Page 5 of Claiming Sarah

“I saw you at the bar. The bar.” His lips press close, a wince pulling at his scars. Reserving my judgment since I’m alive and mostly unmolested due to his actions, I push gently on his chest. He steps back, allowing cool air to sweep in, dissipating the heat that simmered between the tight press of our bodies.

I jerk a thumb toward the bar, giving him a soft,apologetic smile. He doesn’t offer a comment, taking more steps away, a gloved hand coming up to pull his hood over his dark hair.

“Do you want my number?” I blurt, digging my nails into my palm for my impulsiveness. I’m done drinking with Natalia. My tolerance is significantly lower than hers. Joker nods, and I almost slap myself for giving him that mental nickname. He probably has a perfectly normal name, like John.

Still starts with a J. I shove the thought aside, waiting for him to pull out a phone, choosing to ignore the gloves on his hands. He’s flashing a dozen red flags, but my legs are still weak from his kiss. My attacker lay sprawled in his own blood, low grunts tumbling from his mouth as he tries to push himself to his feet. Karma is a bitch.

“What’s your name?” I ask before rattling off my number, watching his fingers dart across the screen.

“You can call me Z,” he says, putting the phone away.

That’s not really an answer, my dude.

My lips don’t say what I’m thinking, leaning down to pick up my discarded heels. I need to put distance between Z and the other guy, walking away with a half-hearted wave.

My skin pebbles with goosebumps. Ignoring the sensation, I seek out my sister sitting at the bar, talking to some tattooed blond with a pair of deep dimples. I try to shove the sensation of being watched away.

Z saved me, but I can’t help but feel as if the pair of eyes I’ve felt on my skin for the past month belongs to him. Maybe the creep in the hall wasn’t the only predator I came across tonight.

4

CHASING THE MOUSE

ZAIDEN

“Fuck you! Do you have any idea who I am? I’ve got people lookin’ for me. You can bet your ass you won’t get away with this,” Gerald Martin screams, spit flying from his mouth. Scales slide across my skin, Sheba making herself comfortable, coiling around my neck.

A week passed without a text from Sarah. After the incident with the wriggling worm on the examination table, I’ve kept closer tabs on her, rarely letting her out of my sight outside of her job.

“Wriggling worm. Squeaky squeals. Slithering snake.”

I’ve given up checking my phone every thirty minutes, letting the voices whittle away at the small flame of hope that the kiss she gave me meant something. My lips still tingle from her touch. My first kiss, soured by the memory of Mr. Martin’s hand wrapping around her arm.

“She’s forgotten about you.”

“No one will look for you,” I say, conserving my energy and not raising my voice to carry. I stand near the door and stick to the shadows. Sheba coils tighter around my neckand shoulders, the vibration of my voice reverberating into her reptilian underbelly. I trail a finger down the flat of her head, enjoying the scrape of scales, the difference in texture bringing a smile to my face.

Few things “ease” me, but I’ve always felt a kinship with insects and reptiles, as if we speak the same tongue, madness loosening mine. My collection grows each week, discovering new and exotic species. The flutter of their wings, scrape of their scales, it quiets the voices to a low murmur, like background static. Today, Sheba and I will try a new exercise, called chase the mouse.

My boots strike the tile floors, the sound ricocheting off the walls. Such beautiful acoustics in this room. Rattling of cuffs, metal grating from the erratic movements of Mr. Martin when I step into the light.

“You! Fucking freak. You broke my damn nose.” My head tilts, allowing Sheba to slither higher. Did I break his nose? The moments between witnessing his hand on Sarah and the first brush of her lips against mine are a blur.

But I recall with vivid clarity swiping his wallet, walking to my truck and sitting in it, waiting for the battered, bleeding man to exit the bar. He’d staggered out with the help of security, fumbling his way to his truck. After marking his license plate, I followed Sarah and her sister home before backtracking and securing the snake food glaring up at me.

Sheba’s hungry. I’ve kept him in this soundproof room for a week, gassing him each night and shoving a tube down his throat and pumping food into his stomach to keep him alive while withholding Sheba’s meals until now. Gently, I pull her coiled form from around my neck.

Hissing, she twists her body around my forearms, refusing to settle atop of the writhing man. Clucking my tongue at her affectionately, I lower my arms until they’re resting directly on Mr. Martin.

“Please! Get that fucking thing away from me. I don’t like snakes.” Sniffles, tears, and a patter of liquid follow the impassioned plea. Glancing between his pinned legs, I note the stain spreading across his pants. Sheba hisses, sliding off me, coiling near his head.

“Good girl,” I coo, turning my back on them to the glass enclosure housing a litter of baby mice, eyes barely open. An online article says it’s more humane to feed preserved dead rats to snakes. Sheba’s much too intelligent for that, abandoning the meal without a second glance when I tried following those guidelines. She’s a picky eater, preferring live prey, envenoming them before swallowing them whole.

“Come on, man. If this is about the girl, I wasn’t going to hurt her.” My body stills, nostrils flaring at the lies fumbling off his tongue. Liars. When did we stop cutting their tongues out as punishment?

“Ravens are liars.”

No, Mama, Mr. Martin is a liar. Malice oozed from him in that darkened hall, pouncing on my raven like an animal gripped by a feeding frenzy. Without hesitating a moment more, I scoop out two mice, brushing their fur with my thumbs. Sheba coils, twisting and writhing next to Gerald, scenting her meal. My girl will have to work for it.

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