a/n: I do not own it.
blacksilkrose123 ©2009
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Snow.
It was coming down in dangerous fluffs of icy cotton, everywhere, clumped together as it deviously coated every surface within reach. It was acidic litter that threatened to precipitate every particle of carefully ironed hair and dampen every follicle of happiness I'd managed to root five minutes before the storm. In not so many words, snow, to me, was Satan. And Satan's spawn, as fate would rule it, happened to come in the form of a certain Josh Kerit.
He was more like…Jack Frost—not only with his abruptly cold attitude, but the way his greasy hair would freeze practically within seconds. I could literally give him a haircut within five minutes—I'd just have to break off the pieces. And then he'd get this look in his eyes, like on that first snow day of the year, I just knew he controlled the snow. Because not only was it hell freezing over, but it was in April. And that look he'd get was like a little boy who'd just rediscovered an old toy, dusty with age, but nothing a little play couldn't cure.
Cure. Yeah, I needed a cure. I was in deep, too deep. Josh's confession shook me to the core. Why? Because, unlike any normal girl who would be flattered, I grew angry as those three words began to sink in days later. This was Josh Kerit we were talking about, who itemized people, transforming them from brains and hearts into objects and property to be bought, sold, or destroyed. Yeah, he loved me. But he also loved handcuffs, a good game of poker, and knives. The more I thought about it, the more I came to the vile conclusion that Josh was incapable of such an emotion, and it was probably him putting into words his increasing testosterone levels. It had to be an act, some way to pull me back into myself after what we were now referring to as "The Accident," his way of fixing his little toy, ironing out the kinks and pasting on a fresh Band-Aid to make it all better.
Sure. That was good enough of a motive, right? What did he care that generations were built upon those very words? That I existed because those very words had been exchanged between my parents… But look where that got them. Feeding off of each other like starving piranha, until Mom couldn't take it anymore and Dad couldn't take it anywhere but out on her. So with her gone, and him presumably gone, I'd been taken in by a reluctant aunt and uncle on Mom's side. And now I was stuck. Thanks to an alcoholic son-of-a-bitch father.
My brain was a buzz kill; that was for sure. It was bringing things up right and left that I didn't care to register. Everything was going topsy-turvy in my little, carefully constructed world which had, unbeknownst to me, been put up for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Right now, it was in the shock stage, where planks are littering the ground, windowpanes shattered with the debris, and in the midst of all of it stood my version of Ty: Josh. And he was holding the camera clumsily, angled back on him so that it panned his anxious face with my life in the blurry background, assuring me that the finished product would be worth it.
You're probably wondering how all of this came out of snow, but that's proof that my brain cells were no longer acting as neurons correctly should. Nothing was going as planned anymore, and my train had long since gone off its tracks. But that first snow day? With him? It was the turning point of everything, though I'd already had so many my life was beginning to feel like a merry-go-round on steroids.
My eyes cracked open to the blinding whiteness beaming in from my window like a damn ray of sunshine. It wasn't long before that cold dread settled in and I realized I was doomed. The weather channel, with its cancellations plastered across the bottom of the screen, confirmed my worst fears: snow day.
I glared out the frosted panes at the offending cotton balls. But I wasn't given much time to use every curse in the book; in fact, my brain had immediately switched from vile language mode to bladder control and fight vs. flight.
Before I could blink or even gain a logical grasp on reality, my body had twisted itself mid air and against the window, grappling with the blinds. A second too late, my fist aching as proof, I realized Josh had pinned me up against the glass, a wrist in each hand. And his cheek was red. Like, really red…almost sort of a bluish hue if you squinted. My own jaw slacked.
"Shit, did I—?"
"Well, it certainly wasn't the curtains," he spat, chancing a glare at the drapes surrounding us for emphasis.
I felt myself relaxing—a move he obviously didn't approve of. His grip tightened as he hauled me up higher against the panes. I winced, tensing under his touch and rising up on the tips of my toes to relieve the pressure. His upper lip curled back, baring teeth as he searched my face for something. I was careful to keep it blank and cool. And that was mistake number one.
In a flash, I was off of the window and sprawled over the arm of the couch. My head connected hard, despite the cushions. After my vision cleared, I settled my best glare on the figure hunched by the window, watching me with clenched fists at his sides.
"You. Don't. Hit. And. Run. Harley," he sneered. I just stared at him, wide-eyed now.
"I didn't mean—"
"You. Don't," he repeatedly ground out. "Ever."
My face flushed in anger, frustrated that he wasn't accepting my apology. Like words didn't mean anything to him. A flash of bitter fury seared my heart. Maybe they didn't. Maybe he hadn't even meant it. What he'd said. Maybe if I accepted that, I could just cut loose. Because I sure as hell didn't need—
"We're going out," he muttered.
"I can't."
He cocked an eyebrow dangerously.
I sighed. "I promised my aunt I wouldn't go out. They're at work, but—"
"Then what they don't know won't hurt them."
I glared at him but I could already feel my resolve snapping in half.
"Get, ah…some decent clothes on, hmm?" I glanced down at myself. To my horror, I realized too late I was still clad in my Eeyore pajama pants and a very, very loose tank top. I hastily grabbed the nearest pillow from the couch and hugged it against my chest, pulling myself to my feet.
His eyes narrowed. "Nothing tha-t," he let the syllable lay pregnant in the air for a moment, "hasn't been seen before."
The implication was strong enough. He wasn't even talking about himself and all of his glorious nonexistent experiences—but mine. My unintentional, forced… "Go to hell, Josh Kerit," I hissed. My feet carried me up the staircase, tripping at each step as I fought to blink back that annoying, burning sensation prickling at my eyes. What the hell was his problem, anyway?
"Running out of comebacks already, Harley?" his lips hung on my name. But I kept running.
I slammed my bedroom door and locked it. Childish, I know. But I was so pissed; I didn't know what else to do. Who was he to break into my house and throw me around like some rag doll?
He was Josh Kerit. That's who he was. And somehow that name held power. Or maybe it was the person who made the name powerful.
I could hear him coming up the stairs. He'd never been in this house before, but he managed to stop right in front of my room. I stood on the other side, glaring at the wood before turning to my closet and pulling on a hoodie and jeans. Slipping into a pair of boots, I gave one last glare at the door before quietly unlatching the window.
"Shit, Leesters, you know me…I'd never," he cut off abruptly, letting out a choked cackle. But I was already straddling the sill, waiting for an apology I was sure would never come.
"You just know…you know where every damn button is to push."
I snorted. "So self-defense is a button of yours? I was trying to protect myself—"
"Damnit, Harley. You damn well don't need to, not from me." I could hear him trying the knob, one simple twist that wouldn't give, but it was enough to spike my adrenaline. I rounded on the window, staring out at the white-sheeted backyard. I twisted off the sill, hands wrapping around a limb and boots connecting with a lower one. I shimmied, heart hammering in my chest at the rush of being ten feet off the ground. I vaguely wondered if I could fly—the blood pumping through my veins, skin tingling in the cold, and my heart whispering, Yes, you can. I grinned at the feral rush. Even after I heard my door explode off its hinge and closet doors slam, and bed squeaking in protest at the overturn. I could just imagine his face tight with rage, nose contorted in animalistic disgust at his little toy being lost rather than found.
I could imagine, that is, until I glanced up to see him towering over me, half out the window. He bared his yellow teeth at me, practically snarling as he spat out every vulgar insult in the book, and then some I had no doubt would be added soon.
I just smiled up at him. Grinning. Giggling. Until the giggling gave over to fits of uncontrollable laughter and my lungs refused to take the stretching between my arms and booted toes. They seized and I lost my balance, suddenly suspended in midair with my fingers barely clutching the icy limb above me. But I couldn't wipe off that damn grin.
Because it was like this climactic release I'd been searching for. I was out here, quite literally, on a limb. And completely unreachable. Not even Josh Kerit, though his huge hands swiped at the distance angrily, could not catch me. I could hang here, and he was up there, and there was nothing he could do about it.
But there was something gravity could do about it.
My fingers, in a fit of rebellion, decided to let go before I could redirect my strength.
"HARLEY!!!" he roared furiously, arm stretching at an impossible length as his fingertips at last made contact, but could not grab or hold me back from the ten-foot drop.
I smiled, even as I fell. I must have been insane—like something in me just snapped, and I didn't—couldn't—care anymore. Reckless, I guess. It took me a few minutes to blink away the darkness and pull myself back. I giggled when I came to a sudden realization, which had been born either from a serious lack of sleep or head trauma:
I was not invincible.
Josh Kerit's little toy was very, very breakable.
And it was a weakness, a human flaw he had absolutely zero control over. And I was the one holding all the cards. He may have had a full house, but this was the ace up my sleeve. My blood boiled with the intensity of it. Even as my limbs began to tingle and regain their feeling, my head screaming at me, I couldn't wipe that damn smile off. The sight of his face as I'd fallen: stricken, sick, furious—scared as hell. He needed me, for some idiotic reason. But he had to have remembered in that moment that I had an expiration date. With all of his control, my life was just small enough to slip through the cracks of his immoral chaos. He had no power.
"The hell do you think you're doing, Harleen Quintzel?" his voice demanded in a sharp bark. I glanced to my left over the mound of disgusting snow that had cushioned my fall. He wasn't wearing a coat, just a tight black shirt and ripped jeans, hands shoved in the pockets as he stalked predatorily towards me. I hadn't expected that. I'd envisioned him tearing across the snow, cradling me maybe, dropping a hundred F-bombs.
But there he was, eyes hooded with murderous intent, posture rigid as he carried himself with remarkable grace despite the foot of snow obstructing his path. I shuddered, but it wasn't from the cold or my dampened hair, or even my soaked clothes which had sucked up the melting snow like a sponge. I unconsciously scrunched up my face—I hated snow.
He paused several feet away, deadly gaze latching onto me, like he was calculating how much of a head start he'd give me before ripping me to shreds—make his little game fair. I lifted my chin in challenge. He tucked his further in to his chest, accepting. His hair slid over one eye, but I didn't need to see both.
"The hell are you doing, you damn harlequin?" he repeated again brokenly, voice teetering on a grating cackle.
I could only stare at him. "You don't scare me, Josh." Stupid. Liar. Really, Harley? Really?
His face broke out into a menacing grin. "I could kill you, you know," he drew out carefully, lips buzzing at each syllable. His fists were quivering. "I could snap," he popped his lips, "your delicate little spine in two…no resistance from your vertebrae." He bit his bottom lip, baring his teeth again as he scrunched up half his face in a snarl. "Stacked things are meant to be knocked down—things built to last beg to have their foundations collapse." I could feel the color draining from my face as his bloodthirsty eyes found mine. My spine bristled, and I felt like now I was sinking not only into the snow, but the ground. "You never…make the first hi-t with me, Harley," he sneered pointedly. "Either be the first to be hit or stay out of my fucking way. Go-t, i-t, pup?"
Something in me snapped—and thank God it wasn't my spine. Because, suddenly, I found myself growing one—a spine, that is. Who was he to run me out of windows and down trees of my own family's house? I had control. Little, brittle me. My insides clenched. I could push him. I could push him far. My only fear was for the God-forsaken people that would stand in his way when he pushed my mortality too far.
I snorted. Unconsciously, my hands were already busy, packing and molding. I didn't even realize it until it was too late. A mound of snow was plastered all over Josh's face. Something told me it was a big mistake to play with fire, but I decided I'd already been burnt—what were a few more third-degree scars?
His upper lip curled back again but there was a familiar, playful gleam in his eyes. "Don't start a game unless you intend to finish it, girl," he chuckled mirthlessly. "I'll fight back tooth per nail."
But my hand was already around another snowball, arm twisting back to release my weapon. I was angry, damnit, and he thought it was a fucking joke. "Shut the f—"
He exploded in laughter. I exploded in rage.
I pulled myself to my feet and lunged at him, arms instinctively trapping around his middle and ramming my head between his ribs.
He wasn't even phased. But that damn giggle box grew louder as he slipped his arms dangerously tight around me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I growled, nails clawing and lifting my leg to deliver a swift blow to his crotch. But his leg was there, sweeping mine out from under me so that he supported my weight with his violent bear hug. "I HATE YOU!" I screamed, my throat scratchy and enraged from the force. One arm slipped, but it was all I needed. Fist met bone. He only snorted then cackled louder as we toppled over into the snow.
"IS EVERYTHING A FUCKING JOKE TO YOU?!" I screeched, drawing my arm back to drive it forward harder. He was sputtering—but even beneath the lack of oxygen, he was still chortling like a maniac.
"You never meant any of it, did you?!" My voice was unrecognizable. It's like I'd given way to some beast that had been coaxed—more like forcefully brought—out of its cage. "You're a piece of shit, do you know that, Josh Kerit?! A joking piece of shit!!"
Disgusted with my suddenly precarious position, legs straddling his waist as my rage dissipated to a fuming fury, but restrain-able, I climbed off him. I'd just made it to my feet when they were ripped out from under me. I braced myself for a torrent of pain, but the only thing I collided into was him. He caught me. I was too tired to fight him off now, merely stiffening in some mild preparation for his returned vengeance. But it never came. Instead, his nails raked jaggedly, but soothingly, through my scalp, smothering any further ideas of escape.
I was shaking.
He was shaking.
We stayed like that until dusk. I was fuming, but it was like his hand was weaving some sick calming spell over me. I couldn't think straight. He was like a drug. I hated my addiction, but fear chained me from leaving it for good.
"The light went out," he growled ruggedly, chest rumbling under my ear.
My lips twitched. "The sun went down, moron."
Within milliseconds, I was unceremoniously dumped from the warmth and into the frigid cold of melting snow. I winced, but Josh's hands were around my waist, hoisting me up on my feet, twisting me to face him. I flinched again. One eye was slightly swollen but not shut. There was a trail of dried blood cracking down his lips from his nose. And a touch of purple was rising just above his right brow, puffing up around three jagged marks where my nails had clawed at him. There was a tear in the neckline of his thin, muscle-encasing shirt. I shuddered, mouth agape as I stared in horror at what I had done—what I had been capable of doing. And then he was reaching for my jaw, trapping it in the palm of his hands as he jerked me close, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I'm per-fect-ly aware…of our planet's orbit, Harley." He licked his bloodied lips. His eyes flickered shut, like he enjoyed the taste of it. Monster. No—I corrected—I'm the monster.
"I meant," he began again, looking somewhere over my shoulder, "your light. Kitten hasn't, ah, shown her claws in a while." His eyes trailed back to mine, effectively trapping me. "I didn't declaw you for a reason, Leesters. I didn't…break you for a fucking damn reason: you weren't afraid of me then." He growled in the back of his throat in frustration. Vulnerability had a way of itching at his dark conscience. "I'm tired of babysitting a kid who doesn't wan-t to p-lay. You—before you knew the game like the back of your fucking little hand. And after—after—ah, fuck. You just…didn't anymore. I can't play with a toy that refuses to move when it's wound up tight. You, ah, ya know what happens to broken toys, Harley?"
I shook my head the little I was allowed, mouth suddenly dry.
"They either get fixed."
He sucked in a sharp breath, lungs twisting on the verge of a laugh.
"Or they don't make i-t very far withou-t all their…parts."
I swallowed thickly. "So either fight back, or die?"
He giggled. "When in Rome…"
I reared back, jerking my body away from his before his fingers ensnared the back of my neck and crashed our foreheads together.
"Or," he purred, "I could accept a down payment now. Think of it as…a physical reminder?" His thumb unconsciously flicked over my neck, tracing an imagined curly-Q design that felt oddly like a J. Like he wanted to carve me out like a pumpkin.
I glared at him. I scrunched up my face in forced anger, anything to slip back into that carefully indifferent mask I'd been wearing, the one he hated. "No. I can remember just fine with all my digits intact, you sick fu—"
"Ah, ta, ta, there she is," he bit out through clenched teeth, his grip growing painfully firmer. He was smiling, but he wasn't, teeth bared in some primal show of dominance. He leaned back slightly, taking me with him until he froze. His eyes slid away from mine for a second time, honing in on something. In a flash, he twisted me around like a doll and drew my back into his chest. It was more for a slow in momentum than a tender embrace, the way I slammed into him. But it wasn't the lack of intimacy that had my blood boiling again. It was the foreign car that sat parked in my aunt and uncle's driveway, a fresh crop of tracks behind it.
"Expecting company?" he hissed hotly in my ear.
I shook my head, my own eyes narrowing. "It's not my aunt or uncle. And they didn't say anything about company."
He ducked his chin to rest on my shoulder, thinking for a moment. I could feel his heart beat against my back. It struck me odd, for a moment, to realize he even had one. "I didn't come in that way, so everything's still locked."
My brow rose. "What way did you come in?"
He seethed. "Secrets, secrets." He pulled back and gave me a sudden shove towards the tree. "Go get warm. I'll be in in a minute."
"If I had such a hard time getting down, I'm pretty sure up will be just as—" suddenly I was in the air, his hands gripping my hips as he lifted me into the air easily. My hands grappled for purchase, locking in on a snow-less branch. He kept his hands in place until my boots connected with leverage and I was able to hold my own. With an indignant slap on my rump, he disappeared towards the front of the house.
It took me ten unsteady minutes to breach the distance between the icy tree and the jagged window ledge. But when I finally made it, I collapsed on the carpet with my roaring lungs. My throat felt scratchy and my nose was running—a swift end to the awesome power I'd felt earlier.
I snorted. Figures. I was immune to Josh, but colds were an entirely different story.
A door slammed, rattling the walls in its wake. A vase broke.
"Shit! Would you mind not tearing the house up before my aunt and uncle get back?!" I collected myself before climbing to my feet.
No witty comeback.
No response at all.
I rolled my eyes. "Josh, I don't have time for this."
Nothing.
Except…there. A floorboard creaked downstairs. There was a dull thud. Followed by another. Footsteps. I shivered but pretended it was from the snowy wind gushing through the open window. I shut and locked it, suddenly all-too-aware of the eerie silence and the massive distance between me and the light switch.
"Josh?"
The thuds were falling on the stairwell now. One. Pause. Two. Pause. Three. Pause. Each one grew gradually louder, like a climactic crescendo of some impending doom. I blinked at the darkness, trying to see. It was no good; I may as well have been blind.
My heart was pounding in my ears—I crouched down and ducked behind what I thought was the bed just as the intruder reached the top steps. It paused at the landing. I could feel my palms growing sweaty, and in a moment of nervousness, tension which was steadily building up, made its way up my throat.
I begged it back down, clapping both hands over my mouth and nearly breathing a sigh of relief as Its steps creaked and then pounded rapidly down the wooden hall—away from my door. It took me two seconds to make a decision before I was out the door. I'd made it halfway down the stairs before another crash echoed below, somewhere in the kitchen. I halted mid-step. And there it was again: that building pressure in my stomach. Glass shattered. I tried to reason with my stomach, coax it to realize we were in deep shit here, and it needed to compromise with me.
In the end, I lost.
My throat constricted and my diaphragm seized.
I hiccoughed.
Everything froze.
A door slammed upstairs, but my flight instinct picked it over the guttural growls erupting downstairs followed by pounding footsteps. I whirled and flew up the stairs, back into the comfort of my room. The door was already open at an angle, but I simply slid just inside the room, poising myself at the opposite frame of the door, tucked back and out of sight of the hallway. I was shaking. Hard. My jaw was chattering and I could barely muffle a string of whimpers. I was brave—no, who am I kidding? I was scared shitless. I wasn't invincible, and that realization wasn't doing much for me anymore. And despite what Josh wanted, I couldn't find enough strength then to pull myself together. Let's face it: things like this didn't happen every day.
"HARLEY!!"
I let out a scream, jerking my head back to ram into the wall. As if it wasn't dark enough, my vision folded at the corners. But relief was there. "Josh?!"
"Harley fucking Quintzel, get your ass down here now!" he roared. I could hear him making his way hastily to the bottom of the steps. There was an edge to his voice, like metal grating on metal. It froze my heart. He was serious. Dead serious. No joking.
What the hell was going on?
"Someone's here, and the fucking power's been cut. Harley, get the fu—"
I made to move, and words were tumbling out that seemed to make sense in the moment. I should have kept my damn mouth shut. I should have just obeyed him for once. But no. That would be too easy for Harley Quintzel. "Josh, my aunt and uncle will be back in a few minutes! That's not enough time to warn them—"
The door slammed, nearly crushing my fingers, before I could slip out of it. My adjusted eyes slid to the corner which the door had been covering moments before. It was there, unfolding itself from the corner before towering over me.
"No, but it's plenty of time for me to do this."
I screamed just before my head connected with the wall and everything went pitch black.
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a/n: wow…I'm probably walking on eggshells with you lovely people right now. I extend my deepest apologies, as it's been months. I know there's no proper excuse to make up for this, so I offer this chapter as a peace offering, and a shaky promise to update more regularly. Sophomore year has me up to my eyeballs in homework, and I stupidly decided to take on a graduate-level course in Southern Novel where I read a novel a week and write a paper—thus my lack of time when compounded with other classes.
To those of you still following this story, old and new readers, I want to thank you sooooo much for your dedication and patience. Thank you for all of the reviews in my absence (you know who you are!). I will not shamelessly beg for them now. I'm simply happy to be back in the writing business.
A request: I'm currently looking for a beta reader—someone I can bounce ideas back and forth with for a while until I'm capable of getting back on my own two feet in the next month or two. I simply don't have time to etch out every plot detail, though I do know where I want this story to go. I'd love some inspiration!
Many thanks again. I apologize for the long A/N, but hopefully this was a long chapter to quench your thirsts.
