Page 50 of By the Pint

“Excellent. Now place red herrings everywhere. Objects that other people might think are significant. Things that people could confuse for the real hiding place.”

I did. I lined the benches with my wingball shoes and boards, and hung jerseys from the hooks. Childhood bicycles and stuffed bears I no longer owned were squished into every other available space. Collars from long-dead pets. Drawings I did for my grandparents, an air-dry clay flowerpot I once made for my mum. Plastic Halloween fangs and nylon vampire capes. My school reading diaries. Designer watches, belts, shoes, dry-cleaners’ bags. Tubs of expensive skin care and cologne. Until the space became so crowded with things, my OCD could no longer handle it.

“Don’t be tempted to mentally tidy up,” Dima said, sensing my anxiety levels rising. “You’re doing great. Really good. Now populate it with people.”

“You didn’t have any people in your mind besides you,” I countered.

“That’s because I didn’t, don’t, want to overwhelm you. Anyone else would see crowds and crowds in my thoughts. Everyone except Killian.”

So, I wasn’t everyone else. Did that mean I was special in some way? Wait—

“What would Killian see?”

“It’s just me in a big space holding up a sign that says,GO FUCK YOURSELF KILLIAN GREY.”

“Nice,” I said, before bursting into laughter. I had no idea why I found it so funny.

Once I reined in my mirth, I began placing people into my mental locker room. My parents, my grandparents, my cousins. Killian, Claus the fucking centaur, Gobby Gabby. Every single one of my old teammates, my old coaches, managers, agents. School teachers, college alumni. Lola and Jonas, thereceptionists at the gym, the other guys who worked out there but whose names escaped me. Tom the teenage werewolf. The woman who once threw eggs at me outside the Sporties Awards Ceremony. The reporter who called me a cry-baby. The other reporter who tried to blackmail me if I didn’t fuck his wife while he spied on us from the other room on a security camera. The guy on the underground train who licked my neck. The salesman I bought my car from. The kid who peed on my shoes in Gryphon World. The girl I lost my virginity to when I was fifteen. The late, great Patrick Thunder, my first non-vampire crush, and the reason I got into wingball.

And Dima. Right in the centre.

“How’s that?” I asked, pulling out of my mind to look at the real Dima.

His blood-red eyes were glassy. “Brilliant. You’re so good at this.” I couldn’t place my finger on his expression, but he seemed almost tearful. I wanted to reach out and grab his hand, but I didn’t. He wouldn’t want that. I tucked my hand under my ass cheek to stop the temptation.

He nodded, which may have meantwell done, or it may have meantthank you. “Now, I’m not going to look, but you’re going to shuffle up where your locker is, so that I can’t find it as easily.” Then he put his fingers in his ears again and began la-la-la-ing once more.

I moved the locker. To number 913, because anyone that knew me would understand how much this hurt me mentally. I hated odd numbers. Even more than I hated odd numbers, I hated odd numbers that weren’t prime. Like, why? Why did they exist? First, they had the audacity to not be even, then they had the absolute gall to still try to fit in. I also scuffed or dented every two out of three lockers, including 913. Fuck, why was that so painful? As a finishing flourish. I placed stickers on all of them,like high school lockers, and ripped the sticker on mine so the fuzzy white bit was exposed.

In real life, I almost threw up. I swallowed the uneasiness and slapped Dima on the bicep. “Done,” I said, when he brought his gaze to mine.

I waited for his reaction as he dove into my mind. And he started laughing.

“Brilliant. Fuck, Casey this is so good. I don’t even know which is yours.” His eyes refocused onto mine and I realised he was back with me. His smile took over his entire face. “You’re fucking brilliant.”

Moonflower.

I didn’t know if I was meant to hear that last part, but I answered regardless.Thanks, Mosquito.

Dima abruptly turned his head away from me and stared out at the twinkling city lights.

I’m sorry, I said. Even though I had no idea what I was apologising for. What I really wanted to do was force him to look at me and rub my thumb across his jaw.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, trapping the quilt and hoop between them. “Ouch, fuck!” he yelled, sharply pulling away. “Fucking needle.” He inspected the pinprick on the back of his hand for blood. Nothing there.

“So, now I’ve learnt mind control, will you let—”

“Good work tonight!” he practically shouted, cutting me off mid question. “Think about what protections you can give that locker, and I’ll see you tomorrow same time.”

Without another word, Dima ‘stepped’ off the edge of the volcano and floated gracefully to the ground. His quilt followed along behind him like a technicoloured ghost. I watched him for as long as my human eyes could still make out his shadowy form. He didn’t turn to look over his shoulder once.

“Fuck,” I whispered aloud, and let my head fall back against the bumpy volcano wall. What had I done wrong?

16.

Dima

“Be up be up be up be up,” I said down the phone as I float-paced my rug. I’d rung Goldie the moment I got back to my hotel room.

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