Page 28 of Twice as Twisted

I can’t look away from the impossible, lone object in the otherwise hollow recess. A tingling chill creeps along my spine,the hair standing up on the back of my neck like it did when I lay in the dark staring at the canopy over my bed in Grandpa’s attic.

Waiting.

It’s just a sucker, I remind myself. Lots of people eat Dolce Sucks.

But for one terrible moment, it looks like a single blood drop left as a warning in the snow—or as the first marker for a predator to track its injured prey to its den, where it’s curled in tight, waiting for the end. What triumph does the predator feel in that moment, knowing that where a single drop of blood falls, more will follow? What terror does the prey feel when it’s dealt the first blow? Does it know that even if it escapes, the injury surely spells death?

I pick up the candy, my fingers hesitant but steady. In the finest, tiniest print, someone has written a message on the paper stem.

C U @ 8, little monster

I wrap my fist around the stem, holding it to my chest and closing my eyes, the chill that’s been tingling through me turning warm, nestling into the fine threads of my web like a secret.

He has a nickname for me.

*

I’m in my room that evening when a message pops up on my laptop, the familiar little black box with old-school green letters. I drop my book and get up, my heart hammering. Baron’s the only person who messages me onOnlyWords, and I’m embarrassed to admit how giddy it makes me every time. I stare at the message, which is not from Baron’s handle.

DukeOfBeavertown: omw. be there in 5.

MaybeItsMabel: Duke?

DukeOfBeavertown: knock or honk?

MaybeItsMabel: you cant come here

DukeOfBeavertown: too late bbg

DukeOfBeavertown: pulling up

MaybeItsMabel: my dad will shoot u

DukeOfBeavertown: then u better come rescue me ;)

I don’t know what to think, let alone say. I make my way downstairs slowly, warily. When I hear the doorbell ring, though, I curse him. I can’t believe he came to the door. Actually, I can’t believe he was serious about this pre-date ritual, and even if he was, I said no. I said no to both him and Baron. And maybe somewhere inside I was hoping Baron would show, that it wasn’t a joke. But I’ve never even spoken to Duke until today. He’s just always there, hovering, vaguely obnoxious, while the two older brothers loom over us like sentries.

I arrive at the front door to find my brother standing in front of it, arms crossed, blocking the entrance. “Absolutely fucking not,” he’s saying, though I doubt he could stop Duke from whatever he said he wanted.

If Colt’s arm weren’t in a sling from the last time they jumped him, dislocating his shoulder and spraining his wrist, he probably could. He’s an athlete, as tall as Duke, just as muscular, if not quite as beefy as the two older Dolce boys. The main difference is that there’s only one Colt, and there are four Dolce brothers. Four who fight dirty against one who would rather walk away. And now Colt is injured.

Colt is not like my stepbrother Devlin, who would throw a punch to defend the Darling name, or our cousin Preston, who just liked to fight, before the Dolces broke him of that. My brother is slow to anger and smarter than people give him credit for. Like me, he can assess a situation in seconds, determine if getting involved is worth it. Throwing fists is something peopledo out of anger and passion, or fear and panic, not something reasoned out ahead of time. The benefits rarely outweigh the costs. And so, Colt rarely fights.

“It’s okay,” I say behind him. “He told me he was coming.”

“You’re not taking my sister anywhere,” Colt says flatly, not even acknowledging me.

“I wasn’t going to,” Duke says, grinning at me over Colt’s shoulder. “I’m here to help her get ready and approve her outfit.”

Colt snorts out a breath. “I’m not letting you in.”

Duke’s gaze flicks to Colt, and his eyes go hooded as he wets his lips. “I bet she’ll let me in.”

The three of us stand there, letting the innuendo settle into the spaces between us.

“Go away, Duke,” Colt says at last, starting to close the door.

My breath catches as I see it all falling away, the little sliver of excitement I carved into my life like the name I carved into the wall of my childhood closet, like the marks I’ve carved into my skin, a sliver I never considered wanting before. In one breath, one swing of a closing door, it will disappear like a little girl swallowed by the dark, and things will go back to the way they’ve been for so long: Colorless.

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