The Darkest Secret: A New Adult Romance Novel Read online

  It was better than okay; it was awesome. We got henna tattoos and ate cotton candy. At one point the tattoo artist looked at Everglade and said "Don't I know you from somewhere?" but it turned out he was only harmlessly hitting on her and not about to start yelling that she was Kiersten Rowe's daughter.

  As we were walking back along the boardwalk, in search of one the bars we'd read that were popular with USD students, we passed a stall selling biker scarves and goth jewelry. "Wait," said Everglade, and dragged me over to look at these pewter dragon pendants - kind of tacky actually, but that was what she liked. The woman behind the stall was a ruined beauty - you could see it in the streaked curls of her thick hair and the dark depths of her large eyes, but life had dragged down the corners of her lips and scratched worry into her wide brow. Her figure was impressive - a wasp waist in a leather bustier, long legs, torn jeans and a tan, rose tattooed cleavage that jiggled when she moved.

  "You ever think of selling that hair?" she said to me, while I tried on a bandana.

  I laughed and she looked at me like I had no idea, which to be fair, I didn't. I'd never heard of such a thing outside of a novel and never imagined real people could be so desperate as to sell parts of their body. Maybe that was why - when I saw the cardboard sign that said TAROT in magic marker letters - that I asked her about the readings.

  "Sure," she said. "Let me get someone to mind the stall. You sure you wanna know your future?"

  "Why not?" I said, half amused. I didn't believe in any of that stuff anyway. I'd been through the occult phase and out the other side - spooky stories, sleepovers, and seeing how many times you dared say Bloody Mary in front of the mirror.

  "Cut the pack," said Rose-Tattoo. "Tap it three times."

  She drew the first card. "This is you," she said. "Queen of Pentacles. Rich kid - but you knew that, right?"

  "Right," I said, biting my lower lip to hide my smile. This was hardly hardcore voodoo. Anyone could look once at my expensively straightened teeth and my good shoes and know I wasn't exactly trailer park material.

  "Your past," she said. "The Empress. Older woman. Mother?"

  I nodded. She arched an eyebrow.

  "Dead?" she said.

  "Yes."

  "Just like I thought. Your future..." She drew another card. I knew what that meant. The Reaper. Death.

  It was so much like a bad horror movie that I laughed.

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  She looked up from under her long black eyelashes and I saw once again the beauty she must once have been.

  "It's all our futures, sugar," she said, in a smoker's rasp. "Man that is born of woman hath but a short time. In itself this isn't a bad card. People think it's the worst, but it's not. Sometimes it just means change. End of one era, beginning of a new one. You got any big changes coming up in your life?"

  "College," I said. "I want to move out of home."

  "There you go, sweetheart. Death of your childhood. Happens to us all."

  I nodded and gave her some more money, even though it hadn't been much of a fortune telling. I don't think I would have even remembered it if it hadn't been for what happened next.

  We found the bar Everglade saw in the student guide. It was packed to the rafters and I knew right away it would make me nervous - I've never been great at crowds. But we looked through the window and saw some girls drinking pink cocktails with dumb little pipe cleaner flamingos perched on the end of the swizzle sticks; "Self conscious kitsch," said Everglade. "My favorite." And so we went in. Funny to think of life's big decisions riding on something as small as that. I wonder about it sometimes - in another universe is there another me who's doing fine, solely because she didn't go into that bar?

  The cocktail was just known as The Pink Stuff. I'm not sure exactly what was in it but I think I spotted the bartender pouring in vodka and white rum. It was a pretty motley crowd. There were guys with popped collars and girls with too much tan, but then I saw a girl with a shaved head and a t-shirt printed with a René Magritte painting - not the pipe, the other famous one. The one where the guy has an apple where his face should be. Another girl was in intense conversation with a bearded guy whose t-shirt bore a twelve sided D&D dice and the legend 'That's How I Roll, Baby'. Seems like all tribes were well represented.

  I held onto Everglade's hand as we made our way through the crowd, past the pool table and into a back room that was dark but for the bar and a bunch of weird, luminous sculptures hanging from the ceiling. They looked like someone had tried to make rib-cages and other bone structures out of crappy papier maché and then painted them neon glow-in-the-dark shades - pink, green, electric blue. The plastic cups were the same colors and also glowed in the dark, which was probably the only way anyone could even find their drinks.

  In the distance, above a sea of darkened heads and bobbing, glowing cups, I could see the moving spotlights of a dance floor. The music was deafening - Industrial, I think - the chalkboard outside the door had said 90's Night.

  "Do not," Everglade bellowed in my ear "I repeat - do not tell my mother about this place."

  I laughed. If she came in here would we ever get her back out of the door? I finished my drink and went to find another. The bar in here wasn't nearly so crowded as in the other room. It was also about the only place I could see my hand in front of my face without the aid of a glowing cup of beer.

  "What d'you get?" said a voice at my elbow.

  I turned round, ready to act snotty like you were supposed to when a strange guy hit on you. There hadn't been many boys in my life, save for a mopey, largely platonic affair with the son of a well-known rock star. So maybe that was why he caught me off-guard. Maybe that was why I was like a deer in the headlights the moment I saw his face.

  Somehow I said, "I can get my own drink, thanks," even though he was perfect. His eyes were blue - ice blue - but his hair was black. His eyelashes were longer than any I'd ever seen on a man. High cheekbones, full lips. His nose was wide-bridged and when I saw him side on, a little flattened, giving him a sulky, feline look. His hair was a tangle of curls, falling almost to his shoulders.

  "No," he said, smiling. "Your tatt. What did you get?" He indicated the fresh dressing on the back of my shoulder.

  "Butterfly," I said. "Boring. It's henna anyway."

  He curled his lip.

  "Pfft. What's the point?" he said, coming very close to make himself heard. He smelled of sweat, leather and something sweet. Or maybe I imagined the last. He was the best looking boy I'd ever seen.

  "Tattoos are permanent for a reason," he said. "They tell you who you were, who you are, what you might regret and what you don't."

  He was wearing a black wife-beater and I couldn't see any tattoos on him beyond the pitchfork of a little devil poking out above his collarbone.

  "You talk a big game for someone with so little ink," I said.

  He laughed.

  "Oh baby," he said. "That's where you're wrong. So wrong."

  And right there he peeled off his shirt and turned his back to me. It was a huge piece, and one I recognized - the Tarot card depicting Death.

  “Kind of morbid,” I said, determined not to be impressed, a pose that slipped away from me the moment he turned back around. His chest was sculpted and I was sure my jaw was on the floor. Maybe Rose-Tattoo had it nailed – the death of my childhood. I’d had my crushes and my pin-up boys before, but he was the first man I ever really wanted to fuck.

  "It's not morbid," he said. "In the midst of life we are in death - ain't that what the Good Book says?"

  "I wouldn't know," I said, flipping my hair. Realizing his effect on me had only made me more aloof. "I'm an atheist."

  He smiled. His teeth were white, the eyeteeth a little sharp. My very own vampire - wouldn't Everglade be jealous? "You a freshman or something?" he asked, like my lack of faith was some kind of adolescent pose.

  "No." I was on the defensive and the half-truth just popped out of me before I c
ould help myself. I felt my face turn hot at the thought that he might find out I was still in High School.

  "You ever pray, cher?" he said, his lips hot on my ear as he yelled. Cher - it was then I noticed his accent, even over the blast of the music. Louisiana - a breath of Bourbon Street and Spanish moss, voodoo and Mardi Gras. He was all my Anne Rice novels come to life. "You should pray. It's a big, bad world for a little thing like you."

  I shook my head. It was a good thing he was a kind of a douche otherwise he'd be dangerous. He leaned close and I could see faded freckles on his cheekbones. His hand was on the small of my back and I should have swatted him away, but those freckles did something to me. I saw him as an overconfident kid, someone who still had no idea what his life was going to be. Someone just like me.

  It just happened. That's what I told Everglade after, when she started asking me if I felt weird, if I'd put my drink down anywhere where someone could have spiked it. One minute I was standing there at the bar thinking I should slap his wrist and the next I was kissing him. His tongue was hot and agile and his hands came down hard on my ass. I didn't even know his name and I didn't even care, because he felt so good and he tasted wonderful.

  His hand snaked up under my t-shirt and I could feel his fingers working their way beneath the underwire of my bra, but I still didn't care. I had a tattoo. I was half drunk in a strange town, and kissing a boy whose name I didn't even know. I was so dizzy with the sense of my own new-grown adulthood that he could have stripped me naked right there at the bar and I would have let him.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, tugging me backwards. Then I turned around to see Everglade standing there, hands on her hips, the world's least likely chaperone. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she said to him.

  My lips were wet. I was conscious that my t-shirt was bunched up, caught on the cup of my bra. I pulled it down quickly.

  "None of your damn business," he said.

  "She's in high school, you scumbag," she said, loud enough for the bartender to hear. Oops.

  He laughed. "Come and find me when you graduate," he said, compounding my humiliation. "What's your name, cher?"

  "Ruby," said Everglade. "Her name's Ruby. Now fuck off."

  "Amber," I yelled, as she dragged me away before someone asked to inspect our fake ID's. "It's Amber!"

  Chapter Four

  Jaime

  My sister is right about one thing; Emily really can dance.

  "You wanna sit this one out?" she says, smiling up at me. I'd like to go again but she's breathing fast and there's a light sheen of sweat on her forehead and upper lip.

  "Yeah, I'm good," I say. "New shoes - I think I'm getting a blister anyway."

  "Do you want a band-aid or something? I think I have some in my purse." One look at her shoes and I don't doubt it - the heels are nearly three inches high and make her shiny, muscled legs look awesome. Rebeca wasn't kidding about her figure either - little waist, flaring hips, firm boobs. All this in a blazing red dress. Her hair is jet black and falls nearly to her waist in natural curls. She looks like a doll but I know, on the strength of Beca's recommendation alone, that Emily is her kind of girl, the kind of capable, Catholic girl who can diaper a baby with one hand, fix a banquet with the other and still somehow find the time and the extra pair of hands to thread the neighbor lady's eyebrows.

  I wonder what it says about me that I can't stop thinking about a white girl who looks like she might shake to pieces in a strong breeze. Nothing good, I'm sure.

  Beca looks way too pleased with herself. "I told you," she said, handing me a cup of the unspecified weak 'tropical fruit punch' that's been a staple of church socials ever since I can remember. Nobody's ever figured out what it is, but most theories involve someone mixing a couple of different flavors of Kool-Aid together and watering it down past the point of confession and then some.

  "You're right," I say, watching Emily across the floor, rummaging in her purse. "She can dance. And she's hot. Really hot."

  "I didn't say anything about hot."

  "You implied it heavily enough. You did everything but pin up a poster of her saying WANTED: SISTER-IN-LAW."

  Beca shakes her head. "I just think you'd be good together. It's not right for a man to brood like this."

  "Brood?" Oh, here we go. Now I know what this is all about. "Who said anything about brooding? Is this about Melissa, 'cause..."

  "...maybe, yeah. You can't say it ended well."

  I groan and drain my cup. "Of course it didn't end well, Beca. We were like, sixteen. First love, first heartbreak. It's always been like that - for everyone. Forever. You were top of the English class. Romeo and Juliet, remember? It's always like that when you're that young - that stupid, that intense, that messy. At least me and Melissa didn't come with a body count."

  "Okay, okay. I get you. It's just...it's been a few years. Time to get back on the horse, hermano. You know what I'm saying?"

  "Loud and clear." Emily turns back to us and smiles. Damn, she's got some legs on her. I'd love to hit her up for a tango, but that's just a little too much sexy for the CYO.

  She slips my mind too easily, though. I worry I'm giving her the wrong idea. I can't stop thinking about John Gillespie's daughter. I don't know why. That paparazzi photo planted something inside of me. The white of her thigh, the private inside of it that no-one should see - every time I think of it I feel sick with anger that someone could treat her in that way. Like a zoo animal. Like a fucking fish in a tank.

  When I get to work the big house is quiet. John Gillespie is in Prague for a couple of days. Uncle Steve has gone to his new job with the Douglases and there's just us grunts doing the rounds for Amber. Her wing of the house is maybe the best protected, tucked against the hillside and protected by dense woodland. Sometimes I hear helicopters overhead, but she's well sheltered there.

  I don't expect to see her. I've spoken to her maybe six times in all. The first was when she had a panic attack. The second was when I came back to deliver her cigarettes. The rest of the times were pleasantries and for some reason with every passing instance we got stiffer and stranger with one another. Then yesterday when I went back there was no sign of her but a pale pink envelope taped to her closed door. Inside was a twenty and a note saying 'Jimmy - I'm sick today. Please can you leave me some smokes next to the aloe plant by the door?'

  I wouldn't know an aloe plant from a cactus if I was peeing on one.

  The door is closed, but the drapes are open. Maybe I should knock, but then I'm reminded of a fish tank again. Tap on the glass. See what they do. For a moment I hesitate, then make my way carefully around the edge of the pool. Maybe I'll catch her next time round.

  She catches me instead. I didn't even realize I was stealing past like a thief, not until I heard the rasp of the sliding door on its tracks and found my heart in my mouth. "Holy shit."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you jump."

  "I guess you owe me," I say. "I nearly fell in the pool."

  She's wearing loose white linen pants and a little blue top. Her feet are bare and while she's not shifting her light weight enough to actually move her feet, I can see the tension in her hips. It reminds me of the way that just the touch of her toes in the water could make the whole surface tremble. She holds her arms folded, her elbows held still in her hands.

  "It's not cold," she says.

  "I don't care. I can't swim."

  Amber frowns, and then for a second a smile touches the corners of her mouth. Her hair is sloppily tied back with a white ribbon and the wind catches a strand, blows it across her lips. She unsticks it with the nail of her thumb and quickly returns her hand to her elbow. "I thought everyone could swim," she says.

  "Not me." The wind is strong enough to stir the surface of the water today. It's the kind of wind that makes the forest rangers and firefighters super antsy. One dropped cigarette butt and whoosh - wildfire. It flattens the thin linen against her thighs and hips and I can see the pink
of her skin and the white of her panties. And then it's like I just light up. Just that one stray thought and I'm gone, thinking about what's under her clothes. I'd learn to walk on water if it meant I could get to her side that much faster.

  "I'm sorry about yesterday," she says. "I hope you don't think I was being rude."

  "No, not at all." Forget it. No way. This is stupid. Rich girl, white girl, crazy girl. Not for you. You don't even know her, dumbass. "I mean, I know you've got that...thing, right?"

  She nods and presses her lips together, making a thin line of her mouth. Her bottom lip is a little thicker than the top, or maybe it's where she's been worrying it with her teeth. "I have some days where I can't even handle talking," she says. "Yesterday was one of those bad days, so..."

  "And today is better?"

  "Today is better, yes." She tilts her head. All her movements are slight and slow, like she's afraid if she moves too quickly she'll go off like she did when I first met her. For a moment I kid myself that she's looking at me with the same interest as I'm looking at her.

  "Are you serious?" she asks. "You really can't swim?"

  "No. Why are you so surprised? Do I look like a surfer or something?"

  "I don't know," she says. "I just took it for granted, I guess. I thought everyone could swim. Didn't you have lessons?"

  She moves to the side of the pool, to one of the little mosaic edged seats set into the wall. I follow her but I don't sit down - she looks nervous as a bug still.

  "Some," I said. "But I think they got me too late, you know? Like I'd lost the natural instinct or something. You know how they say it is with little babies."

  Amber cups a hand against the wind and lights up a smoke.

  "What about them?" she says, peering up at me. Her eyes look more green than blue in this light.

  "You know. You know what happens if you throw a newborn baby into a swimming pool?"

  She gives a puzzled look.

  "What? Somebody calls Child Protective Services?" She makes no attempt to hide the laugh in her voice.