Page 18 of Twisted Collide

Did she really grab a bottle and go outside to keep drinking? I shake my head, completely mystified by this woman.

It is a nice night, so I guess anything is possible.

“I know you’re following me.” Her soft voice cuts through the air. It makes me smile because, despite the low sound, there’s no denying her sarcasm.

Even tipsy, she’s giving hell.

I like it.

“I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret.”

“Well, that’s good ’cause you were doing a horrible job of blending in.”

I chuckle, my chest shaking in effect. “What are you doing out here?”

“I wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet.” One slim shoulder lifts before she starts to walk. Each step is slow and deliberate. She moves forward in a straight line and then back, then she moves a few inches and does it again. It’s almost like she’s doing it on purpose. Like she’s making a pattern.

“Why are you walking like that?”

Better question—why do you care?

Warning bells go off in my head. I don’t do social attachments. I don’t do anything but sleep, eat, and skate. And I certainly don’t ask pretty girls why they do the things they do when I should be in my room, keeping my head down. Like always.

She continues with her odd steps, unaware of the war I’ve just waged with myself.

“Walking like what?” Her balance slips as she glances down at her feet. “Oh. That. I’m tracing the shape.”

“What shape?”

“Down there.” She points at the ground.

I shake my head. “I’m not following you.”

“The fork.”

“The fork?”

“Yeah. Don’t you see it? It’s made from the rocks.”

I follow her line of sight, studying the way worn yellow stones pop against the otherwise gray pavement. The design could use another edit or five, but I make out three sharp peaks stemming from a large stick. If that’s a fork, the Eiffel Tower is a cottage.

“A fork?” I repeat, wondering if she has her head screwed on straight.

Probably not. Yet another reason you should turn around and leave.

“You don’t see it?”

Maybe I would’ve, but her lower lip juts out, and suddenly, I can’t see anything else.

“A fork designed for a sadist, perhaps.” I tap where the stone forms a jagged spike with the tip of my toe. “It’s a trident. Or it’s trying to be one, at least.”

“A trident?”

“Yes.”

She frowns. “I liked it better when it was a fork.”

“It was never a fork.” Oddly, I don’t feel good about bursting her bubble. Still, I double down. “It’s a trident. Poseidon’s trident.”

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