Ricky holds out his hand towards me and I take it, allowing him to help me climb onto—and straddle—his motorcycle safely. “I just thought I would remember someone as handsome as you attending my school.”
Shit. did I say that out loud?
“You think I’m handsome?”
Yep, clearly I did. Damn it.
I roll my eyes before I lock his gaze. “You know you’re hot, alright, you have this whole—” I think for a second until it comes to me. “—Eric Draven circa 1994 thing going on. All the black clothing, the tattoos, it’s kind of hot, and girls go crazy for that shit.”
“You mean girls like you, Miss Pretty In Pink?” I lean back slightly as he positions himself in front of me on the motorcycle, his hands curving the underside of each of my knees then jerking me closer towards his back. My thighs rest securely against his, my chest to his back, and when he grabs both my wrists and wraps my arms around his waist… I feel safe. “Stay close to me,” he says before turning the key in the ignition, and when the engine roars to life we both snap our visors down simultaneously as Ricky revs his bike, once, twice, three times.
“Girls like me,” I whisper discreetly beneath the safety of my helmet, so he doesn’t hear my admittance.
Even though my heart is pounding—pulse racing—at my words, the warmth of his palm as he rests it against the back of my hand brings a smile to my face. The way he gently entwines his fingers with mine—giving it a brief squeeze—wordlessly tells me he heard those three little words.
And that maybe, just maybe, he feels the same.
After a brief, but enjoyable, thirty-minute ride, Ricky cuts the engine when we stop at the desired location, and I use his shoulders for balance as I carefully swing my right leg over the back of the bike and step off onto the wet asphalt across the street. We both remove our helmets, and he secures each of them on either side of the black handlebars.
A heavy baseline blares from inside the frat house, stealing my attention away from how handsome he is, listening intently to how the thumping techno music bleeds out into the surrounding area from the open double doors. I look on as party-goers talk amongst themselves, drinking from red solo cups, and even dancing on the steps by the entrance. Not a single one of them with a care in the world. Just enjoying the night ahead of them.
Free, and unsuspecting that three more are going to die tonight.
Even though I’m here to support Ricky in erasing the people who took the one he loves most in the world away from him, there isn’t a single part of me that is able to understand what he’s feeling in this moment.
“Are you alright?” I ask, looking up at him as I offer a gentle touch to his upper arm.
The smile he gives me is sweet, but with untold amounts of sadness resting behind his gaze. I can see the pain behind his eyes. The ache he’s held on to, but never released. As thoughdoing so, it will make everything real for him, and that’s just not something he’s willing to accept right now.
Ricky slides his large hand into mine, bringing the back of mine to his mouth so he can place the gentlest of kisses to my skin. His touch is warm, inviting, and the swirling feeling in my lower stomach starts up again, begging for his plump lips to be pressed against mine instead.
“Let’s go.” He winks. “Stay with me, okay?”
“Alright.” I nod, allowing him to lead me towards the large, dark, wooden double doors of Gamma Nu’s two-story white building on the corner of Greek row.
I’ve walked into the building in front of me hundreds of times since I transferred to Clearwater College. Attended parties, drank enough alcohol to poison myself into an early grave, and looked upon the faces of the four men who took her from me nearly two-hundred days ago—well, three now. One of them is still resting in a body bag within the furthest part of the cemetery.
The sensation of Heather’s hand in mine doesn’t do anything to quell the nerves running through me either, and I never expected it to. I shouldn’t feel nervous; I’ve killed many times before, so, I should be used to the results. I guess I’m just praying—for the first time in my life—this works out the way I want it to.
I need it to.
Heather and I walk up the white stairs of Gamma Nu, and I press one hand against the centre door and push it open, leading her through the entrance first, still refusing to let her hand go.
It’s always the same here.
The same people.
The same irritatingly loud music.
The same level of anger buried deep within every crevice of my bones.
“God, I hate this place,” she groans beside me as we carefully make our way through the sea of people.
“Aren’t you a cheerleader?” I snort, humourlessly. “This should be on your list of—” I put on a girly voice. “Like totally awesome things to do.” I flick the imaginary blonde hair over one shoulder and huff, mimicking what I imagine cheerleaders would act like.
“Fuck you, Allison Reynolds.”
“First of all, do you not have any insults for me other than naming me after emo bands, or emo movie characters?”
