“Whatever.”
“You say that a lot. Do you really mean it?”
She glared down at his feet.
“Because ‘whatever’ leaves room for a lot.” Derek looked up and down her body, avoiding her face. She had amazing curves, a young woman for sure, but still a woman.
“A lot of room is exactly what I want. Plenty of space between you and me,” she said. Then her voice softened slightly. “Look, I think you’re a perfectly good guy. I like you just fine. I just don’t want any of that kind of attention. From you or anyone else.”
Whatever, he thought. Little bitch. And he walked away. That’s the way he remembered it anyway.
Hours later, he’d been chatting with Sara when the ruckus started. Everything went south after that. Things got kinda blurry and Chad turned on him, like an idiot.
Then he was standing there with Sara and Peter. Everyone else lay dead on the floor.
The alley door banged behind him. Derek picked up his pace in the opposite direction.
“Hey!”
Sara.
“I can’t let you leave!”
Derek pulled up. Let him leave? “Who died and made you queen?” Derek said. “Oh that’s right. Everybody!”
“That’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” He whirled around. “You’re right. I’m still alive.”
Sara caught up. He watched her boots come together and stop three feet in front of him.
Derek took a step back. “I suppose Peter is down there bleeding from his eyes?”
“No,” Sara replied, almost whispering. “Peter’s fine. He’s waiting for us to come back.”
“I’m not going back.”
“Trust me, Derek,” Sara said, sounding almost genuine. “I’m only looking out for our best interests here. You don’t have to hide your eyes from me.” She stepped forward, leaning down, trying to move her face into his line of vision.
“I’m certainly not going to look at you!” Derek twisted his head to the left. “I’m no fool.”
“Whatever you prefer,” she said. Derek heard the smile curling her lips.
He barely caught the flash of metal in the corner of his vision before he felt the sting in his ribs. The blade tore quickly back and forth slicing through his heart and he gagged on blood and bile as it rushed up his throat before he slumped to the concrete.
PETER
Peter sat where they’d left him, leaning against a wall with his blindfold on, the concrete chilling his back through his coat and shirt. He let the dark and the cold and the quiet wash over him.
He didn’t understand what had gone wrong. The previous night’s dinner went so well, the group warming to Sara even faster than he’d hoped. Everyone bonded. They managed through Scott’s death without drowning in paranoia or fracturing into opposing camps. They handled Anya’s emotional outbursts without shaming her, instead coming together to support her while still welcoming Sara to the fold. All of that represented a testament to the vision. Peter felt redeemed, even righteous.
But then Phoebe. What had happened?
It was too much. Scott going off and dying outside on an expedition—they could deal with that—but Phoebe. Dead, right there. On the inside. It was a wonder Chad didn’t just kill them all.
Maybe it was inevitable. Phoebe had always posed a problem. Young, beautiful, naive. It was like throwing a steak into a cage full of half-trained cats. Eventually one of them would break and pounce on it.
But kill her? Why would anybody do that?
And now only three of them left alive. Peter couldn’t pretend innocence any longer; he’d have to confess. The panic in Ray’s face had been too wild. Frantic even. Like he’d seen not just a body, but a ghost. Peter had to lay him down. He had no choice. Their eyes met. He imagined the same thing had happened to Sara and Derek. With all the chaos and emotion, it came down to who had the quickest reflexes.
Maybe Derek’s storming off would work out for the best. He had a rogue quality that never sat well with Peter. It reminded him of his old gang—Drew, Phil, and Randy—and the intoxicating freedom during those first few months when they took whatever, and whomever, they wanted.
Peter suspected that Derek yearned for that kind of rampant liberty again. Trying to maintain order against the chaos of the world seemed to make him anxious in a hungry, restless way. He always pushed against the rules, against the constraints of living with others. Sara should let just Derek go. Let him discover the loneliness down that road.
Peter knew loneliness all too well. He’d felt alone as long as he could remember. His father left him with his always ill, always nagging, mother when Peter was only thirteen. Left him to clean up the mess. Left him with not just the blood stained car that the police towed to the house after finding his dad’s brainless body in the driver’s seat, grey matter spattered across the rear windshield and driven into the backseat cushion by a spray of shotgun pellets, but with tens of thousands of dollars in credit card and gambling debts. Peter got a special permit to work underage and began fixing cars at the local garage to support his mother. It took years, but he slowly dug them out of the hole his dad had dug for them.
At nineteen Peter finally bailed, left the state, started working at a car dealership. After a few years—too much red tape and too many managers, sticklers for detail, breathing down his neck—he became an independent car broker. He found the best deals, new or used, for clients that didn’t want to hassle with the hard sell, or with haggling, or with searching the classifieds. He made out okay. He always sent something back to his mom, kept enough to pay rent and put food on the table he’d bought from the thrift store.
The same breezy charm that made him good at his job attracted a series of girlfriends; one of whom moved in with her dog and whispered dreams of marriage and family in his ear when they lay exhausted after sex. Dreams that began to solidify when Peter connected with the CFO of an investment firm who introduced him to a circle of wealthy colleagues. Peter made more money over those next six months than in his entire previous life combined. He found himself collecting on both sides of most deals, brokering the purchase of new high end sports cars to replace last year’s models which he would then sell off to dealers or other clients. He bought a house and moved in with his fiancé.
But he lost all that too. When the IRS knocked on the door and informed him that he’d been laundering money for the investment firm, cleaning and sheltering hundreds of thousands of dollars that his ‘friends’ had stolen from investors. Because his name was all over the deals, he owed the government over a hundred thousand in penalties. His girlfriend left him—she wouldn’t even let him keep the dog—and after only three months the bank foreclosed on the house.
The curse was actually a blessing for Peter. His debt, his record, his responsibility, all disappeared overnight. Peter and his three best drinking buddies went on a crazy spree of liberty. It had been amazing—the power, the freedom, the wanton excess. But his buddies all left too. One by his own hand, the others taken down by God only knew who. Everyone felt that rush of power, and no one could hang on to it.
So Peter set out to build a new tribe, this time on a firmer foundation. Or so he’d thought.
Maybe Peter could start fresh with Sara. He liked her, she had a strength and calm that he hadn’t felt from a woman since… well, since ever really. She could partner with him, help recruit, help lead. Maybe they could even have a kid together.
Would a new baby have the curse? Shit. What a scary thought. And what if the baby just wouldn’t stop crying. If it was hard not to think someone dead when they accidentally bumped into you, imagine how difficult it would be if they wouldn’t go to sleep for 36 hours and just screamed in your face.