Delicate Monsters Read online

  “Hey, bitch,” someone called out from behind him. “Wait up.”

  Miles didn’t respond or look back. He didn’t have to. This was the same cat-and-mouse game he’d been acting out his entire life, and while the stripes on the cat might change, or the cat might even be related to him, he was still always, always the mouse.

  Even when he was the bitch.

  “Why you walking so fast?”

  “Slow down, sweetheart.”

  Pain burrowed in his chest. A part of him wanted to give up right then, just lie down and await whatever brutality was undoubtedly in store. That wasn’t a death wish, either, but a strategic analysis of the situation and a desire to conserve resources. Miles understood full well that if asked why he was walking so fast, it meant he was already trapped.

  Still, his mind cycled reliably through the options, hopeless as they all were. He could try and run to get away from the guys who were trailing him. Or he could stop and do something submissive and hope they’d get bored. There was a third option, too, of course, which involved Miles doing nothing but what he was already doing—walking the deserted Sonoma streets in his slouchy way and not responding.

  Inevitably, this was the inaction he always chose.

  Inevitably, it never made a difference.

  To others, he was worth the sacrifice. Nothing more.

  So Miles kept walking. His mind hummed and rattled. Something about this day felt different, though. There was a twist in the wind. A certain slant to the sky. He pushed his feet forward and felt the sidewalk beneath him turn sticky and malleable. It was almost as if he’d fallen straight into a Dali painting or some separate corner of the universe where the laws of nature could be broken. Where past suffering didn’t predict future pain.

  Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  He rounded the next corner, turning down a new street and leaving behind the long row of stucco homes with their sagging porches and unwatered lawns. He’d hoped to find human life here—a convenience store, a park full of mothers and their children—enough that continuing to follow him wouldn’t outweigh the risk. But in his harried state, he’d miscalculated. This road he’d turned onto wasn’t one Miles had seen before, which was strange, considering he’d grown up here. Rather than safety or familiarity, however, everything before him was desolate and bleak, a wide stretch of dimpled asphalt lined with nothing but the vast expanse of a deserted walnut orchard.

  Miles didn’t falter or turn back. He stayed the course, which was his game plan, after all. Besides, it was always possible the guys weren’t going to actually do anything to him.

  Oh, anything’s possible, boy, the wind whispered, raspy words running up his spine like a secret. To his right, a group of pigeons pecked and scratched in the yellow grass. Miles shivered. The orchard was long dead and the walnut trees stood in the sun like an army of corpses, their prickled limbs twisting toward the sky like a call for help. Other than the talking wind, the only sound in the air was the whine-hum zapping off the electrical wires strung down the opposite side of the street, and the hurried rush of footsteps coming up behind him.

  The first blow landed on the left side of his head. The second, in the small of his back. Miles cried out as he fell forward, legs crumpling beneath him. The foreground flipped as he landed, face hitting the dirt, and the pigeons flapped their wings, fluttering away in a downward rush.

  Pain exploded. His world grew louder.

  The hum became a roar.

  chapter twenty

  “Mmmm,” May murmured as she squirmed and writhed beneath Emerson, her breath hot on his neck. “Don’t stop, Em. Please.”

  They were in her second-floor bedroom on top of her four-poster bed, with their clothes half off, their bodies pressed together, soft sheets twisted around their ankles. May’s parents both worked and her little sister was at cheer practice, which meant this moment was theirs alone. Emerson took May’s lead and kept doing the thing she didn’t want him to stop doing. He did it faster, then slower, then in little circles like he’d read about online. It seemed to work. She arched her back. She shivered and gasped, pushing her face against his chest, her fingers into his skin, and when it was over and she fell against him, Emerson wondered if it had always been this easy. If all this time, all he’d needed to have her was for her to feel self-doubting.

  If only he’d known.

  May pushed his hand away and rolled on to her side. She whispered in his ear, telling him how good he’d made her feel and filling Emerson with a heady sense of pride and lust. Both sins, he reminded himself, deadly ones, and when she reached down toward his boxers and tried to return the favor, he stopped her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He shook his head. He felt weird all of a sudden. He couldn’t explain it.

  “Em?”

  A faint chiming came from across the room, the back pocket of his discarded jeans. Emerson sat up, welcome for the distraction, the opportunity to lie.

  “My phone,” he said, crawling from the bed. “I’m sorry. I have to answer it.”

  “Where are you?” his mother snapped when he picked up, making his heart leap. She was using her emergency voice: all clipped and business-like.

  “With a, uh, friend. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s your brother. You need to get home.”

  “Shit.” Emerson pushed his hair back. May turned and stared at him. “Another seizure?”

  “No.” She told him how a truck driver had found Miles collapsed on the side of the road out near Jack London Way. The cops brought him home after getting him checked out at urgent care. It looked like he’d been beaten up. Bloody nose. Bruised ribs. Possible concussion.

  “I need you,” his mother said again, her business voice slipping. “The cops, they’re still here.”

  “I’m coming,” Emerson told her, and he hung up.

  He looked back at May, sprawled on the bed in the dying afternoon light with her hair down and her dark breasts still bared. The lesser part of him wanted to touch her again, feel her all over, breathe her in. It was a crazy sort of urge, given the phone call he’d just received and the thing that had happened between them over the weekend. But maybe urges like this were nature’s reminders that they were mere animals. That all humans were driven by hormones and pheromones and biological imperatives, only to be copiloted by a mind that could rationalize it all. Then again, what he’d done Friday night, Emerson couldn’t rationalize. But he felt guilty about it. That had to count for something. Guilt meant he wasn’t like Sadie Su, who did things, not in spite of their badness. She did them because they were bad.

  That was something different altogether.

  Emerson’s lust withered into crawling dread. Of all the people in the world, Sadie had to be the one to walk in. He’d never be able to talk sense into her, explain that what she saw didn’t matter, so long as May never found out. He just had to hope against hope that she’d keep her dumb mouth shut. She would, if she knew what was good for her. Then again, it was Sadie.

  Sadie, who never listened to reason.

  Sadie, who believed cruelty was a virtue.

  Sadie, who was the exception always, always willing to prove the rule.

  *

  The sky was darkening by the time he reached the apartment complex, and Emerson squeezed the Mustang into the carport with mere inches to spare. The asshole next door with the Suburban had parked over the white line again, and Emerson was lucky not to rip his side mirror clean off.

  He cut the ignition, took the key out, and sat there. The old car settled with its usual pings and sighs and shuddering under-the-hood rattles, and with his own internal organs doing pretty much the same thing, Emerson realized he didn’t want to go in and face whatever hell was going on with his brother. He just didn’t. He knew it was terrible of him to feel that way. Miles was a victim. Someone had hurt him. That should make Emerson want to wring the necks of whoever had jumped his little brother.

&
nbsp; And yet …

  And yet, Emerson couldn’t finish that thought. It was too horrible. Too heartless. He was better than that, or at least he wanted to be. What he could do, however, was slide out the bottle of whisky he’d hidden under the front seat last week—Johnnie Walker, Red Label, nabbed from the corner store in a dark moment of impulse and opportunity—and hold it between his legs. The shape of it, the weight, the slosh of the brown liquid all comforted him. The funny thing was, he’d stored the emergency booze in the Mustang prior to Trish Reed’s party. Before he even knew he’d need it. Like he was psychic or something.

  Actually, Emerson realized, that wasn’t very funny at all.

  The wind whipped through the trees outside, wild and rattling, and after a glance in the rearview mirror, Emerson unscrewed the bottle top and took a furtive swallow. Then another. He didn’t go crazy or anything. Just downed enough to feel a little warm and like he wasn’t about to jump out of his damn skin.

  After a few minutes, he drank more.

  Maybe too much.

  *

  Emerson finally got out of the car and walked upstairs.

  When he opened the front door to the apartment, the first thing he saw was a cop, a female one. She sat in the living room with her legs crossed like it was fucking high tea, talking to his mom. Another cop, this one a man, stood in the kitchen jabbering away on his phone.

  At the sight of him, his mother rushed over, bringing with her a whole flurry of emotion, all tears and need. Emerson understood: the last time the cops had been here, it’d been to arrest her. He and Miles had gone to social services for three horrible weeks. Clearly his mother remembered this, too, because she wrapped her arms around Emerson and didn’t let go. Dipping his knees and hugging her back, he winced at the thinness of her bones, the new streaks of gray in her hair. He prayed she couldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath.

  He prayed he would never disappoint her.

  “This your other son?” The lady cop turned to look at him. She was different than most of the police officers Emerson had interacted with over the years, the ones with the beer guts and alimony payments who hung around the basketball games and vacillated between wanting to kiss his ass or beat some respect into him. This one looked like she didn’t care about sports or rivalries or small-town pride. She was young, with steely eyes and sharp features like a fox or a weasel.

  His mother stepped back and patted his arm proudly. “This is my Emerson. My eldest.”

  “Where’s Miles?” he asked her.

  “Resting.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Her eyes puddled. “I should check on him.”

  By the hurried way she left the room, it was clear she wouldn’t be back. This was her escape.

  “I’m Detective Gutierrez,” the lady cop called out.

  Emerson walked over. Shook her hand. He felt jumpy, filled with the breakaway need to talk, and in a way, despite his guilt and paranoia, Emerson was grateful for the Johnnie Walker. It glossed his edges. Slowed him down.

  “What happened to my brother?” he asked the cop.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “How bad is he hurt?”

  “He’ll be okay. He’s mostly shaken up. Some bruises. The burns. It’s more…”

  Burns? “More what?”

  “He won’t tell us what happened.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

  She frowned. “He’s making it hard for us to help him.”

  Sounds like Miles, Emerson wanted to say, but didn’t. His glossed edges were quickly turning fuzzy.

  “Can I ask you some questions, Emerson?” Detective Gutierrez asked.

  About my brother?

  Or about me?

  “Sure,” he said evenly. “Why not?”

  chapter twenty-one

  Roman was writing on an almost daily basis now.

  It was driving Sadie a little batty.

  Day or night, his rambling, heartfelt messages traveled to her via airwave or satellite signal or the goddamn space-time continuum, and she was helpless to do anything about it. Sadie read his messages, though. Every single one. They seemed like a good thing to monitor, in case he started making bomb threats or referring to himself as the Minister of Death.

  Only nothing that interesting had happened, unfortunately. Roman was still the same boring old Roman, and she could just picture him hunched in front of his computer, tapping out his loneliness, keystroke by dour keystroke. His overall tone had changed, though: there were no more shy pleas or bashful questions. Instead, it seemed, he was putting it all out there—converting his thoughts and existential despair into words and sending them to her, completely unedited. Sadie never responded, of course, so she really didn’t understand what the point was.

  Unless, of course, that was the point.

  Tonight, however, it was after midnight, and she still hadn’t heard from him. She had gotten a few texts from Wilderness Camp Chad, but those she deleted unread. When she needed him, he’d be there. That was all that mattered.

  Instead of sleeping, Sadie sat cross-legged on her bed with a notebook in her lap and a fancy pen she’d stolen from her therapist’s office. It was the only nice thing he had in there, and she decided it might as well be hers. After all, he was the one who’d given her this crappy therapy homework to do in the first place.

  Per his instructions, she was meant to be writing down Responsible Actions She Could Take in light of what she’d caught Emerson doing at that dumb party, along with the possible consequences of those actions. Dr. CMT had said the exercise would be a way for her to understand the weight of her own decisions. He’d also used words like “sexual assault” and “serious violation” and “ethical responsibility.”

  So she wrote:

  I could …

  • Tell the girl.

  • Tell the police.

  • Tell everyone.

  Sadie sat back. She looked at her words and admired the backward slant of her handwriting. The thing was, the consequences of all these actions were the same: Emerson would get in trouble. Maybe even go to jail or at least get suspended and put on some kind of pervert watch list. People would see him for the creep he was, and maybe he’d stop staring at her in class in that dippy way he’d been doing, like a dim-witted dog whose bone had been stolen right out from under its nose.

  Of course, it was equally possible she could tell and he wouldn’t get in trouble. You heard about that happening on the news all the time. Guys did things to girls, worse than Emerson, and nobody cared. Sadie supposed she should feel some sort of outrage over that or a sense of righteousness, but she didn’t. Being outraged about anything was a waste of time. You didn’t gain anything by being mad or even by being right. Besides, most people would be outraged with her if they knew half the things she’d done in her lifetime.

  Ultimately, it came down to a matter of leverage: if Sadie told, then Emerson’s secret wouldn’t be hers. It’d be useless. She’d have no power over him, and there was no damn fun in that.

  So she wrote down a few other ideas:

  I could …

  • Make friends with the girl.

  • Blackmail Emerson.

  • Drive him insane.

  • Get him to do anything.

  “Screw responsibility,” she whispered, and right then her phone buzzed. Sadie looked down. It was an email. From Roman. Setting pen and notebook aside, she pushed back her scalloped-edge sheets and swung her feet to the floor. For some reason, she couldn’t read his words to her here, in her own room. There was only one place in the house she felt comfortable doing that, and it’s where she was headed.

  But first, the bathroom; Sadie needed to pee. She let her toes tap on cold tile while she sat on the toilet. When she was done, she hopped up and pulled her nightgown down. She didn’t bother wiping. Sadie liked the warmth on her thighs almost as much as she liked breaking rules.

  Creeping downstairs on soft
feet, she found the whole house midnight dark and midnight still. There was no sign of her mom anywhere, thank God, or any of her mom’s friends. That was the word her mom used to describe the people she was screwing around with behind Sadie’s dad’s back. Regular people and family were introduced by name, but the quick fucks and boozy gropers and pool boys with tight abs and good weed, well, those were friends. Hell, for all Sadie knew, the term wasn’t a euphemism, and her mother actually believed banging someone and never calling them back was the true definition of friendship.

  Hell, for all Sadie knew, maybe it was.

  Making her way down darkened hallways and through shadowy rooms, she arrived at a closed door on the north end of the house. Sadie pushed her way in. The cool scent of rotting books filled her nostrils. All the lamps were dust-coated and in disuse, but moonlight washed through the tall windows, guiding her toward her destination—a leather armchair that was situated in the tight spot between a long-cold hearth and her father’s prized gun collection. Never a hunter, he admired the craftsmanship. And power. Sadie did, too. Every once in a while, she slipped one of the old pistols from the case, loaded it, and held it in her lap. Just to know what it felt like. But tonight she didn’t bother. She flopped down, gathered her legs beneath her, and pulled a camel-colored cashmere throw around her shoulders to preserve heat.

  She held her phone up.

  She opened Roman’s message.

  She read his words to her.

  *

  Hey, Sadie.

  It’s late, I know. Late here, anyway, and it’s just … I’ve got a lot on my mind. Sometimes that means I’m up all night long, and other days I can’t get myself out of bed. I don’t know. That’s odd, I guess. Like if even my depression can’t be consistent, what hope is there for the rest of me?

  I’m also not sure how to feel about this homeschooling thing. Truthfully, I feel like an oversheltered child, even though my mom’s not the one teaching me. I’m teaching myself most of the time or watching videos online, so it’s not like autonomy is an issue. But it’s still weird. At Rothshire the school was our home, right? That was homeschooling in a way. So why do I feel like this? Maybe I’ve just been gone so long this place doesn’t feel like home anymore. There are still leaves on the trees here in Kentucky. People in shorts, girls wearing tank tops or hanging out in those flimsy sun dresses and plastic sandals. They soak up warmth when all I want is to be cold. That’s funny, too, isn’t it? To want so badly what it was that almost killed me.