MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1985
In a town with nothing else to do, the citizens of Hawkins, Indiana threw a carnival on Labor Day weekend.
Donna saw little point in going. Not without the flock of teens she was familiar with, sometimes even friends with, back in Indy. But Gene wanted to meet up with Dustin Henderson – to be introduced to the rest of his "party," whatever that meant – and needed a lift.
Donna was happy for him. Gene was shy, but he was a social kid. Back home, in a city of more than 800,000 people, Gene struggled to connect with a single one. Now in this tumbleweed place, thanks to Video Store Steve, her little brother had a friend. A loud one – Donna could hear the kid's excited screeching through the phone receiver from the other side of the kitchen.
So Donna was glad something decent came out of this nightmare of a relocation. Though if Donna was forced to waste a year of her life in a bumblefuck town, at least it was one she'd heard of.
Hawkins, Indiana. Population 13,137, according to the welcome sign posted about 10 miles off the highway. Donna doubted that single lucky 7 outdid the misfortune a double 13 brought to a town in America's heartland. Considering the infamy shrouding the town's name even out in Indy, Donna felt vindicated in that respect.
A federal laboratory scandal that killed a teen girl and covered it up two years ago. A corrupt mayor that was ousted from office and arrested last month. And just before that, after the town's Fourth of July celebration, a mall fire that took down the Hawkins Chief of Police.
And those were just the stories that made it down the wire to Indianapolis. When Donna thumbed through local news, Roane County whispered of a curse. That anyone who lived within the Hawkins city limits risked certain doom. No one bothered to explain why such a curse would exist. Curses weren't real anyway, but Donna found the leap to the illogical conclusion interesting all the same.
This was the town her mother had dragged her family to. This was the police department her mother applied to transfer to specifically – since the uptick in bizarre occurrences meant Hawkins needed more support on their force, according to newly appointed Chief Powell. This was where her mother, Dorothy Martinelli, ran to when Granddad died and left them a despondent family of three.
The Fall Creek rancher they grew up in (Dorothy too: Granddad bought the place as a wedding present for his new bride when the second World War ended) was sold. They packed their belongings in a rented caravan, hitched it to the family Chevy Nova, and hiked the 90-minute trek up I-69 to the bane of Roane County. Just Donna, Gene, and Mom.
Despite its infamy, their first few weeks in Hawkins were boring. It was like any other small town in Indiana. A church on most corners. A beige undertone that carried through the farmland, the suburbs, and its ramshackle downtown. And sweltering August heat that kept Donna and Gene hidden in their new house on Cherry Lane. They were well away from the posh two-or-more-story homes Hawkins had to offer – nearer to the local trailer park.
So even though Donna didn't look forward to this Labor Day carnival, only two months after Hawkins's last celebration precluded in a handful of deaths in a massive fire, her bored ass didn't need much convincing from Gene to attend. And on the final afternoon of the event, Labor Day itself, she shepherded Gene into the Nova and pointed them to the Roane County fairgrounds.
Though August had lapsed, the boiling temperatures didn't. Donna had to unstick her thighs from the Nova's seat after she parked in the giant lot and exited the car. She led the way to the gates of the carnival, peppy chatter and gratingly jubilant music growing ever louder as they drew near.
Gene kept close to her side, glancing nervously at the crowds of people who were comfortable in their surroundings in the way he rarely seemed to be. Even on the familiar streets of Indy, Gene seemed wrong-footed, side-eying anyone near him as if waiting for an inevitable criticism of his missteps or faults.
Donna didn't know where he got that. One of the only things she and her mother agreed on was that Gene was a good fucking kid. Anyone who thought otherwise was a waste of space.
As they collected admissions tickets and tokens, Gene suddenly beamed and raised a hand in greeting. Donna followed his gaze and saw a curly-haired boy with a ballcap waving madly and bouncing over to them. In his wake were three other kids: a tall, pale, broody boy, a sour-faced redheaded girl, and an uncertain, athletic, dark-skinned boy.
At least one person was happy to see Gene.
"Gene!" the curly-haired kid exclaimed when he reached them. Squawky but cheery enough to sit at a pleasant timbre. "Good to see you, man."
"Hey, Dustin," Gene said, as soft and sweet as always but colored with relief. "Did Steve drop you off?"
Donna's eyebrows raised at the way he looked around hopefully. Dustin rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but he wouldn't stick around. Apparently, he's got the late shift starting soon at Family Video and needs hours to hang out with Robin before they head to their shift. Together. Platonic, my ass, seriously. And why are they open on Labor Day anyway? These chain stores, man, what a scam."
"Oh," Gene deflated minutely, which sent Donna's eyebrows even higher.
"You must be Donna, right? The sister?" Dustin said as his friends joined them.
"I am," Donna replied. "You're the famous Dustin Henderson I've heard so much about all week?"
"Donna," Gene groaned, and Donna grinned.
Dustin laughed and introduced the others. Broody Mike Wheeler, Sour Max Mayfield, and Uncertain Lucas Sinclair. "We were gonna check out the arcade tent before hitting up some rides. You in?"
Gene agreed heartily, and Dustin looked to Donna. "What about you, Donna? Up for some Whack-A-Mole? The ol' skee ball?"
"Maybe later," Donna said. As much as she enjoyed ragging on her brother, she'd let the kids have their fun. She tapped her wristwatch. "Meet me by the token exchange at 5?"
"You got it," both Dustin and Gene answered in tandem and then shared a grin at their synchronicity. Oh, man, they were gonna be annoying, weren't they?
Then the group of them scarpered away, leaving Donna alone with – she checked her watch – two and a half hours to kill.
Cigarette smoke hung like a cloud over everyone's heads already, so Donna didn't worry about lighting up one of her own. She didn't mind being alone, but keeping her hands and mouth busy with a cigarette eased some of the anxiety that fizzed under her skin.
She was only one person in a large crowd, she told herself. No one was looking at her. But an itch at the back of her neck felt enough like eyes to Donna to keep that buzz in her veins alive.
Ignoring that feeling, she wandered until a stern, smooth voice drawled behind her, oozing disapproval. "Are you old enough to be smoking those?"
Donna rolled her eyes and then wiped her irritation from her face before facing her mother. Officer Martinelli was in uniform – a blue button-down tucked into neat trousers with a badge pinned to her chest and a radio clipped to her shoulder. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and aviators that covered what Donna knew were blue eyes that looked nothing like her own dark ones.
"You need ID? Gotta check my birthday? You remember that day better than I do, Officer."
"You didn't tell me you were coming to the carnival today."
"You didn't ask," Donna said with a shrug, taking a deliberately long drag from her cigarette.
"I told you I was on event detail at the fairgrounds all weekend," her mother replied with a frown. "There was a window for you to share."
"I thought this small-town dream of yours came with you unclenching your asshole about where your kids were," Donna said lightly. "Since there's nowhere for us to go. If that's not the case, I fail to see why you bothered uprooting us."
"Damn it, Donna." A common refrain from Dorothy Martinelli. She squared her shoulders and took a steadying breath. Donna timed her next pull from her cigarette with the rise of her mother's chest.
"I'm working. If you really want to rehash this again, we'll do it at home. Is Gene there?"
"He's with his friends."
"Here?"
"Yep." Donna popped her lips with the "p."
Another deep breath from her mother meant another cigarette drag for Donna. "Where? The arcade?"
"Stop, don't embarrass him, Mom, Jesus."
"Everything okay over here?" A tall police officer with horn-rimmed glasses and a mustache stepped to her mother's side and frowned down at Donna.
"Yeah, Phil, this is my daughter, Donna," her mom responded brightly.
Officer Phil's eyebrows rose as he surveyed Donna, eyes lingering on the cigarette in her hand. "The seventeen year old?"
"He has a better memory than you, Mom," Donna replied with a sharp smile at her mother.
"Uh, nice to meet you, Donna," Officer Phil said hurriedly. "I'm gonna check out the east lot."
"I'll meet you there," her mother told him, and Officer Phil scarpered off on his long legs. Once he was out of earshot, Dorothy's lips tightened. "Will you just look after your brother, please?"
"He knows to meet me at a previously arranged location at 5. I'm not completely useless."
"Fine. Just… fine."
Donna accepted the dismissal easily and strode among the blazingly colorful stalls until she finished her cigarette. The nicotine didn't quiet the itch in her veins as much as she hoped – she blamed the encounter with her mother for that.
But despite the urge to let her boots carry her aimlessly until her muscles burned away that energy, she joined a long line at a sno-cone stand. The wait was not preferable, but she looked forward to having something cold in her hands in the thick heat, even if everyone else in the county seemed to have the same idea.
"…now that we're seniors."
The words came from the people behind her in line, plucking Donna's attention as a budding high-school senior herself. A quick peek in the guise of scratching her leg revealed a girl with a strawberry-blonde ponytail and a golden-haired boy with an arm draped around her shoulders.
"Well, we will be tomorrow," said a timid, saccharine voice. The girl.
"Chrissy, my princess, we became seniors the minute class of '85 was out the door," the guy laughed – haughty, macho, posturing. "You didn't feel it? How those halls seemed to know power changed hands? How they belonged to us now? Tomorrow just has us settling into our thrones, the way we were meant to. And come Homecoming, you'll officially be my queen, won't you?"
"Jason, the whole school has to vote for that," the girl – Chrissy, apparently – said around a giggle. "It's not set in stone."
"You were voted to the Homecoming court with me last year, weren't you? Why should this year be any different? It's our year, baby."
There was a wet, smacking sound as Donna assumed they started making out only a few inches behind her. She wrinkled her nose.
"Excuse me." There was a tap on her shoulder. Donna turned to see a pinched, annoyed curl in the blond guy – Jason's – mouth. Chrissy looked from him to Donna nervously, fingers brushing her kiss-swollen lips. "Line's moving. So you should too."
And the asshole was unfortunately right. Donna kept her mouth shut and shuffled the few steps forward to close the gap in the queue. School hadn't even started yet, and Donna had already happened upon Hawkins's golden couple. Had already been noticed and not in a positive way.
Chrissy seemed harmless, but Jason was… unpleasant. Maybe the school was large enough to avoid them… annnnnd nope. Donna's hopes were dashed instantly as they discussed their upcoming first-period physics class. The same one Donna had printed on her own schedule.
She was relieved when she could order her cherry sno-cone and peal away from them, losing herself into a crowd of strangers. She wandered until a boom from a kickdrum caught her attention. She followed the sporadic sounds of various instruments warming up until she found a makeshift stage. A crowd had started to gather at its front, and they cheered as the musicians fell quiet and a balding man gave a wave and crossed to the center-stage microphone.
"Thank you, everyone! Have we got a treat for you this afternoon. We're fortunate that our carnival landed a few days before her flight leaves for Nashville. We'll be sorry to see you go, but Music City will be lucky to have you. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Hawkins's very own country music darling, Tammy Thompson!"
Applause swelled as a girl about Donna's age gave a blinding smile and stomped her way to the microphone in glaringly white cowgirl boots. "Thank y'all so much! It's a privilege to be invited here today! I won't keep y'all waiting. Let's kick it, boys!"
Donna inched her way toward the back of the audience, mouth agape. A Hawkins, Indiana native with a forced southern drawl? Referring to the middle-aged, jaded musicians behind her who clearly didn't know her as "boys"? Donna was repulsed by it all, but, like a train wreck, she couldn't tear her eyes from the scene unfolding in front of her.
When Tammy Thompson opened her lipstick-stained mouth and let out her first pitchy miss of a note, Donna reconsidered her entire life. Did she love music as much as she thought she did? Could she spend her career chasing live shows – melodies and hooks and rhythms moving her to put pen to paper – when they had the potential of sounding as wretched as this?
Yes, she could. Even this monstrosity had Donna stringing a story together. Whiny Wannabe Country Singer Butchers Sugary Cover with Sour Notes.
Her mind buzzed, journalistic instinct on autopilot despite the horror movie scene unraveling before her eyes. And ears. She didn't know an actual life-altering moment brewed fifty feet behind her.
XXXXXX
If anyone were to ask, Eddie could claim that he was seeking refuge from the glaring Midwestern sun in the shadowy spot between two of the barns for the hastily assembled petting zoo at the Roane County Labor Day carnival.
Yes, Hawkins was still reeling from the tragedy of the Starcourt Mall fire that followed the last attempt at a town fair on the Fourth of July. But the county fire department rallied behind that tragedy as a reason they needed to raise funds. So their hosting the Labor Day carnival was a go and in its final run on its namesake holiday.
Eddie wondered how the county got away with organizing a carnival on Labor Day of all days. He figured the unlucky employees running the event were fortunate enough to get paid at all. But pressuring people to work on the day of federal recognition for labor rights seemed to be a new level of fucked up.
Of course, Eddie Munson was working too. But again, if anyone were to ask, no, he wasn't.
He lit a cigarette, tucking his gas station lighter back into the pocket of his jeans and briefly lamenting his outfit choice as he breathed tobacco deep into his lungs and let it out around the cigarette balanced between his teeth. The artful rips in his dark wash denim brought little relief from the humid summer heat. And his plain black t-shirt hoarded the sun's warmth, clutching it uncomfortably close to Eddie's chest. The days had tipped into September, but autumn's chill was a long way off. All the same, Eddie wasn't one to conform to anything, not even weather conditions.
From where he slouched against one sloppily painted barn wall, he was hardly visible to the excitable families, not when colorful carnival games and food stands beckoned on the other side of the fairgrounds. Not when pungent livestock odors wafted from the barns and forced a casual observer to wrinkle their nose and avert their paths. Not when he stood opposite a slapped-together platform and someone let Tammy Thompson of all people beam and clomp her way across the stage in cowgirl boots to take up a microphone.
It all amounted to a noxious mix of unpleasantness that turned Eddie's stomach. And the fumes from his cigarette did little to clear his head.
But then he wasn't alone, and Eddie forced his face into something he'd been crafting for years. Firm yet casual – something in charge, something you wanted to do business with, but something you wouldn't cross lest you endure dire consequences.
He'd written this character over and over in D&D campaigns to make sure he got it right in the real world. A barkeep who never allowed anyone to skip out on their tab at a village tavern. A king's guard who refused entry to the palace to any plebian without royal invitation. A seasoned pot dealer who wasn't going to let some recent high-school grad stiff him.
Okay, the latter was Eddie. Seasoned was stretching it, since he'd only taken up dealing when he failed to graduate Hawkins High the first time and felt like a financial burden to his uncle. But it's been over a year of slipping sachets of weed to students who shouldn't be his peers anymore, and nothing seemed liable to change on that front. In fact, Eddie was facing yet another senior year at Hawkins High after yet another failing grade from Mrs. O'Donnell. As his sixth first day of high school loomed, he was more seasoned than most in that respect.
But weaseling his way to a D-worthy English paper was a problem for the academic year. Which didn't start until tomorrow.
Today, his problem was Mark Lewinsky, a beefy jock with floppy brown hair. An off-brand Steve Harrington with his pastel Polo and arrogant smirk. A telltale sheen in his coif showed an attempt at the Harrington trademark swoop, but it lacked the infamous volume, the certain gravity-defying magic that enticed the women of Hawkins to touch.
And Eddie was forced to smile at this asshole, doused in a nauseating cologne, who couldn't even develop his own sense of self.
"You got it?" Lewinsky demanded in lieu of a greeting.
Eddie raised his eyebrows. "Do you?"
Lewinsky scoffed and plucked a $20 bill from the pocket of his freshly pressed khaki shorts.
"Ah, ah, ah, $40," Eddie amended.
"For an eighth?" Lewinsky challenged with a scowl.
"You want an off-schedule delivery – on a holiday, no less – that's the price," Eddie explained easily, keeping his spine straight. Fortunately, the guy was an inch or two shorter than Eddie's five-foot-eleven, so he could lean into that looming effect. "Take it or leave it."
Lewinsky grunted and dug out his wallet, snapping out another $20 and shoving both bills into Eddie's chest. Eddie stumbled with the force but otherwise didn't react. He didn't want to give the tool the satisfaction, but also neither of them could afford to make a scene and garner attention to their transaction. So he handed over the dime-bag of weed with a strained smile.
"Pleasure doing business with you as always, Lewinsky."
Rather than respond, Lewinsky turned on the heel of his expensive boat shoes, darted two glances to ensure his coast was clear, and strode back into the sunny noise of the carnival.
Eddie sniffed in distaste and then nearly retched as he inhaled a lungful of the lingering cloys of Lewsinsky's cologne. He shook his head, clearing the scent from his sinuses and replacing it with another drag from his cigarette. He had $40 burning in his pocket now, a more welcome ember than the weight of illicit drugs. He could cover his last layaway payment for his guitar, his baby. How fucking sweet it was that she would belong entirely to Eddie soon.
And thanks to the asshole tax he'd just collected, he had pocket money to spend on this wretched carnival. Hell, maybe he'd buy Gareth, Jeff, and Brian a round of ice cream like a good and benevolent Dungeon Master would.
He finished his cigarette, sucking one last desperate drag, as if delaying its inevitable conclusion, and then he deemed it long enough for it to be unsuspicious that he emerged from the same shady alley as Mark Fucking Lewinsky. He dropped the butt of the cigarette into a nearby trash can, and a flat wail from the stage about 50 yards away had him shoot a glare at Tammy Thompson's attempt at singing.
She had a quartet of bored-looking musicians strumming a steady tune behind her, and Tammy herself was aiming to croon a country song – that popular one, "Queen of Hearts." The twang she forced into her voice was cartoonish and… frankly unsettling. Yet the small crowd gathered on the lawn clapped and bobbed their heads enthusiastically, as if they actually enjoyed this stain upon the name of music.
He scoffed to himself, ready to hunt down his bandmates, who were likely lurking near the arcade, and commiserate with them about how this town didn't know the meaning of true music. But then his eyes fell on a girl standing alone at the back of the crowd.
Her eyes were fixed on the stage like everyone else, but she stood stock still. From her distant profile, he could see her mouth was agape, brow furrowed. She looked… deeply offended. And wasn't that fucking relatable.
She was on her own, but Eddie doubted a girl like that – long legs leading up to a frankly delectable ass, who might actually have a brain under her pretty brown hair – was actually alone. Eddie should leave. Eddie should definitely not approach her, not when she probably had a boyfriend who would take one look at Eddie's tangled hair and ripped jeans and tear him a new asshole.
But Eddie was a curious creature – what part of Tammy Thompson's whole shtick horrified this girl so? Was it the stolen country aesthetic? The failed vocals? The fact that everyone was eating it up like a free knickerbocker sundae? He needed to know. And the next thing he knew, Eddie's feet had carried him across the dry grass to her side.
"This your first Tammy Thompson experience?" he asked her, maintaining a carefully safe distance.
The girl startled and turned to him, and Eddie kept still as her dark brown eyes scanned him. Assessing, not judging. But even if she was, Eddie relished attention in any flavor. He wasn't known for his ability to remain quiet, but he could restrain himself from interrupting if it meant those eyes stayed on him.
Whatever she found must have been less offensive than Thompson's performance because her shoulders relaxed, and she returned her gaze to the stage. Eddie tried not to pout at the loss. Then she spoke.
"They let her do this often?"
"Of course," Eddie grinned. He didn't think he could hide his delight at her response if he tried. "Hawkins is grooming her to be the next Dolly Parton. Haven't you heard?"
"There won't be another Dolly Parton," the girl dismissed easily.
Eddie's smile widened. He only listened to country music when his uncle Wayne wrestled control of the living room radio – which was not often. But when he did, Dolly Parton was one of the few artists he deemed listenable.
"You a country music fan?" Eddie tried. He hoped his desperation to keep the conversation going didn't ooze into his voice.
"Not really, but I know Juice Newton doesn't deserve this butchery," she responded with a scoff.
So it was the vocals after all. "Ambitious of Tammy to alter the range of the song and then not hit the notes even a little bit."
"She should tumble out of bed, stumble to the kitchen, and pour herself a cup of talent next time."
Lame. Such a lame joke. But a Dolly Parton one. Eddie bit his lip to stop a cackle from escaping, but a muffled snort came out anyway. The girl slid a pleased, sideways smirk his way. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and sidled closer.
"I'm Eddie," he said. Something in his chest ached. Please, he pleaded silently. Please keep playing with me.
"Donna," she responded. She scooped a spoonful of a sno-cone that Eddie hadn't even realized she was holding into her mouth. It was red, probably cherry. Not a flavor Eddie preferred, but he admired the crimson stain gracing her lips.
He only let himself look for a moment before averting his eyes back to Tammy Thompson who finished her song with a pitchy, unnecessarily long note. She beamed out at the crowd who cheered exuberantly. Neither Eddie nor Donna moved to join them.
"There's better live music in Hawkins, right?" Donna said miserably.
Eddie forced a breath in and out of his lungs to avoid waving a hand in the air wildly and offer himself on a silver platter immediately. "Depends what you're into. You're in the wrong state for decent country music."
"Anything in the rock n' roll family?"
God, Satan, or some other higher being was looking out for Eddie Munson today. "There's a place called the Hideout downtown that does live music. Pretty wide variety there. Sometimes there'll be an old guy with an acoustic guitar. On Thursdays, a middle-aged couple does this Sonny and Cher thing. Bit weird to watch, to be honest. But Tuesdays, there's a metal band, Corroded Coffin, that's pretty good. Their guitarist is a freak though."
As he hoped, Donna's dark eyes slid to study him again. On stage, Tammy was off to a rocky start on a slower Emmylou Harris song. "What kind of metal?"
Oh, God, she knew about heavy metal subgenres. "Thrash preferably, but we tend to cover the classics. Sabbath, Judas Priest, Zeppelin… they're better suited to an audience of half a dozen small-town drunk guys, you know? None of the glam stuff though. Punk is on a case-by-case basis. Motorhead, yes. Black Flag, totally. Joy Division, no way."
"I suppose the freak guitarist would be bored with those slower, steadier new wave riffs, wouldn't he?" Donna replied, unfazed by Eddie's babbling. She raised a knowing eyebrow, and Eddie wanted to bite it.
"I would," Eddie shrugged, admitting to what Donna had already pieced together. "I'll go slow if needed, but these fingers were made for speed and, uh, intensity."
Yes, that was a line. On purpose. Albeit a bad one, and delivered poorly. But Eddie was out of practice.
Donna had largely been keeping her eyes trained on Tammy's wretched stage presence, but at his fumbling attempt at flirting, she nearly snapped her neck to stare at Eddie.
It was what he wanted, he told himself. Those dark eyes on him. But he couldn't tell from the way she squinted if this would be the final time he'd catch them. If he'd fucked it up by being unable to stop his less-than-holy intentions from leaving his lips. If she'd finally see something in her unyielding scrutiny that would have her scoff and declare that Eddie wasn't worth her time.
She'd be right, of course. He wouldn't blame her. But seconds ticked past, and Eddie held his breath waiting for her to speak. Years of smoking left his lung capacity wanting, and he briefly wondered if he'd lose consciousness before Donna opened her mouth.
And then… there – an uptick at the corner of her mouth. That had to be a good sign, right? Eddie hardly knew what a good sign looked like. But her eyes held something warm now. And her lips were moving… oh, shit, she was finally speaking, and Eddie forgot to listen.
"What?" Eddie said stupidly, all the breath he'd been holding releasing at once.
Donna smiled. A proper one. And her left canine was a little crooked. Somehow, that was endearing enough that his heart gave a massive throb, shooting bulbous cartoon hearts through his bloodstream. Eddie wanted to lick that tooth, to trace his tongue along the ridges of her molars while he was at it. He managed not to say that out loud. And he even heard her when she repeated herself.
"I said, if that's what you're made for, who am I to argue?"
"Oh, uh, right," Eddie's traitorous tongue managed. But he couldn't stop it from slipping out of his mouth and gliding along his bottom lip.
Good God, those sharp eyes dropped to track his tongue's movement like a predator. Like she was starving for it. For Eddie.
Eddie was a weak man. He couldn't feign subtlety any longer. "Do you want to get out of here?"
"Not out of the fairgrounds," she replied quickly, matching Eddie's urgency in a way that tugged somewhere deep in his gut. When had anyone ever matched Eddie in any capacity?
"I have to meet my brother soon," she explained. Her ravenous eyes still hadn't left Eddie.
Hail Satan for Eddie's shady business dealings that led him to case discreet spots in this godforsaken carnival. He tilted his head toward the alley he'd been lurking in only moments ago and waited for Donna's nod before making his way there with a long, eager stride.
XXXXXX
Donna's mother would drop dead from a heart attack if she knew how quickly Donna agreed to follow a strange man into a dark alley. Especially if she also got a look at the guy's ripped jeans and offensively long hair. If she got close enough to see his grotesque and morbid silver rings, she'd suffer an aneurysm too for good measure.
But Donna didn't spare a glance for Dorothy Martinelli's watchful eye before dumping the remains of her sno-cone in a nearby bin and joining Eddie in the shadows. Eddie about-faced and leaned one shoulder against a feeble wood wall and watched her approach. His eyes, nearly black in color, threatened to swallow the world around him. Their focus was heavy enough to knock the wind out of her.
When she first met that dark gaze, she was entranced enough to be suspicious. This enthralling intensity had to be sinister. Attention that made her heart race like this must be poison.
But then Eddie spoke. A deep, clear timbre – dark, but not like the void his eyes suggested. More like a thick, bronze honey that soothed a raw throat. Sweeter and that much more likely to entrap her. But that syrupy current of his voice was grounding in that weightless abyss of his gaze. The contrast was fucking intoxicating. Donna didn't even know him, and she didn't want to leave his side.
Plus, Eddie was fun. He loved music the way she did. And he radiated heated interest in her. She knew she was fresh meat in a small town which would garner attention she didn't want. But it felt nice to be desired by someone she wanted back.
So she passed into the minute, shaded relief from the harsh summer sun and right up to this man, the tips of her battered boots only centimeters from his tennis shoes. She briefly wondered if he purposely left her way out of the alley clear.
She could escape if she wanted to, turn tail and distance herself from this dark, invigorating being before he ravaged her.
But with this deadbeat, choking town dousing the embers of her dreams and searing eyes igniting something to replace them, she preferred annihilation.
That fire was still there in these shadows, but he was tense. He untucked his hands from the pockets of his jeans and extended the arm still pressed against the wall toward her, a question. And Donna had already made this decision. She declared as much by accepting the offering, covering his ring-clad fingers with her own. They were warm from hiding behind denim in the summer heat.
His free hand lifted to cup her cheek. The touch was so gentle it tickled, and Donna shivered.
"Okay?" Eddie asked quietly – honey voice gone molten. His dark eyes narrowed, studying her.
At her slight nod, his palm pressed against her skin properly, and his thumb traced along her bottom lip, trailing back and forth as if memorizing the shape. Donna parted her lips and let his thumb slip into her mouth. He inhaled sharply, and she sucked the digit deeper into her mouth, pressing against the pad with her tongue.
"Holy shit," Eddie said with an appealing tremble in his voice.
Donna released his thumb. "Yeah," she agreed.
And then Eddie dived in and kissed her. Donna made a surprised sound at the too-hard smash of lips against her own, but she recovered quickly and met his enthusiastic kisses again and again. A sharp tang of tobacco coated his tongue and matched the smoky scent that hung about him like a cloud. But there was something else blended into his taste, something unnamable that she assumed was just Eddie.
She dropped their joined hands and tugged him closer by his waist. He was hot – attractive and temperature-wise. The black fabric of his shirt was searing against her fingertips, and she dug that much deeper into his sides before tracing the contours of his back behind the cotton material.
Eddie let out a low groan as her nails found his spine, and it elicited an echo from her own throat. That hand at her cheek tightened, digging hungry fingers into her jaw. His newly free hand grazed her waist before traveling up her torso and twisting into her hair.
Donna inched her fingers lower and slipped under the hem of his t-shirt so she could feel the firm, sweat-slick skin without a barrier. He sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, and his hand slipped from her hair to her neck, and Donna shivered with a small whine.
The sound made Eddie pull back and stare at her, panting, mouth red, and void eyes wide and darker than ever. Before she could protest at the interruption, Eddie's grip tightened slightly, pressure increasing around her throat just a little, and Donna melted. As soothing as it was thrilling. Eddie's steady hands on her neck and jaw kept her upright.
That was… surprising. But good, so fucking good. She needed more of him. At the very least, she needed his mouth back on hers. But Eddie was frozen, transfixed on the sight of his ringed fingers against her skin.
"Eddie," she said – more begging than scolding. And in a tone more wanton than she would have preferred.
The black eyes met her own, and Donna had never felt anything like it. A jolt of mutual understanding. What it was they knew about one another, Donna didn't think she had words for yet.
Then there was a clang from behind her, and Eddie's hands released her so quickly that Donna stumbled. Eddie steadied her just as swiftly with warm hands at her waist. Donna craned her neck in time to see a kid skipping away in the distant sunlight, having tossed garbage idly in the trash can at the edge of their alley.
She looked back to Eddie who was watching her with lips parted in soft awe. She wondered if he'd ever kissed anyone before to be so affected after a hookup. But then, Donna had kissed a few people, and none of them were worthy of comparison to this. None of them made her reluctant to separate, to leave their shadowy bubble that smelled vaguely of… livestock?
But Donna ripped the bandage off with a reluctant glance at her watch and a wince. "I should go."
Eddie blinked a few times, a strange, stilted smile slipping over his face as he stepped away from her. He bowed deeply, sweeping an arm out toward the mouth of the alley. "The sunlight awaits you, m'lady."
It was Donna's turn to blink. What a weirdo, she thought as a fond smile spread across her cheeks.
This could be it, she reasoned. This should be it. She should find Gene, go home, start school with a blank slate, with no memory of skin and metal tight against her skin. Instead, words tumbled out of her mouth.
"Tuesdays at the Hideout, huh? That a sliding schedule, or is Corroded Coffin playing tomorrow?"
Eddie straightened abruptly, mouth dropping in surprise. "Uh, yeah, we've got a gig tomorrow, yeah."
Donna hummed as she swiped at the bags under her eyes to make sure no mascara smeared out of place and patted down any hairs that went wayward under Eddie's attention. She drank in one final look of this man, flushed with messy hair, who stared right back at her unflinchingly.
"Bye, Eddie," she told him simply.
She had one step back in the sunlight by the time Eddie's hot-honey voice reached her. "Bye, Donna."
