In this location, the south and north banks of the river practically touch. There's no bridge, but one was meant to be built. It would’ve been crossed within a two-minute walk. The project was abandoned after many complaints from both sides, and no one lives here now. But on random nights during the month, the North Shore uses it for street racing, and over time, despite it being on our side of town, they call it theirs. They gather and make bets, no matter which gang they used to belong to. There are rules they respect, and they enjoy their nights within the laws they created for themselves.
I've never had any hobby that would put my hands in danger. I never played football or lacrosse at school, no activities that would put my passion in jeopardy. If someone is ever brave enough to fight me, I’d rather slit their throat than risk breaking my knuckles. So, I don't race. I would never race.
But I'm here tonight because a talented musician friend of mine has a girlfriend who races, and when I asked him to look at part of my most recent music urgently, he told me to meet him here. I wouldn't email it to him or send pictures; this is too confidential. I'm going to get his opinion on something, and then I'm going to go to the North Shore to find Nyx and take her to dinner like I demanded this morning. She'll probably be done rehearsing by then. It's crazy to me that she still thinks she can get rid of me. How much am I going to have to push for her to understand?
"Achilles," I hear his voice call out from somewhere in the crowd before a few people part to let him through.
Ethan Torres isn’t the most chatty or touchy guy, which always works for us since I hate when people do so much as approach me. The only times we talk are to talk music. I found him online. He releases songs he composes on a social media account, and he's started to amass a substantial following. We have very different styles. He produces punk music and is a genius with an electric guitar, while I focus on classical. But what matters is the raw talent he emanates, and when he looks at my music, he doesn't spend the first five minutes thanking god that Achilles Duval asked for his opinion. He doesn't think twice before telling me something is shit because he doesn't have any interest in shoving his face in my ass.
He pushes messy black hair out of his eyes when he reaches me and nods as a hello.
"You got your manuscript?" he asks, not bothered with any politeness.
I need more people like him around me.
Pulling out the sheet of paper I folded in four from my back pocket, I hand it to him.
"That's it? That's all you've written?"
"You don't think I'm going to show you everything, do you? It's a masterpiece."
He snorts. "I'd like to see that from you."
When I tell people I haven't composed in six years, I mean nothing worthy. I try. I have my very own special secret that inspired me the first time I wrote a concerto. It was the first time I killed someone. It was painful and bloody. I tried to do it over and over again, but it stopped having the effect it used to. Now, I write a sheet, hate it, show it to Ethan, he hates it too, and I don't try again for months. Nothing ever makes it past the loathing stage, so he has no good expectations of me. But tonight is different.
He blinks at the sheet a few times, and I watch his eyes read and re-read. We're surrounded by the sounds of tires screeching, engines roaring, and a screaming crowd, but his audiation skills are extraordinary, so I don't doubt that he's realized how good it is by now. Nyx is the same; she hears music perfectly when she reads. I noticed that about her. That's why I took her to my music room yesterday. I wanted her to understand exactly the effect she has on me when she saw those sheets. And now, not realizing it's about her, Ethan knows too.
"Shit," he finally says. "This is…soul wrenching. Fucking terrifying, man."
A smile tickles my lips, but he shakes his head when he looks at me. "You'refucking terrifying."
"I know."
"Your music is the equivalent of watchingJawswhile floating on a rubber ring in the middle of the ocean."
"I know," I repeat, proud like I've never been before.
"You're fucked up," he insists. "Seriously, it's worrying."
"You kill people," I reply casually. "For very interesting reasons, actually. You'd be an amazing case for me to study?—"
"Not even in your wildest dreams, psycho. You kill people to create."
"No one was killed for this." Maybe Nyx's innocence, but he doesn't need to know that.
I take my sheet back, shrugging as I fold it again and put it back in my pocket. "Has Jade raced yet?"
"She's going to take the winner of this one."
I barely hear him when my eyes catch someone in the crowd. Wearing a short skirt and black stockings attached to a garter belt I can see peeking from underneath the material, with combat boots and a cropped purple hoodie, Nyx is making her way toward the front to watch the final stretch of the race. She looks nothing like the girl dressing up in SFU uniforms when she's on our side of town. She's more assured here, among people she doesn't fear will stab her in the back. And purple looks beautiful on her.
"I'll come," I tell Ethan. "I want to watch her race."
He cocks an eyebrow at me. "You know how I feel about you being near her. You're weird, and I don't like it."
"Well, I won't be too close since she'll be in a car, racing god knows how fast around the development."
"Whatever. This way."
