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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Boyfriend"  It's almost pitch-black at the top of the stairs, where a long hallway stretches out before you, its length punctuated at intervals by doorways. Most of these are dark, but light spills out of one. Luke, his arm still around your shoulder, leads to it. The bare office inside has a raw, unfinished feel to it. The wooden floor sags in one corner, the bookcases are empty, and a battered metal filing cabinets stands forlornly attentive against a wall. Ryder Hillberger is hunched behind a desk, his mouth twisted into a grimace of frustration as he studies some papers in front of him. His brow is lowered as he glances up at you and Luke. "I got three cases of beers down there, half empty," Luke says. "Are they my leftovers from last week, or—" "I 'unno, are they?" Ryder growls. "Well, they look like it, but I ain't sure. I thought they's 'posed to be cleared out by now, but I wanna know for sure in case—" Ryder cusses. You have a hard time following their talk, so you don't pay much attention, and concentrate on Ryder instead. He's not the kind of guy you'd picture playing bureaucrat, even in a place like the Warehouse. He's a football player. You know: muscle. But maybe he's got unexpected depths and talents. He already displays qualities that make him a likely "recruit" to your project. Though a junior, Ryder "Thrillberger" Hillberger is a touch over six feet tall. He's a running back on the JV football team, so he has a longer rather than a chunkier build, but he's got a well-developed chest and shoulders, a flat stomach, and lean but powerful legs. (You know this because Annabelle has frequently seen him on the field; and he seems to really like to go around shirtless.) His soft brown hair, which is parted in the middle, falls around the sides of his face and over his ears to touch the tops of his shoulders. His face is long, but he has a wide mouth over a powerful chin and jaw. His eyes are small and widely spaced, and when he looks at someone, he tends to peer down his nose at them with a faint, leering smirk, as though daring them to hit him for the sexual fantasies he's entertaining (if they're a girl) or the contempt he feels for them (if they're a boy). All in all, he projects a louche, alpha personality, which you suppose is why he has been picked to help run the Warehouse. He has the easy air of a natural leader, and the thuggish confidence of the leader of a quasi-criminal enterprise. He seems to notice the way you're studying him, for his eye flicks with ever-greater regularity in your direction as he talks to Luke, and his smirk widens just a touch every time his glance lights on you. You've no doubt he's concentrated on you rather than Luke when, at the end of the conference, he unfolds himself from the chair and comes around the desk to stand only inches away; and though he addresses your boyfriend, you're sure it's for your benefit that he rocks back on his heels and puts his chest out while telling Luke that if he can't keep track of his shit down in the saloon, Warehouse management will sack him and bring in someone who can. "Fuck me for taking a problem to that asshole," Luke mutters as you and he stalk downstairs again. "I'm just trying to save 'im in case there's a fuck up somewhere." "Well then it's his fuck up if there is," you agree. But Luke only snorts at that. Back down in the saloon you've nothing to do while Luke and Owen clear out their spaces, moving small, half-empty crates of clinking bottles into a back room and bringing out full crates to replace them. They note numbers down on clip boards. You find yourself wondering (with a sense of glee) if they should be getting school credit for the real-life training in inventory management they seem to be getting. But you're quickly bored, so you wander off into the cavernous dance hall to kill time. The stage is now clear of musical equipment, save for the DJ's station, and most of the guys who were working are clustered near the corner of the stage, drinking and chatting. Down in the middle of the dance floor, though, are a bunch of dumpy sofas and beanbags, clustered in a loose grouping of overlapping circles. There's guys draped over these as well, slumped or hunched over their cell phones. Your eye roves over these, seeking out— Oh, there he is. Bastian Jankowski. And he's got his girlfriend with him. Your expression tightens. They are lounging on a sofa, legs stretched out, cuddling each other so close and with arms wrapped around each other so tightly that you can't tell if she's sitting in his lap or if he's sitting in hers. One of them is holding a cell phone in the single lap they seem to have merged into, and they're both studying its screen with rapt, amused interest. Every few moments, Bastian twists around to smile at the side of his girlfriend's face, but she ignores him. Bastian is one of the most stereotypically "cute" guys in the entire high school. He has large, dark eyes under dark eyebrows, over which fall the bangs of his straight, golden hair. His features are handsome and regular without being distinctive, but his skin is clear, and his mouth, when he smiles is framed by two pairs of deep dimples, like parentheses. He dresses in blue jeans, bright white sneakers, dark t-shirts, and warm hoodies, which he usually wears with the hood up and over his face. This vaguely "ghetto" affection notwithstanding, he is one of the "whitest" guys in the junior class, and the Jankowskis are reputed to have lots of money. (You do know for a fact that he not only plays a very expensive guitar of his own, but bought the guitars and drums that his trailer-trash bandmates play.) He has long fingers, and his face typically relaxes into a gentle, dreamy expression that most girls in the junior class find irresistible. But he's taken. And if Bastian Jankowski has one weakness, it is probably his girlfriend, Sonia Bard. You feel your own expression curling up into one of contempt as your attention shifts to her. "Pretentious fake" is the consensus on her. It's probably the nicest opinion that people have. "Must give amazing blow jobs" is another widely shared opinion, as it's felt there needs to be some explanation for why Bastian is so besotted with a girl that many people—even the guys who openly talk about wanting to bang her—despise. And what accounts for these feelings? Well, for a start, she dresses and acts like she's Korean or Japanese or something, when everyone is convinced she isn't. Come on, her name is "Sonia Bard," your friend Harmony snorted one day when talk drifted around to her. What kind of freaking Japanese name is that? Okay, her dad isn't Japanese, the ever fair-minded Mackenzie Fuller put in, but she says she's only half— Her mom isn't Japanese either, Veronica McGill interrupted. I saw her mom at a bake sale one summer, and— She says that's her step-mom, said Alanna Foss. Not that I believe her, she's a liar about— She doesn't even look Japanese, not for real, said Harmony. It's all makeup. My God, she wears so much powder— But her eyes, Brian Foss protested. They're— They're nothing. It's just clever shadowing, Veronica haughtily declared. So: Makeup and shadowing about the eyes, dark hair cut into bangs in the front, and short plaid skirts and shiny, knee-high, vinyl boots. Floral print t-shirts and dark jackets with lots of random zippers all over them. Leather wristbands and fingerless gloves. Giant oval sunglasses. All of this is supposed to add up to the image of a J-pop or K-pop music star. And she can barely play the keyboards, which is what she brought when Bastian added her to Los Scorchicos. "Hey Annabelle!" The sound of your name jerks you from this reverie, and you look over to see Kyle Butler grinning at you from one of the other sofas. Out of the corner of your eye you see Bastian and Sonia—correction: she insists on going by "Scarlett"—glance up at you briefly. "What are you doing out here?' He pats his lap invitingly. "Waiting for Luke to finish setting up," you reply, and glance back toward the saloon. "Is he gonna be awhile?" Again, Kyle pats his knee, and his grin widens. "I'm gonna go find out." You flee before you can give in to the creeping temptation you feel to fall onto Kyle's lap. He's a strong, handsome fullback, and has a reputation for being a pretty good guy. But his presence at the Warehouse on a weeknight confirms the rumors you've heard that he has a secret, dark, dangerous edge. Like Luke has. But Kyle's ten times hunkier than Luke. * * * * * "Oh, God!" you scream in the back of your throat as you arc your back and thrust your pussy. "I—!" You choke on the hammering heart that is pushing its way up out of your chest. You don't know what "base" you and Luke are at, but it's a good one: both of you stripped to the waist, you laying on the hood of his car while he humps you through the front of his jeans and your jogging shorts. You're at the river, which is mostly deserted. And yet, in the back of your mind, you're still thinking about "the plan." The most obvious play is to mirror your play in the senior class, by "recruiting" one of the alpha girls—a Chelsea equivalent—and there are plenty of those to choose. But you are also beguiled by the idea of recruiting an arch-schemer like Scarlett Bard. Or Ryder, whose leadership qualities would complement those of Annabelle. The cute, popular Bastian is another obvious choice. Kyle Butler? Less obvious, but the thought of him on your string gives you an odd, hard thrill. * To choose an alpha girl: "Needs and Desires" * To choose "Scarlett Bard": "Red Harvest" |
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