls around us.
* * *
RAIN
“Yes, Mom. Yes, we’re good. I don’t know where she goes,” I say, holding the phone close to my mouth and flicking my eyes to the door.
Dolled up in lacy underwear sprinkled with tiny rhinestones and satin bows, Daria bats her fake lashes at me, running her long fingers through her chestnut hair, mouthing something from the doorway.
“Georgia.”
“Georgia’s...” I say, cocking my head, trying to read her lips. “Place... It’s her birthday,” I say, irritated that I have to lie for my sister.
“Yes, Mom... Joseph will take her there.”
Frantically shaking her head, Daria wags her finger at me, summoning my attention.
“No... Not Joseph. I... will... take... her... there...” I repeat her instructions word by word as she delivers them.
I clamp my hand over the phone.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I throw at her, still palming my phone. “Yes, Mom. Yes... We are careful. We’re not going to stay late. Sure... We’re all set. Don’t worry about us. Tell Dad we said ‘Hi.’ Yup. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I say before hanging up and tossing the phone on the bed.
Daria spins around and dashes away while I leap out of bed, following her.
“Why do you have to be such an ass?” I bark, storming into her room.
Flashing a different attitude, she throws me a smug look before strutting into her walk-in closet and rifling through her dresses.
Standing in the doorway, I fold my arms across my chest and look around.
“Why do you need all this crap?” I ask, pointing to the stack of evening gowns and summer dresses.
“It’s none of your business,” she snaps.
“You take them off, anyway.”
She spins around, her hands glued to her hips.
“Jealous much?”
“Why would I be jealous? What’s so special about spreading your legs for any random man walking the face of the earth?”
She waves me off and turns her back to me before sifting through her clothes again.
“For your information, they are not just any men,” she says, shooting a condescending look at me over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t know, anyway.”
“Oh, yeah... Because not being with a man makes me dumb? Being with a lot of dicks sure didn’t make you any smarter.”
A cold laugh fills the room.
“Look who’s talking,” she mutters, contempt lining her voice. “Sure... Keep your pussy for yourself, sweet little sister, so you can dust it off once in a while. I’m sure some nerd will eventually get it as a consolation prize.”
Fury simmers in my blood, my emotions spilling over my face, fueling her amusement.
Chest rocking with a laugh, she dismisses me with a flick of her hand before turning around and focusing on her dresses.
Three years older than me, a couple of inches shorter and lean but not as toned, my sister has always banked on her pretty features to woo every pair of pants that has ever crossed her path.
She has gained quite a reputation in the process, her affairs becoming the talk of the town.
We never liked each other much, the childhood animosity evolving into a full-fledged war once the hormones ran amok in our house.
It all took a turn for the worse when she started to go out and hook up with men, her arrogance soaring to unimaginable heights.
Despite her claims, I’ve never been jealous of her, and it’s always been the other way around.
It doesn’t help that other than sharing our parents and living in the same house, we have very little in common.
We don’t even look alike.
A mane of brown hair frames her small face and dark eyes, while dirty blonde hair sets off my hazel eyes.
She looks like a pin-up girl for a reason.
She spends hours and hours in front of the mirror, perfecting her looks, while I spend my time talking to Eve on the phone, reading a book, or doing stuff outside.
She goes out a lot. I never do.
She likes men. I’m fascinated by fast cars.
Eve was right––Daria is like a dick vacuum in this town, and most single men know her intimately.
She removes her pick from a hanger––a skintight dress with spaghetti straps fashioned from a stretchy, satin-like fabric––and slips it on.
“Zip me up,” she demands, without glancing at me.
I pull the zipper up, grazing her skin.
She yelps.
“Hey. You don’t have to be nasty.”
Look who’s talking.
“I’m not nasty. I don’t like that you’re using me to get to your cock dates.”
An amused laugh simmers in her throat.
“Mmm... Someone wants one.”
“Shut up, Daria.”
Pissed, I tear my hands away from her and storm out of the walk-in closet.
She follows me into the kitchen.
Her heels click-clack against the tiles, a small double-sided mirror dangling from her hand before she slides it onto the table, pulls out a chair, and gingerly takes a seat.
Her dress screams at the seams.
“You don’t have to give me a ride. I didn’t want to make our driver privy to my private life. That’s all,” she says, precious as always.
“Uh-huh. So, where exactly are you going?” I ask, grabbing a fruit yogurt from the fridge.
She brushes a few strands of hair away from her face and glances in the mirror before painstakingly going over every detail of her makeup.
Satisfied, she purses her lips and rehearses a few come-hither looks.
Sticking a full teaspoon of strawberry yogurt in my mouth, I roll my eyes.
“It’s better if you don’t know. This way, you don’t have to lie for me.”
The gravel crunches beneath the tires of a luxury car in front of our house as her ride pulls up smoothly in front of the entrance.
Her eyes light up.
She sets the mirror down, pushes out of her chair, grabs her purse, and wiggles her fingers at me before strutting outside without looking back.
Thank God she’s gone.