Guest: I will post an announcement on that story sometime in the near future.

STR2D3PO: Not until after the Nasty Girls sequel. At least.

Fire.

Fire hotter than any the boy had ever known blazed in the center of his being. He tried to flee from it, but like a mad beast, it followed, burning his every never ending and setting his every molecule aflame. He winced and whimpered pitiably in the back of his throat.

Darkness held sway over him, and in it, he sensed creatures lurking, slime slathered abominations with fangs, claws, and boring red eyes. The cry of a carrion bird echoed through the chambers of the night, and a hot furnace wind blew against him, bringing with it the fetid reek of rotting earth. His nose crinkled and the black before his vision began to lighten like the morning sky. The pain in his middle swelled, growing in intensity, and a broken moan issued from his chapped lips.

Gradually, Lincoln came up from the depths of unconsciousness like a diver from the bottom of a dark and forbidding sea. His head throbbed sickly, pounding with every staggering beat of his heart, and his stomach writhed like a nest of eels. His ears rang, and the tinkle wormed its way into his brain like steely fingers scratching at soft gray matter.

He stirred, and something rough scraped his left cheek. He attempted to open his eyes, but they were gummed shut. He tried to turn his head, and stiffness flared in the back of his neck. He went to rub it, but his hands refused to obey his command. He tried again, and thick fabric bit into his wrists. His forehead wrinkled in confusion and he swallowed around a lump in his throat.

What happened?

He struggled to remember, but couldn't: The last thing he recalled was standing against a tree and drinking Coca-Cola. His skull pulsed with agony and he grimaced; thinking hurt, breathing hurt, simply existing hurt. He sought the warm embrace of sleep, but it would not come, and after a few seconds that felt like hours, he pried his eyelids open. Sunlight stung his grainy orbs, and the torment in his head reached an apocalyptic crescendo. He let out a thick, strangled groan, closed them again, and fought to draw air into his aching lungs.

For a time, he stayed that way, then creaked his eyes open again, giving them time to adjust to the light. He stood against the trunk of a tree, arms thrown around and hands bound at the wrists.

He gaped, trying to process what he was seeing, then gasped when someone spoke behind him.

"Hey, there, sleepyhead," Chandler said.

Lincoln's blood ran cold. He tugged frantically at the rope, but it was too tight. He dug his feet into the soft dirt, and realized for the first time that he was naked save for his underwear. Chandler came around to his right, and he instinctively pulled away like a cringing dog. The older boy beamed, his smile too wide, too full of teeth. Lincoln's gaze went to the long, riding crop like stick in his hand, and his heart punched fearfully against his ribs. Chandler followed his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned up even more, lending him mad air. "You think you're hot stuff, huh?" he asked. He walked slowly around the tree in a tight U, looking for all the world like an evil villain preparing to reveal his master plan to the shackled hero, and Lincoln tracked his movements, his knees beginning to knock. Animal fright gripped his chest and his fevered brain tried fruitlessly to formulate coherent thoughts. "Mr. I-Won't-Share-My-Girlfriend." Chandler stopped and regarded Lincoln with genuine befuddlement. "How did you get a girl to like you? You're scrawny, wimpy, and a geek. I don't get it."

His words went in one of Lincoln's ears, ricocheted, missed his brain, and came out the other side. He knew what he was saying, but it didn't make sense, and in his state, he couldn't compute it.

With a sad shake of the head, Chandler disappeared behind him, and Lincoln's spine tingled. A split second later, the stick whacked hard across the backs of his legs. Excruciating pain shot through him, and he uttered a high, piercing cry. It came again, cleaving the air with an ominous whistle, and Lincoln's knees gave out; he fell, and the rope pulled tight, his muscles stretching. He got his feet under him, tears streaming down his gritty face, and Chandler giggled like a sadistic child. The stick lashed across Lincoln's butt, and screaming unashamedly, Lincoln arched his back.

"That's okay, though," Chandler said. He grabbed Lincoln's cowlick and yanked his head roughly back. Seen upside down and through a sheen of tears, Chandler's face was a study in loathing. His dark eyes glimmered with unholy light and his inverted smile yawned like the maw of a man eating beast seconds from tearing out its prey's throat. He leaned in until their noses touched, and Lincoln's breath caught. "I'm gonna make things right." He released Lincoln's hair and disappeared again.

Lincoln still didn't know what exactly was going on, but he did know this: Chandler was crazy and he was probably going to kill him.

His stomach crept into his throat and he started to hyperventilate. Leaves crunched off to his left, and he twisted his head jerkily around to see. Chandler knelt and rummaged through a green L.L. Bean knapsack. He found what he was looking for and stood, a paint brush in one hand and a plastic squeeze bottle filled with amber liquid in the other. Two innocuous items that sent shivers down Lincoln's back. "Does she call you honey, Loud?" Chandler asked. He snapped the lid open, pointed the container at Lincoln's back, and squirted; cold, gunky fluid ran down his flesh in fat, glacial drops, and Lincoln shuddered.

Using the brush, Chandler smeared it over his shoulder blades and down to the waistband of his undies.

Finally finding his voice, as small and weak as it may have been, Lincoln said, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because," Chandler said and knelt, the brush tickling the back of Lincoln's left leg, "screw you, that's why." He tittered and got to his feet. He squirted more on Lincoln's shoulder, and stroked the brush down Lincoln's right arm. The smell wafted to his nose, sweet and smooth.

Honey.

"I-I didn't do anything to you," he said with a wounded hilt.

"Yes you did," Chandler said. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, then let the brush and bottle drop to the forest floor. "So did your little girlfriend. And just like you, she's gonna get hers."

Lincoln's chest constricted.

Nikki.

Chandler ducked behind him once more, and Lincoln's heart leapt into his throat. "Don't hurt her," he trembled. There was no force to his voice, only beseeching. "Please don't hurt Nikki, please." Fresh tears ruptured from his eyes and his lips quivered at the prospect of Chandler doing something to Nikki. Gritting his teeth, he pulled at the rope, intent on getting out and stopping him somehow, but the stick snapped across his back and he wailed.

"Tit for tat, Loud," Chandler said. Leaves rustled as he walked away, and Lincoln looked over his shoulder: He stopped at a spreading oak tree. A round, grayish mass dangled from one of the low branches, and drawing the stick back, Chandler struck it so hard it fell and cracked open on the ground.

When Lincoln heard the low, angry buzz, he understood.

And his stomach clutched.

"Hope you're not allergic to bee stings," Chandler said, then nodded his head to one side in concession, "actually, I do."

He threw the stick aside and walked away.

"Wait!" Lincoln cried. "Wait, please, stop! STOP!"

Chandler was already in the forest, flashes of his departing back visible through the trees.

"COME BACK!"

A bee landed on Lincoln's back, and he froze. Another alighted on his shoulder, and another still set down on his butt. He sucked deep, even breaths through his nostrils and wracked his brain for what to do. He needed to get out and stop Chandler, but if he moved, the bees would sting him. He pictured a thousand tiny barbs jabbing into his flesh like knives, injecting him with poison, not enough to hurt him when it was one or five or even ten...only there wouldn't be one or five or ten, there would be thirty, seventy, a hundred, swarming his naked skin, stabbing him, biting him, killing him.

He swallowed thickly. A vision of Nikki lying hurt on the ground, bloodied and bruised, shaking in terror and screaming for him, danced mockingly through his head, and his soul withered.

In an instant, he made his decision. Gritting his teeth and steeling himself for what was to come, he jerked back as hard as he could. The rope abraded his skin, and like dominoes falling one-by-one, the bees began to sting…


Nikki reached the cove forty-five minutes after setting out. A beaten footpath branched off from the main trail and lead through heavy vegetation before letting out on the beach. Soft, yellow sand stretched down to the water's edge and tall trees shielded either side. The island sat off to the right, and on the other shore, unbroken pines towered into the humid hazed sky. A circle of charred driftwood from a past fire lay on the sand like old bones, and Nikki crossed to it and sat on a rock jutting from the ground. She was flushed, sweaty, and winded from the walk, and took a moment to catch her breath.

A city kid who was kinda too poor to afford a new bike after she outgrew the last one (please don't tell anyone), Nikki was used to walking...but only on flat surfaces. Detroit had hills here and there, but her stomping grounds were all smooth and even. She could go from one end of the city to the other and be fine, but the moment she got on a hill, she was dead. Her leg muscles burned, her back was tight, and when she moved her knees, they grated like stone-on-stone. She stopped to rest a couple times on the way, and almost gave up; Lincoln would probably stumble across her at some point, did she really did to go all the way to the cove? Did she really?

Warm wind sprang up and mussed her damp hair, drying the sweat on her brow. Her bare arms ached, and crossing them on her knees, she studied her red skin. Normally, she escaped sunburn by wearing a hoodie, even in the summer, but Camp Rolling Hills had some kind of hard on against long sleeves so she was pretty much stuck. In the almost two weeks that she had been here, every part of her body that wasn't covered wound up getting baked at least once: Her arms, her legs, her face, the back of her neck, even her scalp.

Dead ass serious, her scalp got burnt. She didn't know how, like, wasn't your hair supposed to protect you from that? That's what hair does, you know, keeps stuff off of you. Last spring in health class, she learned all about the functions and purpose of hair, especially the pubic variety. Yep, that's right, pubes have a reason, my man. What did the book say? They "provide a cushion against friction that can cause skin abrasion and injury and protection from bacteria and other unwanted pathogens." Bet you didn't think I could remember that, huh?

In all fairness, she only did because she was kind of a virgin at the time, and virgins awash in hormones are kind of pervvy. Like, she wasn't begging for some D,but when the topic of sex came up, she sprouted ears all over her body and leaned in to hear better. Yo, can you repeat that? S-l-o-w-l-y? She was never obsessed with it or anything, but come on, what teenage girl isn't interested in that subject? They might not be loud and proud with it like guys, but seriously, we like it too...just not with anything and everything.

One thing that always fascinated her about sex was what it revealed about the distinct biological construct of men and women. Men evolved as hunters and acted as such in the arena of dating and sex, and women developed as nurturers. A man's primary goal - on an instinctive level - was to spread his seed, and a woman's was to tend it. Basically, men are less selective because all they're about is getting it planted, but women are more selective cuz they have to worry about the harvest. They say women are attracted to assholes, and it's true, they kind of are, but only because assholes, the ones who barrel through life knocking people out of the way and always get what they want, make good partners...on paper, at least.

They're like alpha males, you know? And most women are drawn to them because alphas are on top and can, because of their dominant nature, provide better for their offspring.

Then you got your betas, and who wants one of those? They subsist on the scraps left behind by alphas, which means their young will have to scrounge too. The female realizes this, even if only subconsciously, and avoids the beta.

If you really sit down and think about it, almost everything we do on a foundational level has one sole purpose.

To cultivate life.

Mankind is like a self-feeding fire, and the meaning of life was probably to keep that fire going.

Or maybe not. Who knows? Right now, the meaning of Nikki's life was to see her boo then probably go swimming.

She rubbed her elbows and looked toward the path. Where was he, anyway? He told her to meet him here, so she assumed she'd find him waiting. Was he running late? Tsk, tsk, tsk, that's pretty rude, ice cap, if you tell someone to meet you somewhere, you gotta get there first. It's, like, the golden rule.

The breeze picked up, and with it came the distant sounds of field day delight: Laughter, music, and the high, electronic dings of carnival games.

Tomorrow was the final day before camp adjourned, and she had to admit: She kind of had a good time. When her mom first brought up the idea of packing her off to camp, she thought it was going to suck, but it didn't, even with all the bugs and sunburn. She got to do all sorts of stuff she wouldn't have done otherwise (like tip a canoe), which, upon reflection, was pretty cool.

Plus, she got to see Lincoln every single day, even if only in passing.

All in all, it was a good summer.

Better than last summer. She had to go to school for most of it. Math, her biggest stumbling block. She did good in everything else, but as soon as she sat down to do some fractions, she turned into Patrick. Uhhh...24? It was ironic how the most logical of all subjects, the one with discernible patterns and rigid lines of reasoning that you could follow all day long once you picked them up, was the one that she just couldn't grasp. English wasn't the easiest either - there were so many terms to keep straight: Verb, noun, genaud, adjective, compound fracture.

Wait, that last one was a medical term, nvm. She got one of those when she wrecked her bike once; her bone was sticking out and everything, it was really gross. The worst part was the doctor touching it. Like, your bone wasn't meant to be prodded and poked by human fingers. It didn't hurt, it was just weird.

Something moved in the woods, and she perked up. A moment later, someone stepped into the cove, only it wasn't Lincoln.

It was Chandler.

Nikki's eyes narrowed.

What was he doing here?

He stopped at the head of the path and put his hands proudly on his hips, a dark smile carving his face. "Hey," he said.

Nikki glared at him. Last week, while she was on her way to hide from the sack race, Chandler grabbed her ass, and she slapped the piss out of him. She'd barely seen him since, and when she did, he looked everywhere but at her, as though he were afraid of incurring her wrath again. She didn't tell Lincoln - or anyone else - about what happened because, to be honest, she was a little ashamed, even though she didn't do anything wrong.

She thought - and hoped - he would leave her alone after that, but apparently not. "What do you want?" she asked venomously.

Strolling forward with a predatory flourish that gave her pause, Chandler shrugged one shoulder. "Loud sent me."

Nikki snorted. "Yeah?"

"Yep," Chandler said. "We made a deal."

He approached, and Nikki faltered. She jumped to her feet and fell back a step, abruptly afraid. There was a look in his eyes that she didn't like, a sort of harried mistiness that bespoke the clouded thinking of a madman. "What deal?" she reflexively asked.

Chandler stopped, crossed his arms, and ran his eyes up and down her body. She could feel, feel, him mentally undressing her, and her skin crawled.

"Well, I was talking to my good friend Lincoln about you the other day," he said, his tone dripping with mocking malice. He began to pace back and forth like a shark circling an injured swimmer, and Nikki swallowed. "And I told him he was a lucky guy. Having a girl like you while I'm all alone." He spread his hands, and his smug grin sharpened. "Being the bro he is, he made me an offer, and far be it from me to turn down a friend."

Nikki's hands balled into defensive fists and her eyes darted back and forth between Chandler and the trailhead. He was shorter than her, but muscular, his arms and legs both powerful and well-defined.

"He said...gee, Chandler, why don't we share?" he licked his lips and flicked his eyes up her bare legs. Nikki's heart beat hard against her ribs and her body tensed. She could tell where this was going.

Chandler faced her full on and stared pointedly at her chest. She resisted the urge to fold her arms and deny him the view. "He didn't say that," Nikki said with absolute certainty. Her eyes went to the trail again. It was fifteen feet away, maybe twenty. In order to get there, she'd have to go past Chandler. It was either that or go in the water, and she wasn't a strong enough swimmer for that.

Plus, on land, she could fight back.

"Sure he did," Chandler countered. "He said, and I quote, mi puta es su puta."

All at once, Nikki sprang to Chandler's left, but he was fast; he grabbed her arm and wrenched it back. Pain exploded in her shoulder and a cry erupted from her lips. Balling her fist, she swung it around, and it connected with the side of Chandler's head. He let out a breathless umph, and his grip loosened. She pulled away and threw herself at the trail.

"FUCKING BITCH!" Chandler roared.

She reached the path and crashed headlong down the lane, her arms and legs pumping furiously and ragged breaths blasting from her throat. She looked over her shoulder and screamed: Chandler was coming up fast, his face a twisted mask of hatred and his eyes narrowed to slits. She whipped her head around and went faster.


Lincoln squeezed his eyes closed, pressed his wrists together, and rubbed. The rope dug painfully into his flesh and the friction of skin sliding quickly back and forth on skin like kindling brought new tears to his eyes. Bees crawled over his back and jabbed their stingers into him like knives, each one making him cringe. Their monotonous drone filled the world until he could hear nothing else; not the far off festival, not the wind, not even his own whimpering. Fire snaked up his arms and added to the inferno in his skull, but he didn't stop or even slow; his only thought was Nikki. Chandler was going to do something to her and he needed to get out to stop him. If he balked now, whatever happened to her would be his fault, and he could never live with himself knowing he stood by while someone hurt her.

He hadn't known her very long, but he loved her. He loved her the way he loved his own sisters, loved her even more. Her smile and her voice, the mischievous twinkle in her eye and her playfulness - he loved everything about her and though grown-ups might say he was being premature, he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. In two short months, he'd come to need her the way flowers need sunlight. Her laugh was his water and her kiss his happiness. She was everything to him and he was so fucking scared right now he could hardly think, could only rub his wrists and tug blindly at his bindings, frantic curses falling from his lips.

A bee crawled into the crook of his neck, and he unthinkingly snapped his head to the side, crushing it, but not before it plunged its barb into him. More scurried around to his chest and three, five, or ten danced around his head, landing here and there, getting tangled in his hair, and panickedly stinging. He blocked that out, along with the agony in his wrists, and increased his speed; his flesh was burning, chafing, whitish flecks shaving off and blood seeping from the wounds. A bee dropped from his cowlick and landed on his nose; before he could steel himself, it stung him, and hot pain enveloped his face. He moaned through his teeth and flopped his head from side to side in an attempt to shake it off. It held fast and picked its way across his cheek, its feelers brushing his skin.

How long ago did Chandler leave? It couldn't have been more than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. He pictured Nikki hurt and bleeding, and with a growl of frustration, he rubbed faster, ignoring the pain and the wet, sticky blood coursing down his arms. If he bled a little more, maybe he could grease the rope and slip out.

Another bee stung his butt, and another his side, pinpricks of sensation muted beneath his tightening resolve. Stepping back as far as he could, he curled his hands and slowly, deliberately, raked his wrists up the rough bark, then down. Flesh tore, blood spilled, and stingers jabbed. Lightheadedness came over Lincoln like a tempest tossed wave, and his knees buckled. He didn't let himself slack, though, he went faster, crying, hissing, shaking in a mixture of fear and agony. Adrenaline surged through his veins, and he pulled back.

The rope slipped a little, and his heart leapt. He flexed and rolled his wrists, the fibers shredding his even more of his flesh. Blood flowed freely down his forearms and dripped onto the ground like raindrops. He leaned back, braced one bare foot against the trunk, and yanked with all of his might. The rope gave, but not much.

Sweating and panting, soft sobs rising from the back of his throat, he twisted his arms this way and that to loosen the rope even more; his muscles panged and stretched, and the dull throb in his head came roaring back like a semi truck. He clenched his jaw, bore down hard on his teeth, and tried to open his arms in the vague hope of snapping the line. It held, and throwing his head back, he let out a high, exasperated growl that startled birds from the treetops. This was taking too long. If he didn't hurry, he would be too late and Chandler would...he didn't know, God, didn't even want to think about it. He had to get out; each minute could mean the difference between Nikki being okay and Nikki being not okay.

Another vision started to form in his mind and a tight band of panic closed around his chest like a vise. He forced it away, took a series of rapid breaths through his nose, and swallowed around a cold lump. If he went to pieces, he wouldn't be any good to Nikki, and right now she needed him to be strong.

A bee stung him between the shoulder blades, and he realized his back was covered, the buzzing loud in his ears. They crawled over his butt, his shoulders, the backs of his legs, sucking the honey up like bums in a soup kitchen. A thousand welts dotted his flesh, each one a mass of tender torture

Suddenly, a sharp scream rent the day, and Lincoln's blood turned to ice water. The world came to a standstill, then shattered like a pane of glass when the scream sounded again. High, kneading, and full of terror.

Nikki.

Turning back to the tree, he pulled violently back, then again, then again. The rope started to slide on his blood slicked skin, and his heart missed a frenetic beat. He summoned all of his strength, then threw himself backwards.

With one final flash of pain, he fell onto his butt. Bees stung here, there, and everywhere like a barrage of gunfire, but he didn't notice, was already on his feet and stumbling toward the path.


Nikki hit the trail and ducked to the right, her feet barely touching the ground. Hot exhalations fulminated from her lips and a stitch tinged in her side, but she didn't slow; the world flashed by and branches overhanging the path slapped her in the face. Behind her, Chandler pounded after with a satanic sneer. She could hear his feet slapping the dirt like approaching war drums, and the back of her neck prickled.

Ahead, a fallen tree that she didn't remember lay across the lane, and she sprang over it like a pole vaulter over a bar. She came down on the other side, stumbled, and sped up. Was this the right direction? She meant to go back toward camp, but in her disconcerted state, she wasn't sure which way camp even was.

Behind, leaves rustled as Chandler fought his way over the tree. The path curved sharply to the left and ran deeper into the forest, the shadows denser, seeming to absorb and vanquish what little sunlight made it through the trees. A warm wind redolent of rot and ruin washed over her, and the croaking of bullfrogs, seemingly on every side, urged her on. Go faster, go faster, go faster.

This wasn't the right way, was it? Instead of going to safety, she was going farther away from it.

She faltered, then pushed herself on. It was too late to change course. Chandler was right behind her and there was no way she could take him in a fight. Did the path eventually loop back to camp? She searched her memory but couldn't recall. She hoped to God it did, because if it came to a dead end, she came to a dead end.

Around another bend, the trail was carried over a trickling creek by a weathered wooden bridge, its planks gray and splintered, its wobbly rails covered in decades worth of graffiti. Her feet made hollow thonking noises on the cross boards, and so did Chandler's; from the sound of it, he was bare feet away, perhaps so close he could reach out and snag the back of her shirt.

An involuntary cry shot from her throat and, leaning forward to cut down on wind resistance, she bounded faster still, the wind rushing against her face.

Without warning, Chandler slammed into her and she fell forward, her arms shooting instinctively out and breaking her fall. He grabbed her arm, and she unthinkingly drove her elbow back into his stomach. He let go, and she tried to get to her feet, but he snatched her ankle and dragged her back. Someone screamed, and she was only dimly aware that it was her. She thrashed like a small animal in the clutch of a great beast, her arms and legs flailing. She inadvertently rolled onto her back and lashed madly out with her foot. It connected with the side of Chandler's head, and he toppled to one side.

In an instant, she was on her feet and running again. Chandler howled like a feral dog, pushed himself up, and started after. Camp was ahead, how far she couldn't remember; her mind was muddled, hysterical, screaming at her to keep going, faster, faster, get away. Panting sobs streamed over her shoulders like a banner of fear and tears of exertion stood in her eyes.

The path dipped down, and she wasn't ready; she staggered, and that single missed half-second was enough. Chandler tackled her, and this time she hit the dirt face first. Her jaw clacked, white light burst in her skull, and her brain rattled. Chandler scrambled on top of her and planted his knees on either side of her, pinning her in place. His fist crashed into the back of her head and she screamed into the ground. He did it again and the fight ran out of her, leaving her body cold and limp. He threaded his fingers through her hair and wrenched her head back; the muscles in her next caught fire and shafts of sunlight dazzled her eyes.

"Fucking cunt," Chandler hissed over his teeth. She tried to pull away, and wrapped his forearm around her throat; her air supply cut off, and her heart raced. She wiggled, kicked, and arched her back in a desperate attempt to buck him off. He tightened his grip, and her eyes bugged out from their sockets.

This was it, she realized, she was going to die.

Tears trickled down her face and her lungs expanded and contracted in search of air that would never come. Chandler pressed his cheek to hers, and the rank smell of his breath plunged into her nose. "I'm gonna make you sorry," he panted. The edges of Nikki's vision began to gray and turn fuzzy, and warm oblivion spread across her consciousness. She was sinking rapidly, and her heart jolted. She threw her arm back, felt skin, and scratched. Chandler gasped, then slammed her face against the ground.

She must have passed out for a moment, because the next thing she knew, she was lying flat on her back, her arms outstretched like broken wings. Chandler straddled her, his lips puckered sourly and his eyes flashing with rage. Her mind was slow and groggy, her eyes aching; she understood what was going to happen to her, but she was too numb and dazed to care.

Chandler loomed over her and stared down at her face. His gaze was hollow, vacant, and cold, like that of a dead man; his throat bobbed; his nostrils flared. He reached out, laid his hands on her stomach, and, with a hellish, lopsided smirk, pushed her shirt up, exposing her midriff, the bottom of her ribs, cottony material scraping her skin like the taunting claws of a pitiless cat. Finally, the hem rode up over her bare breasts, and Chandler's breath caught. His tongue flicked out and swiped lecherously along his bottom lip.

He rested his palms on her stomach like a pervert faith healer and made slow, firm circles in her flesh. His breathing was heavy now, labored, and his fingers trembled slightly as though he'd never touched a girl before. Something prodded Nikki's center, and she didn't have to look down to know he was hard.

A shiver dropped down her spine, and she surprised herself by starting to cry.

Chandler's smile widened and he closed his hand around her breasts. She wept harder, completely helpless and at his mercy. He pinched her nipples between his fingers and shifted, his bulge insistently poking her middle. She shook her head back and forth in denial, her hair rustling in the dirt, and thought inexplicably of Lincoln. When he touched her like that, her body burned with desire; but now she was cold. Lincoln was soft, warm, and gentle; Chandler was rough, clammy, and slimy.

Dread ballooned in her stomach, and a sudden surge of energy shot through her. She threw her arms up and went for his eyes. He turned his head, lifted his hand, and brought it down in an arc; it connected with her face her head whipped to one side. Her flesh stung, her ears rang, and her tears came faster.

Rocking back on his knees, Chandler fumbled at his shorts, and Nikki tried to wiggle away. "Be still," he commanded. He pushed them down over his package, and Nikki closed her eyes. Maybe if she pretended it was Lincoln, she could get through this.

Chandler hooked his fingers into her waistband.

He grunted, and all at once, his weight left her. She opened her eyes and winced at the light. Chandler lay on the ground, Lincoln on top of him and raining a flurry of furious blows onto the face. She blinked in confusion at her boyfriend's appearance; clad in only his underwear, face dirty, hair rumpled, body covered in angry red marks and glistening wetly in the sun, his jaw was clenched and his eyes wide with insanity. Chandler held his forearms defensively over his face and did his best to protect himself. Nikki's head spun and her overwrought mind threatened to crumble like an archaic piece of masonry.

Lincoln grabbed Chandler's hair and slammed his fist into his nose; it popped under his knuckles and blood gushed down the front of Chandler's face.

Coming alive, Chandler let out a battle cry, and, in one fluid motion, rolled to the left and threw Lincoln off. Lincoln landed on his side, and before he could react, Chandler was on top of him.

Nikki's shock-frozen brain thawed and her heart, hitherto inert, kicked into overdrive. She tried to sit up, and a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She fluttered her hand to her head and fought back the urge to puke. Lincoln and Chandler rolled back and forth in a cloud of dirt, tearing at each other like two bucks fighting over a summer fawn. Chandler got his knees under him and shoved Lincoln back, but Lincoln sprang at him and knocked him down.

They scuffled for a moment more, then Chandler got the upper hand: He punched Lincoln in the face, then mounted him. He drew his fist back, then brought it down on Lincoln's face. Nikki's heart jumped and, gritting her teeth against the pain in her head, she struggled into a sitting position. Lincoln issued a breaking cry when Chandler hit him again, and the sound - pained, scared, and raw - did something strange.

It made her mad.

She loved Lincoln with all of her heart, had held him naked in her arms, gazed deeply into his eyes, and kissed his lips. To hear him hurting, to see him hurting, made her stomach turn. Her eyes locked on the back of Chandler's head like twin cross hairs, and he lips peeled back from her teeth in a rippling snarl. Her fists balled, her body tensed. She tilted forward, trying to get on her knees, and her head swam. She swayed, and despite the righteous fury coursing through her, she lost her balance and fell limply to her side.

No!

Chandler wrapped his hands around Lincoln's throat and squeezed. Lincoln writhed and clawed at Chandler's forearms, but the older boy only tightened his grip. "Get off him!" Nikki shouted. She meant it as an order, but it came out as a plea instead.

Lincoln's fighting slowed as he neared unconsciousness, and terror swept Nikki. "Let him go, please!"

Chandler turned to look over his shoulder. Nikki caught a flicker of movement behind him, then something crashed down onto the top of his head in a shower of splintering wood and twanging melody. A spasm went through him, then he fell limply onto Lincoln as if for a conciliatory embrace. Beneath him, Lincoln, face cut, bruised, and bloody, gasped for air.

Lifting her head, Nikki looked up. Angela gripped the severed neck of her guitar, the metal strings dangling like the reaching tentacles of some aquatic nightmare. She looked down at it with a frown, then blew a resigned puff of air from her nose. Her eyes met Nikki's, and her head tilted sternly.

"I told you boys were nothing but trouble," she said.