Ominous, Part 1 by K.V. Rose

2

Eden

We exitthrough one of the many side doors of the castle. It looms behind us, and I spare a glance at it. When I’m this close, I have to crane my neck back to see every gray turret, every windowpane glowing with moonlight.

The monstrosity of it, up close, overwhelms me. Even tucked away inside, there’s this distant but unshakeable feeling it’s whispering to me when I’m in its old hallways, the library I just left, or the athletic facility over eight thousand square feet, the one I’ve only seen on my tour.

You don’t belong. Don’t belong. Don’t belong.

Eli doesn’t look back at all. To him, it’s probably inconsequential, this pale black, stone-washed building resembling a structure built hundreds of years before, even though it’s relatively new. Eli could walk away from castles much grander without ever looking back. He is who these places were made for, so he could desert them at the earliest opportunity, only to move on and conquer something far greater.

We jog down the steps on the cement walkway, then more steps, the ground sloping gently down, the darkness of the night obscuring the green, rolling lawn. The most impressive view of Trafalgar is at the back, with well-maintained gardens, fountains, and the ability to see just how far this building stretches from the east to the west. But we pass a fountain now too, the only one out front, ironically placed by the library instead of the main entrance with its glossy red doors, towering high above me every morning, a poster of a missing girl I never met, Winslet Landers, taped to each door, blowing in every breeze, tattered edges curling in on themselves. I know Winslet wasn’t taken from campus. I did a search of her name when I first saw it. She disappeared from her own home.

The fountain out front is a gargoyle with pointed ears, a scowl, and wings kept tight to his body, like he isn’t quite ready to fly.

I can’t relate. If I had wings, I would be long gone.

When we finally take the last step down, the music of the softly twinkling water at our backs, Eli breaks the quiet between us, his tone light, as if we haven’t spent the past few minutes in a tense silence.

Maybe it was only tense for me.

“How are you liking it so far?” He glances my way without breaking his stride, the walkway seeming to stretch on for miles to the senior lot. Then, beyond that is the paved driveway leading to the high iron gates, always open as far as I can tell, with a guardhouse just past it.

“Trafalgar, I mean?” Eli clarifies with another regal clearing of his throat.

I blink in the dark, lampposts every few feet the only light. They’re the same dull orange as the lights in the library, casting everything in a soft glow. I stare at the cars in the distance, not many of them, but every single one a luxury vehicle. Porsches, BMWs, Mercedes, I don’t know what Eli drives. I’ve never actually seen him leave.

With that thought, I realize he doesn’t have a bag over his shoulder, and I wonder if he takes any books home. Does he do his homework? Does he care at all, or is he content to let money pave the way for him, dollar bills like a golden highway to any future he chooses?

One day I’ll have the same. A gilded life. The difference, I suppose, is I’ll earn it. Maybe it’ll feel better for me. Or, perhaps, it won’t matter at all. Luxury is luxury, and poor is… poor.

“I like it,” I say, meaning it mostly. If I keep staring ahead, ignore the feel of his eyes coming to me every so often, and the way he has to look down at me, because he is nearly a foot taller than I am, I can speak easier.

“No,” Eli says, and he stops walking, his tone lower than I’ve heard it yet.

I stop, too, but I don’t face him, even though his eyes on my body feel like a physical weight.

“How do you really like it?” He stresses each word, but there’s slightly more emphasis on the “really.”

With his pressing, I think of Sebastian, what I don’t want to be. I think of him losing his job, just last week, the one he only held a month, since our move. I imagine the things I’ve taped to my wall. A printout of the Minoan goddess. A quote from The Odyssey—out of sight, out of mind. A postcard from Bloor College, nestled in the mountains, my attainable dream school.

I want to tell Eli it doesn’t matter how much I like it. People like me don’t get to pick and choose what we like and don’t. We take what we can get. I want to tell him I want to be something, at the same time I’m terrified of leaving the bubble I’ve always known.

I think of Shoreside. The suggestion of therapy from the school nurse. How Mom would have given up anything to pay for it, but I refused. It seemed like a luxury, and we can’t really afford those.

Even so, I want to tell him I’m feeling apathetic. It is a constant vice I cannot shake. I just can’t help but wonder sometimes… what’s the point of anything at all? My mind plays out every next move, each new goal, and the steps I need to get where I want to go, and yet I feel I’m missing things along the way. Joy, euphoria, the feeling of being alive, they’re fleeting and sporadic for me. Do we just plan and search and wish until we grow old and perish?

I say none of it.

But I do take a breath, and turn to face him, only to find his entire body is already angled toward me. There is hardly any room between us, and I don’t know how that happened, but my eyes crawl up from our shoes, a foot apart—white Chucks, black boots—to his legs, the shirt still tucked ever-so-slightly into the waistband of his pants, the dark shape—tattoo, birthmark?—beneath the white material leaving my head spinning, to his throat, with the choker of solid black leather around it, then his jawline, straight nose, tipped slightly upward, almost feminine.

Finally, I rest on his eyes.

Although “rest” isn’t right. His eyes are full of intensity even his casual posture, hands in pockets, slightly parted lips, can’t conceal. In his charade, it’s the look in his eyes which ruins his acting. He’s not relaxed. Maybe more than me, but not really. He’s tense.

It helps me feel as if he’s not quite so high above me.

I give him a better truth than my first answer to his question. “I like this school.” I run my tongue over my lips, and I watch as his eyes track the movement. “But I have no expectation of falling in love with it. It’s a steppingstone.” My chest flushes hot with the word “love,” and I’m glad my shirt covers me even as a breeze dances on my exposed low belly.

He doesn’t laugh, or smile, or mock me. Holding my gaze, he only says, “Because you don’t belong here, do you?”

Cold runs down my spine, prickles along my scalp as I stare up at him. “What does that even mean?” I should never have entertained this conversation. He wants to mess with me for whatever reason. Maybe see if he can get into the poor girl’s pants. But the answer is no. I could’ve told him from the start. My fantasies stay inside my head. I never trust myself to let them out. Not anymore.

He sighs, like he didn’t expect me to understand, and his shoulders drop just slightly. It’s the most basic change in his posture, but it’s the first time he looks less than. He steps closer, but looks up, away from me, and if he hadn’t, I would have had to back away. Put more space between us.

Instead, I’m staring at the elegance of his throat. The way the choker lies flat with his skin but doesn’t pinch. It fits tightly enough I know he feels it, always a constant pressure, but it won’t leave an indentation. I wouldn’t be able to slip my little finger between the leather and his neck though. Not without hurting him.

The idea is mildly appealing.

“I can tell,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “Every day you walk into class, there’s something in your face. Like… you’re not quite sure what you’re doing here. Like no one will ever come close to understanding your thoughts, your brain, and you hold yourself so apart, you don’t even want them to, do you?” He still doesn’t look at me.

I take a deep breath, catching the scent of the beach. He smells like the ocean, and I am intimately familiar with the fragrance. But this—deep, intense conversation with a stranger—it’s foreign to me. I feel as if my brain may be tricking me again.

“How long did it take you to rehearse that?” I counter, lifting a brow.

He slowly smiles, dropping his gaze, almost to affect a bashful look. It’s complete when he peeks up at me through his lashes, a dimple flashing below his cheekbone. “Tell me I’m wrong.” His words are barely more than a whisper. He’s good, with his deep sentiments, but it feels like it’s part of his act, and I’m the willing thespian, getting sucked into his play.

“Of course I don’t belong,” I say with a touch of annoyance. “I’m not like… you.”

I’m thinking of stepping away when he lowers his eyes to me, intently focused on mine, pinning me to the spot, I couldn’t get away if I tried.

“You’re not at all, are you?” He practically whispers the words.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, biting hard for a second. But I can’t hold back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He smiles and it flusters me more. “I know you’re here with scholarships and,” he gestures vaguely like money is trivial, before slipping his hand back into his pocket, “financial aid.”

I freeze, my fingers squeezing the phone in my hand, the book in the other. I glance down at my shirt, wondering if my clothes gave me away, their lack of polish, the years of wear. And I’m only here because Reece’s brother has connections; he helped me get a leg up. But I don’t really belong, do I?

“Shit, sorry,” Eli cuts through my ringing ears, the mortification at being found out. “It’s not…” He trails off, cupping the back of his neck with his hand, his bicep flexing, and I see a tattoo there with script I can’t read before he drops his hand.

The corners of his mouth turn down in something which isn’t quite a frown. More like he’s puzzled as he looks over my head, like he’s searching for the right words.

“It’s not your clothes,” he finally says, looking at me again. His eyes drop over my body.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me what it is, if not my outfit.

“I saw your files.” He doesn’t look remorseful over the words, even as cold floods my body, the distant feel of arousal at his admiration draining away. How? When? “On accident.” He doesn’t hurry along, the way someone truly embarrassed about seeing something they shouldn’t would. This is where his charade breaks down, and I don’t know if it’s intentional or not. “You had just left, I think, the first day of classes, and I was in Ms. Corbin’s office, going over some paperwork.”

What kind of paperwork could you possibly need? Don’t your parents just cash checks without missing the weight from their balance, and you move along?

I don’t say anything though. I let him keep going, because this requires some sort of explanation if he wants to keep up his cover.

“Your files were there, on the corner of her desk. Then you were in Latin, and Ms. Romano called your name, and I put it all together—”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me before now?” I feel unnerved. Found out. I hold his gaze this time, and he doesn’t blather on about my files or not belonging.

“You’re in your own world, aren’t you?” His tone is almost accusing, this reason for how I look like I don’t belong. It’s like he’s flinging charges my way, ready to hold me accountable for operating on a different plane than everyone else.

My stomach drops. Maybe not everyone else. Maybe him.

He leans down, almost imperceptibly. Not too close but close enough I feel my heart racing all over again, adrenaline flooding my body, a stiffness in my limbs.

Don’t touch me.

It echoes in my head, at the same time another contradictory thought bounces around.

Touch me, so I can see if I hate the way you feel like I do everyone else.

“It looked like a nice world,” he continues, and I can smell his breath. It isn’t mint, like I thought it might be. He seems like the kind of guy who’s polished enough to have a stick of gum in his pocket at all times. But his breath is sweet. Cotton candy. It’s ridiculous.

“I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Lines from a poem. Words he can’t possibly mean. Where did he find them? What does he want from me?

He straightens, and the moment of tension in my veins is snapped too soon. He even takes a step back, letting me breathe deeper, and nods his head toward the parking lot. He is very good at this. “Do you need a ride?”

I blink, disoriented at all the things he knows. All the things he shouldn’t.

I have a car, a ten-year-old Sentra Mom put her Christmas cleaning bonuses together for. I hold out on the hope that is one thing he does not know, because it would be too much. It would take observation to the level of stalking. I need to stay away from those things, for my own good. Away from… obsessions.

Either way, what I don’t have is a parking spot.

A single one is an additional thousand dollars, on top of tuition and books and uniforms. The grants and aid wouldn’t cover it. It was stretched too tight as it was, like hide over a too-big drum, the circumference too wide, my dreams tumbled inside, and Mom is too proud to ask her brother-in-law for more than he’s given us.

I realize I’m staring at Eli’s mouth again when I shake my head and look at my phone screen. I need to leave. It takes fifteen comfortable minutes for me to get home from here, and I have exactly that many. We aren’t even at the parking lot yet and Sebastian isn’t on his way. Shit.

I unlock my phone and start typing out a text to Sebastian, all one-handed, The Canterbury Tales in my other.

I’ve got Can you typed out on my screen when Eli clears his throat. Again.

I pause, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I lift and narrow my eyes on his.

“I don’t mind.” He says this as if it’s all I need. The permission I’d been waiting for. Like if he doesn’t mind, nothing else matters. Another slip in his mask.

An emotion aside from embarrassment wells up inside me. Hostility. “Well, I do.” I snap the words out and I don’t really mean to, but he’s thrown me off balance. Knocked me sideways. I can barely stay upright with his hurricane. “I don’t know you, and my parents wouldn’t want a stranger to take me home.” The last part is a lie because I would tell them it was only a friend.

Still, I hold his gaze in a challenge. I expect him to cut me down for being rude.

But he doesn’t bite back.

“Ride with me, Eden.” He turns away from me, angling himself toward the parking lot. Come closer. I don’t bite. “I’ll just wait here for someone to pick you up otherwise, and that would be a waste of both of our time.”

“That’s your problem.” I drop my gaze to my phone again. “I don’t need a—”

I sense him turn back to stare at me. Lifting my eyes slowly, they lock with his. “I get it. You don’t need a ride.” He smiles, the dark green of his irises morphing to something more like emeralds. “Indulge me, just this once?”

“I think you’re probably indulged every day of your life.” But I don’t keep typing out my message to my brother.

His smile widens. “Maybe,” he agrees. “But not by you.”

* * *

His hand ison the shifter, all four blacked-out windows of the matte black G35 cracked to let the warm summer air in. My dream car is Italian, something Sebastian pointed out to me in a magazine one day, but I find it a relief Eli drives this instead of one of the many BMWs or Mercedes in the lot.

I clutch my bag close to my chest, arms wrapped around it, and I try not to stare at the way his veins ridge against his olive skin. How his palm covers the entire shifter knob, his fingers curled over it. The skill with which he doesn’t miss a gear, no danger of stalling out as he drives.

Glycerine by Bush is loud through the speakers, and it might seem rude to some people, the volume turned up enough to drown out any hope of a conversation, but it is exactly what I want. And I love this song.

He glances my way, dash lights glowing across his cheekbones and the straight ridge of his nose. A smile curls his mouth, and I don’t want to return it out of some misplaced spite—you have everything I want, including me in your passenger seat. I’ve given in, and now I’m not sure how I could climb out—but I can’t help it. I try to bite back my own grin, but it’s impossible. He might be deceptively charming, but there’s no denying the allure.

And just as he looks at the road again, his lips hitch higher, and mine mirror the movement. I’m kind of annoyed with myself by how easily he won me over.

But only for tonight. Just this once.

And yet… who am I kidding?

I’m in a car with a boy I have stared at for nearly three weeks of class, thinking he never even glanced at me. Never once saw me out of the corner of his eye. Heard me speak up in class.

Turns out, he knows my name and my financial status—and he’s going to find out more, unfortunately, when he follows the directions I gave him when we first got into the car.

More than those shallow facts, he knows the way I feel alien in my own brain.

Dangerous. A guy like this could make me falter. Return me to where I was, that moment I barely remember when I got suspended, then had to live out the rest of the semester with my head down while everyone whispered around me.

But I push it aside, getting ahead of myself as I usually do. I focus on the now. The drive. The upcoming drop off. Real things. Not fantasies.

I contemplated having him leave me at the gas station half a mile from my house. I wanted to protect something of my dignity, because seeing my dusty road through his eyes—watching the LED headlights illuminate Mom’s pale green van, Reece’s battered truck, Sebastian’s Mazda 6 with a busted taillight, and my old, turtle-like Sentra, all crowded together on the cloud of dirt that serves as the driveway to the trailer—seemed like too much.

But he would know I was hiding something. Worse, he’d understand I was self-conscious.

I’d rather pretend I’m proud of my home. Or, at the very least, unaffected by it.

When he makes the final turn onto Castle Lane—the irony is not lost on me—then pulls into the driveway of the first trailer on the left, his car bumping over the uneven ground and spackling of rocks Reece intended to use to make a proper driveway, he doesn’t pretend to love my place.

He doesn’t remark on the gray siding, the screen door I know sticks; he doesn’t even try to spin the yard into something worthy. And it does have a decent yard around back. Hardly any grass grows in the front, but there’s a lot in the rear, and beyond it, forest stretches on for miles. I’ve lost myself in there some afternoons, and it’s my favorite part of this place.

But instead of any of that, edged out at the end of the driveway by the rest of my family’s vehicles, he says after turning down the volume, with some sort of wonder in his words, “Wow. You have a lot of cars.”

And even though it could be a way to make me feel less shitty about what I don’t have and what he probably does, I survey the driveway. Four sets of wheels.

I guess we do.

Still, I only make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat as I undo my seatbelt, savoring the swift zip of it across my body before it lodges firmly in place somewhere near my head.

“Thanks for the ride.” I glance at the clock in the car. He must have driven fast, and I either didn’t realize or didn’t care, because I have three minutes to spare. I reach for the silvery cool handle of his door, grateful it opens on the first tug without some complicated child lock shit, and I swing one foot to the ground, the car very, very low.

“I can take you home any day.” He sounds almost hopeful.

I keep staring at the trailer, the single light on in the living room I’m to flick off when I get in. Mom will be trying to wait up for me to ensure I’m safe, and I feel a little guilty, knowing after cleaning three houses probably the size of Eli’s, she’s got to be exhausted.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone even. I think he has wrestling practice, preseason workouts or something; I’ve heard him talking about it in the hallways. And besides, I don’t stay after every day, and some nights I work at the gym. Not many during the school week, but occasionally. He probably doesn’t know about that job. Or jobs in general.

I know I’m judging him, but I can’t seem to stop because I feel like there should be some catch to being offered his kindness. Like he’s going to demand a blowjob the next time I see him or something. It’s not as if I haven’t fantasized about it, but I’m not giving head for rides home. I don’t suppose I’d be very good at it, anyway, considering I’ve never done it before. No ride for you today, that was sloppy.

I almost laugh at myself, but instead I put another foot out, scooting to the edge of the leather seat, the scent, alongside his smell of the sea, invading his clean car.

“No, really.” There’s something like impatience lining his words. “If you need a ride, anytime, just… well, you’ll see me around, right?”

I look at him over my shoulder. “I don’t know. You pretended I didn’t exist for nearly a month.”

His hand is still on the gearshift, his other around the bottom of his steering wheel. But at my words, he looks perplexed. “I thought I told you why. You’re unapproachable.” His eyes glance over my entire body, and I think I might melt his seats, as hot as I am. “But tomorrow, I promise, I’m doing it anyway. Approaching you.” His cheekbones lift with his smile. “Have a good night, Eden.”

I let myself drink him in two seconds longer than I should. Then I’m out of the car. I’m slinging my bag over one shoulder, slamming his door closed with my free hand, a little harder than I intend to, when a searing, bright and violent pain lances up my middle finger.

“Fuck!” The word rips from my mouth, low and hushed as I snatch my finger from the door I just closed it in. My backpack slips from my shoulder and to the dirt as spots pop in front of my eyes, and I’m clutching two fingers in my opposite hand, squeezing tightly to stop the flow of blood and therefore, the pain.

It tapers off almost immediately, a dull throb underneath the Band-Aid I already have wrapped around my papercut. I don’t know if my pain tolerance is high, or if I’m going to lose the tip of this finger because I’m squeezing it so hard, but my breathing evens out in a few seconds.

Until.

Until I realize Eli is right beside me, his car dinging to let him know he left his driver’s side door open, little lights glowing inside.

“Let me see,” he says, reaching for my hand, and I don’t want to let go of it, the way I’m suffocating my own circulation, and I don’t really want him to touch me, but he does it anyway.

His skin is cold, and I flinch with the feel of it as he pulls my hand, tucked close to my body, toward him.

“Really,” I try to fight him by stiffening my muscles, “it’s fine.”

His eyes come to mine in our tug-of-war with my hand, staring up at me through his long lashes. Amusement ticks at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me see,” he says again, his words flat.

After several seconds in our standoff, I release my grip on the wound, slapping my palm over the side of his car to keep myself steady, right above the door jamb that just tried to break my finger.

My body locks up, knees stiff so they don’t tremble, and it feels as if there’s sandpaper over my flesh, with both of his hands cupping mine. He has calluses along his fingertips and the edges of his palms, but it isn’t what makes my skin crawl. I don’t know what it is, about being casually touched, but I don’t like it. Not at all.

Or maybe I do know. Maybe I just don’t like to think about it.

I try to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, staving off the impending panic attack which will be far worse than slamming my finger in the door.

Gently, as if he’s caring for a wounded bunny instead of a very tense girl, he coaxes my knuckles out, to straighten, and he runs his thumb very carefully over the underside of my middle finger, pausing at the Band-Aid, frayed at the edges. I imagine even his medical supplies are far superior to mine and I clench my teeth, my pulse erratic.

I just want to run to my front door.

But I can’t move.

He continues running his thumb over the sticky soft feel of the covering, then his eyes lift once more to mine. I can feel my heartbeat in my finger, but I can feel it everywhere, so I’m not sure it really means anything.

“You’re bleeding.” His words are little more than a whisper.

“Good thing I’ve got a Band-Aid,” I say through a locked jaw.

He shakes his head, huffing a sigh of a laugh. It’s enough to make me wonder what the full thing sounds like. But that thought is obliterated as he brings my fingers up, toward his mouth.

My lips part, just like his do, and fire courses through me, telling me to pull away. To snatch my hand back and fucking run.

Don’t let him get this close.

It’s bleating in my brain, firing on all cylinders. I can’t even hear the dinging of his car anymore. The hairs on the back of my neck raise and all I want to do is get away.

But before he does what I thought he was going to do, he stops, my fingertips inches from his mouth.

He looks down at me through his lashes, and he says, “I think this means something, you know.” And without elaborating, he slowly lowers my hand, releases it, and swipes up my bag, slinging it on his shoulder. Casually, as if nothing just happened, as if I’m not trembling everywhere, he turns toward my tiny porch, the three steps leading up to the door, content to ignore the ding of his car. “I’ll walk you up,” he says, not even looking back.

* * *

In the darkness,I close my eyes and sink down under the water, holding my breath as I go. A single candle flickers on the counter, a mere foot from the bathtub, but down here, shower curtain pulled closed and eyelids blocking out any light, I can’t see it.

Down here, everything is calm.

The faucet is off, the water is boiling, my fingertips graze the bottom of the tub.

In my head, I see Eli’s dark green eyes.

Come closer. Come closer. Come closer.

A shiver of fear slips under my spine, my nipples tighten into sharp points, and I think, perhaps, I should come up.

Just a little longer. I can be unafraid.

Sebastian is home, one wall away. If I need anything, I know I can go to him.

Eli’s mouth over mine. His fingers wrapped tight around my throat.

My hand drifts over my low belly, desire coiling inside. Then I think I hear something. The picking of a lock. A man’s footsteps inside the small bathroom.

I shoot up to the surface, gasping for air as I twist around to the ledge of the tub, snatching back the curtain.

I blink in the flickering candlelight. Shadows dance along the wall.

The door is closed.

No one is there.

After I drain the water,blow out the candle, towel off and pull on my pajama shorts and top, brush my teeth, and wash my face all while avoiding looking into the mirror, I open the bathroom door.

And clamp a hand over my mouth to stop the scream from bubbling up my throat. A strangled gasp comes through instead when I see a shadowy figure in the hallway.

“Jesus, it’s just me.”

My chest is heaving, my phone clutched tight in my hand, I slide my palm away from my mouth, down to my throat as I try to breathe, try to see.

Slowly, in the dim glow from the light of his bedroom, his features come to light. Shaggy blond hair, light eyes, a lip ring, T-shirt and gym shorts over his short, bony frame. Sebastian is only a few inches taller than I am.

My breathing evens out, but my heart still races.

“Maybe don’t take baths in the dark?” His tone is condescending. I can smell cigarette smoke and maybe something stronger on him. “I gotta pee.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I manage to say, edging around him toward my bedroom. When my shoulder brushes his, he speaks again.

“Who dropped you off?”

I freeze, staring into the shadows of the hallway, Mom and Reece long asleep. “A friend,” I manage to say.

Sebastian is quiet as we stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Then he says, his voice low, “Don’t let them distract you.” And he walks into the bathroom without another word.