Page 5 of Twice as Twisted

I was sure tonight would be the night.

It’s three days before a small article appears in the local news.

Gymnastics Coach Found Dead at Starlite Motel.

Boots purrs and stretches out on my lap while I read the paragraph on my computer screen. When I’m done, I lift one of his white paws and kiss it. “How should we celebrate?”

I tickle his belly, and he bats at my hands with all four paws and gives me a playful bite.

“What a greedy boy,” I say admiringly. “You want to go hunting again already?”

two

Duke Dolce

“What’s the point of this again?” asks my brother, sounding both annoyed and resigned as he pulls his new Lotus up outside the Slaughterpen, a warehouse that once belonged to Dad but now belongs to Jacob Darling. “We have more important things to do.”

“It’s the last fight weekend before they fill in the pit,” I say. “We should go for Royal’s last fight tomorrow too.”

Baron makes a noncommittal sound, looking unconvinced.

“Plus, hot girls beating the fuck out of each other,” I say, shooting him a grin. “What’s not to like? Think of all the blood and pain we’re about to witness.”

That perks him up, which is why I said it.

Something settles inside me when he relaxes. He climbs out of the car, and we head for the chain link fence, where a line has formed. There’s a good turnout—that bastard Colt drummed up a big crowd for the final Femme Fight Friday. My gaze skates over the line, landing on the man at the gate, taking money and letting people in.

He talks to everyone, but he doesn’t smile. He’s fast, even with his fucked up hand.

We did that.

We fucked up his hand. We took away the easy smile that used to hang around as relentlessly as a stalker, until I unleashed my demon on him. A flicker of pride swells at the sight of hisfour-fingered hand, now tattooed to cover the extensive burn scars, so severe he can’t fully extend his fingers. Good. Colt Darling doesn’t deserve pretty things. That’s why we gave him the fugliest dog to be his bitch all through high school.

I join the end of the line and pull out a pack of cigarettes.

“What the fuck?” Baron asks, scowling at the queue in front of us.

“Trust, I’ve tried to skip the line before,” I say, cupping the tip of my cigarette while I light up. “Colt’s not some asshole bouncer in Manhattan on a power trip, turning nobodies away and letting people like us go first. Everyone waits, like we’re equal or something. It’s fucked up, but it’s his show, and that’s how he runs shit.”

“Since when do you smoke?” Baron asks, snatching the cigarette from my lips mid-drag. He tosses it to the pavement and crushes it under his Edward Green boot.

“Hey,” I protest.

“That shit kills you,” he says. “Thank me when you’re old and your lungs don’t look like the last pile of snow to melt in New York.”

“What do I care?” I demand. “You think we’re going to live long enough to see our kids get baptized, let alone begrandparents? Come on, Baron, we’d be lucky to make it to Club 27. Our world is fucked. We might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

He shakes his head. “Who the fuck have you been talking to?”

“Since you weren’t around?” I ask, pulling out another cigarette. “Anyone who’d talk to me. Besides, Royal smokes, and you never give him shit.”

“Weed,” he points out. “There’s a reason for that.”

“I have a reason,” I say before I can think better of it.

“Cigarettes are for poor people,” Baron says flatly. “Now put that shit away.”

I think about lighting it just to piss him off, but I know I won’t be able to smoke it long enough to enjoy it before he stomps it out again. And if I tried, if I closed my eyes and inhaled deep, if I let it linger between my lips like it had been between another pair of lips before mine, he might ask my reason. And when I couldn’t tell him, he might guess that they’re the same for me as the suckers are for him. Baron’s perceptive. He could figure it out if he tried.

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