Chapter 36
GALINA
Bad ideas are…well…bad enough. But start adding more questionable ideas to the first one, and that's usually when things turn disastrous.
Shoplifting something small like a lipstick…then punching the security guard who tries to stop you at the front door. Stalking a crush on social media while drunk…and liking all their posts. One bad idea quickly becomes a cascade of them.
An alcohol-fueled sweep of my eyes over my friends and our surroundings tells me tonight has very quickly devolved into exactly that kind of cascade.
It started with Lucia realizing that one of her favorite bands, this insanely loud group called “Explosions”, was going to be playing their blend of dance rock and heavy thrash metal tonight in Standish, which isn’t far from Hawthorne Hollow.
This was bad idea number one.
Bad idea number two was that the show was at The Garage, a very sketchy biker dive which has a reputation for not carding people.
That actually might have been bad idea numbers two and three.
This is where our series of bad ideas became a cascade.
It’s not just that Lucia, Yelena, and I are now at this grimy, sticky-floored joint, God-knows how many drinks deep.
Not just that I didn’t really consider the vibe at this place, so while Lucia showed up looking like a cool rocker chick, I decided to dress like some asshole out of a J.
Crew catalog, complete with a sweater over my shoulders.
Shoot me.
It’s also not just that the three of us are basically the only girls here, and we’re being stared at by the crowd of drunk dudes like dessert at a buffet table.
The real kicker, as any murder trial lawyer will tell you, is motivation.
And that’s where we’re royally fucked.
Lucia is fine. She knows the band and she fits into the crowd with her leather jacket and tattoos. More to the point, she didn’t walk in with any baggage.
The same cannot be said for Yelena and me.
In Yelena’s case, that baggage is that rat-fuck Achilles. We all had suspicions, but they were confirmed the night of The Reckless party at The Garrison, when Wren got alcohol poisoning and passed out.
Achilles was the one who showed up out of nowhere, grabbed Wren, and then drove all of us to Greenwich Hospital at near supersonic speed.
But the real giveaway was that he never left Yelena’s side while we were sitting in that hospital waiting room, waiting to hear if our friend was going to live.
He held her while she cried into his chest. He kept her hand in his. He glared death at Laz when the older man was talking with her.
I mean there are hints, and there are giant flashing neon signs. And Yelena finally caved and told us all the next day anyway.
But that’s all gone to hell now, because she just found out the weirdo’s been obsessively stalking her and spying on her for months.
Gee, doesn’t that sound familiar. Shocking that he and fucking Lochlan are related.
So yeah, that’s the final push that’s turned this series of bad ideas into a cascade of them. Yelena is only here because she’s angry and hurt and wants to lose herself in loud, wild music and too much alcohol.
Funny. Me too.
“I’m gonna get us another round!!” I yell over the pounding bass, piercing guitars, and the lead singer who keeps switching from this gorgeous operatic baritone to a screechy, demonic scream.
They both nod eagerly before I turn and shove my way over to the bar. The bartender is a woman, but it became clear three rounds ago when she was stink-eyeing my sweater that there's no “girls stick together” sisterhood here.
“Three more vodka Red Bulls?” she says dryly.
I nod, smiling weakly. “Yes, please.”
“Didn’t realize it was rush week for the sorority,” she says sarcastically before sauntering off.
And I didn’t realize it was act like a cunt for no reason week.
“Loretta’s okay once she warms up to ya.”
The speaker is an older guy, maybe in his forties.
He’s tall, lean, and muscular, with long, slightly silvered hair pushed back from his face, a dark scruff of beard, and a mix of old school and blackout tattoos down his veined forearms. A black Harley Davison t-shirt is stretched over his broad chest, paired with dark jeans, black biker boots, and a heavy chain hanging from his belt.
“How long does that take?” I mutter.
He takes a sip of his beer and laughs. “Give it a decade, maybe?”
He grins a very charming smile at me.
Okay, not that I’m looking, but objectively speaking, he's hot.
“First time here?” he yells over the music.
I snort. “How could you tell?”
He grins. “You got some sass in you, girl.”
“Galina,” alcohol-fueled me says, sticking out a hand.
“Miles,” he bellows back over the music, taking my hand in his calloused bigger one and shaking it. His brow furrows. “Can I be honest, Galina?”
Here we go. “Look, I’m just here for the music. I’m not, you know…”
Miles chuckles warmly. “Oh, I ain’t hittin’ on you, darlin’. I was going to say go easy on the drinks and keep your wits about you.”
My hackles raise as I glare at him. “Meaning?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Put the claws away, Ms. Galina. I’m just watching out for you and your friends over there. I’ve got a daughter about your age at Boston College, and I'd hope if she were out at a place like this, there’d be someone like me keeping an eye on her, too.”
I exhale some of my defenses and smile at him. “Sorry. I'm just…”
“A bit out of your depth?”
I smile wryly. “Something like that.”
Loretta comes back over with my drinks and another sour look. I thank Miles for the advice and rejoin my friends. As we start to rock out to the music again, though, the vibe starts to change. It’s like there are more eyes on us, and the guys bobbing their heads near us crowd a little closer.
“Hey!” I yell to my friends. “Do you think it’s getting a little creepy in here?”
Yelena and Lucia both look relieved when I say it, and agree it’s time to go.
…Which is when we realize all three of our phones are dead.
Fuck.
I’m eyeing the bar and deciding if I want to deal with Loretta to ask if she’s got a phone charger so we can order an Uber when a newcomer joins our group.
He’s tall, blond, gorgeous, and similarly out of place here with his preppy collegiate look. He introduces himself as Travis and says he’s pre-med at Yale.
He also has eyes only for Yelena.
I check out all of that warily and tell Lucia about my plan to try to charge my phone. She agrees to keep an eye on Yelena, who's pretty tipsy at this point, as Travis keeps lavishing her with charming smiles and smooth lines.
Loretta begrudgingly tugs an iPhone cord out from under the bar-top and lets me charge my phone there. Across the dance floor, Travis is getting very comfortable with Yelena as Lucia watches them like a hawk.
I don’t know Achilles that well, and I don’t know the details of the fight he and Yelena are having. But I can’t imagine anything good happening if her six-foot-four, muscular boyfriend—or whatever he is to her—were to walk in right now and see her with this Travis guy.
I mean, Achilles is a total Golden Boy on campus, but there’s definitely something dark and sinister under the surface.
Call it a fellow mask-wearer’s intuition.
When my phone restarts, it dings with a few notifications. My eyes drop to the screen to see a couple of texts sent over an hour ago that just came through, and my chest tightens when I see who they’re from.
Lochlan
Where are you.
Lochlan
I’ve apologized, and I will keep apologizing. But don’t confuse me giving you space with me giving up. You’re still mine, little villain.
Lochlan
You always will be.
Okay, on the one hand, hot. “You’re still mine. You always will be.” Like…sploosh. That said, the “overly possessive boyfriend” schtick doesn’t hit the same when I’m still mad at him for that fucking tracker.
I mean, yes, he probably did forget about it. But I haven’t spent the last couple of days furious because I think he continued to stalk me after I told him not to.
I’m furious because the whole incident has introduced the toxic question of whether or not I can ask myself if I trust him and definitively answer “yes”.
Me
Out.
It’s embarrassing how fast my pulse skips when I see he's typing back.
Lochlan
If that cryptic answer is supposed to rile me up, you’re succeeding.
Lochlan
I’m coming to get you.
A shiver tickles down my spine.
Me
Lol good luck with that.
Me
You think you’re going to just magically find me?
Lochlan
The question is more, what am I going to DO to you when I succeed.
Jesus.
I can’t tell if I’m annoyed or turned on by his arrogance.
Me
First, you’re not "doing" anything to me ever again.
Lochlan
False.
I glare at the screen.
Me
I mean it. After the shit you pulled, you’re never touching me again.
Lochlan
I can’t even begin to explain how incorrect that statement is.
My jaw drops. The fucking audacity.
Now if only my fucking vagina could get on board the “we don’t like Lochlan anymore” train.
Me
I’m sorry. I forgot, you and your ego aren’t used to the word NO, what with all your groupies and skanks. But you and I are done, asshole.
Lochlan
Because of ONE Smart-Tag.
Me
Because I don’t know if I can trust you! Or if I fucking WANT to!!
Lochlan
I don’t think it’s about trust. I think you’re just looking for an excuse to go back to hiding behind your mask and talking about fictional relationships. Turns out real IS too real for you.
My mouth drops open.
Me
I’m out. There isn’t room in this conversation for me, you, AND your ego.
Me
But before I go, here’s how sure I am that you won’t be finding me.
I switch to the camera and hold my arm out and up, making a kissy face at the camera as give it the finger.
Yes, it’s petty.
I send it anyway.
Lochlan
Who the fuck is that?
Huh?
Me
Is this a philosophical question?
Lochlan
No. The motherfucker behind you staring at you like a predator.
I open the picture I just sent him and zoom in. Miles is in the background further down the bar, looking at me with a mix of confusion and what might be concern as I snap the selfie.
Me
Oh, him? That’s Miles.