eleven Selena
eleven
Selena
“Selena, your last blog was one of our most liked,” Marcy squeals, as I sit in her office.
It’s an unseasonably cool and dreary day. We don’t get a lot of rain in Sunnyvale, but today the sky decided to open up and drench us. So, Marcy asked that we meet in her office today.
“Really?” I ask, feeling giddy.
I’ve been checking pretty much every second of the day since the story first went live. People have had mixed emotions, but they are talking about it, which is gaining more traction for the story and our sites.
“Yes, who knew something like Shadows existed in Sunnyvale. I can’t wait to see what you add next to the series,” she says.
When I first sent the article to Marcy, she loved it and demanded that I do an entire four-part series on Shadows and the underground world in Sunnyvale.
Our podcast hosts have asked me to come on for a show tomorrow.
This is everything I ever wanted and more, and it feels so satisfying knowing that I’m one step closer to my dream.
Still, there’s a strange feeling inside of me.
It’s not fear, but more of a nervous excitement.
I know that what I’m doing is potentially dangerous.
I could be upsetting these men. And, if some of the rumors surrounding them are true, they could be very dangerous.
Still, my need to fulfill my own dreams outweighs the risks right now.
I’ve always been stubborn, but right now, I’m downright diabolical.
“Yes, I’m very excited to keep exploring this story,” I tell her.
Marcy nods and smiles. “Are you prepared for the podcast interview tomorrow?” she questions.
“Yes. Thank you again for this opportunity. I feel like this is all a dream,” I laugh.
“Well, it’s not a dream,” she assures me.
We talk for a few more minutes before we say goodbye, and I leave.
As I walk out of her office, I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine. I stopped before exiting the building; the rain was coming down pretty hard, and I didn’t bring an umbrella. When I first arrived, it was only drizzling, but now it’s practically pouring.
I take a risk and make a run for it. Rain comes down like needles, cold and hard and almost slicing through my skin. As I get further away from the safety of the building, the sky seems to open up and dump even more rain on me.
“Shit,” I curse out, as I start to sprint toward my car. I see my Honda, but then something stops me dead in my tracks.
A man is standing beside my car.
But not just any man. For a split second, I’m frozen. Not with fear, but with recognition: this is the man from the club, the one who watched me, followed me, measured me, and found me wanting.
It’s Warren, and he’s wearing his pink mask. It seems to glow against the dark and hazy sky.
I slide on the wet pavement, lurching back, and holding up my keys like they are a weapon.
He doesn’t flinch, just leans against the rear quarter panel and lets the rain flatten his hair to the lines of his skull.
He’s in a black windbreaker, hood down, jeans glued to him by the storm, and just watching me.
“Selena Ramirez,” he says. His voice is sandpapered raw, unlike at the club. No, it's slick and without performance. Just tired, and dangerous.
“Jesus,” I manage, “you trying to get arrested, or just jump-start my heart?”
He doesn’t smile. The mask is seamless, catching no light, but his eyes flash like obsidian when he steps out of the splash zone and toward me.
I realize that at the club, it was too dark to see his eyes, but now, they stare right back at me.
I try to step around the hood; he matches me, one pace for every pace, like a dance choreographed for violence.
“You wrote about us,” he says.
There’s no ambiguity in the accusation. The article went live this morning, hidden in the last third of the “Coastal Curiosities” feature, but the paragraphs about Shadows had my fingerprints all over them. I’d been sure to include only my first name, hoping my true identity couldn’t be discovered.
But that’s not how this world works.
“Not about you, specifically,” I say, voice thinner than I’d like. “Just a scene report. A vibe.” The rain is now making my hair stick to my face, and I try to move the strands out of my eyes, but the wind is unforgiving, making this a losing battle.
He takes another step. Rain beads on the mask, outlining the sharpness of his cheekbones. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what you were doing. You are trying to destroy Shadows and us.”
I almost laughed. “Are you serious? I’m not trying to destroy you, I’m trying to learn. You refused to talk to me, so I had to write from my perspective.”
He’s close now, arms folded, mask level with my nose. I can smell sweat and steel and a hint of something chemical, almost sweet. “You think that’s funny?” he asks, quietly.
“No,” I say, and mean it. My throat is locked up.
He’s so close I can see the breath ghosting out of the mask’s mouthless slit. His thumb traces the angle of my jaw, leaving a cold, damp mark. “You ever get scared, Selena?”
“No,” I lied again. “But you think trying to scare me in a parking lot is going to fix it?”
“Who says I’m trying to scare you?” he questions.
When I don’t answer, but only roll my eyes, he continues.
“What you wrote is damaging. People already speculate about us. Rumors are spreading, and people are asking more questions. That’s not how Shadows is run.
We are about exclusivity and allowing people to be free without being condemned.
You could bring unwanted attention to us now. ”
I think about what he says. I should say nothing.
I should tell him I’m just a reporter, just chasing a story, that he and his kind mean nothing to me except as a column inch or a cautionary tale.
But that’s not true, and we both know it.
I want the truth, the secret, the feeling of being inside a world that’s off-limits to people like me.
He drops his arms. The rain has soaked through his sleeves, water dripping off the tips of his fingers. “What do you want from us?”
I stare into the mask. My own face swims back at me in the black gloss. “I want an inside scoop. Give me the real story behind Shadows.”
He exhales, a sharp, surprised sound. “Do you have a death wish?”
He’s silent. The rain intensifies, drowning out the hiss of the street. He moves closer, so our shoes almost touch, and I can feel the heat of him through the sodden air.
“We don’t do interviews,” he says. The words are heavy, final. He pushes off my car and walks toward his truck. As he opens the door, he pauses. “This is my only warning. Don’t write anymore about Shadows. This is over.”
He slams the door shut before I can even respond. The rain is too loud for him to hear me now, even if I were to yell. He drives off, once again leaving me alone in a parking lot and wondering what the hell I just got myself into.