"Life can be cruel if you're a dreamer" –DJ Snake & AlunaGeorge, You Know You Like It

********************************

It was only after ten the next morning that I could escape my apartment – leaving Kira to enjoy her sick day under my bed sheets – and visit the Fenton family plot.

Usually, I stopped for some flowers, but I didn't think Old Betsy, my beat-up old Volkswagen, would behave if I stopped, even for a brief moment, and started again. She was stubborn that way.

I visited the cemetery on a regular basis, keeping the gravesites of my parents, my aunt and my cousin spotless and free of litter. It was amazing how many empty packs of Marlboro and bottles of liquor could be scattered in one area. Graffiti, something I couldn't do anything about, even defaced the back of my cousin's tombstone. It was nothing short of cruelty.

Today, I picked my way through the rows and rows of other Sallow County residents who had died within the past two centuries. Of course, I recognized a lot of the last names on the tombstones, and my heart ached a little at that. To be heart-sore about Bree Mason's great-great-great-great-grandfather's untimely death at twenty-four was probably stupid to some, but I didn't care. Feeling something was part of my job, part of who I was. I couldn't turn it on and off, much as I tried. I didn't want to, in any case.

By the time I got to my family's private plot on one section of the cemetery, I was a little glassy-eyed, and even more so when I saw the dark figure kneeling at my cousin's grave.

"Jacob? What are you doing here?" I asked, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice.

This was a sacred place to me and his presence here was unwanted.

"The graffiti," he said, rising to his feet. He looked at me. His lips formed a grim line, his face red with unconcealed anger. "I recognize the tags. Gonna fuck the boy up, don't worry."

I was silent. Perhaps I should've told him not to attack a little thug, on account of his previous assault conviction, but I kept quiet. Constantly seeing that disgusting word on the granite slab that bore Ella's name ate up at me every time I came here.

"Did you know I'd be here?"

Wind ruffled his sun-kissed hair, whipped at the back of his white T-shirt. "No."

I had to believe him. "Do you visit often, then?"

"Sometimes. Look, Maya, I'm gonna go now. This is your time," he said, his voice rough. "You gonna be cool?"

I thrust my hands into the pockets of the grey hoodie I was wearing, only now remembering that the old black leggings I had on had a dime-sized hole on the right knee. Yes, I was going to be cool.

"Every time I see you, I'm reminded of Sharon and Ella," I heard myself whisper, and because the sun is hidden behind a big silver cloud and a slight breeze is blowing, I shiver. "The parts of me that think of your mother, those parts make me smile inside. Sharon always made me smile, even when she wasn't okay. But the parts that think of my cousin... Those parts want to claw your heart out and howl at the moon."

I didn't know why I'd said that. Maybe it was because, while the cemetery always made me so achingly sad, it was also where I felt the safest. My home was here because my entire family was here. All of them. Their bodies were beneath me and their spirits watched me from above. It was enough to make the desolation diminish.

Pain flashed in Jake's eyes. I felt something then – maybe remorse – but it was gone just as quickly as the emotion I saw in Jake's eyes fled. He turned away from me, his eyes focused on Ella's full name indented in the flat slab of granite. Maybe he had once loved her. Maybe he had once thought about making a future with her, a family.

I'd never once asked.

Silence descended upon us like rainfall. I suddenly wished it would rain. Maybe then would Jake's trance be broken.

"One day," he murmured, fixing his pale, pale brown eyes on me. "One day, I will let you claw my heart out, and the pain will be so fucking worth it if it'll get you to stop looking at me like that."

He left after that, and I watched him go. He didn't understand that I probably wouldn't ever stop looking at him like that.

***

Sebastian stretched out beside me, pressing his nose to my pillow and inhaling in an exaggerated manner.

"Why does your pillow smell so...citrusy?" he wanted to know, propping his head up on his hand and shifting onto his side.

"Kira spent the night," I muttered, balancing my laptop on my knees when he shifted on his back and inevitably shook the bed.

I'd finally managed to peel my best friend off my sheets in order for her to get her head in the game. After convincing her that she couldn't miss another day of class because she didn't want to face the gossip and Luke's hateful stare, she'd gone home to stand on her own two feet. We still had a lot to discuss.

"Do I want to know why?" said Seb. Mid-week sleepovers were usually the sign of some crisis or other.

"Absolutely not."

"Huh."

"Yup," I agreed, my eyes fixed on my screen. I clicked the button that would seal the deal on a first-edition Austen novel that some idiot was actually selling. And online, no less. And seriously underpriced. I wouldn't judge, though, because her idiocy meant that I got to sniff the weathered pages of Sense and Sensibility and pretend I lived in those times.

"Seriously, Maya?" Seb's eyes were on my computer screen as well. "You spent that much on a dusty old book?"

I side-eyed him. "You spend hundreds on noise-canceling headphones. Don't judge me."

"But I'm not the one in debt."

Bitterness filled my mouth. "OK, now that was just a low blow." Shutting my laptop and holding it to my chest, I slid out of my bed, padding over to my vanity table. Every single bottle and container stood in an orderly line, like soldiers in the infantry. I set my laptop there.

"I'm not trying to be cruel. I'm just...I'm just giving you a reality check. You can't spend your money so carelessly."

I whirled around to face him, so fast my braid nearly whipped me in my own face. "Key word: My. My money, Sebastian. I can spend it however the heck I want to."

Sebastian was sitting up on my bed now, legs dangling over the edge. In his familiar pea-green dress shirt and dark jeans and bare feet, he looked the same as always. But there was something on his face, something that told me that...

"You went to your parents' today." It was a statement, not a question, because we both knew that he had gone there. We both knew that they had filled his head with anti-Maya talk and that maybe about a third of it hadn't gone in his ear and out the other.

No, it had remained inside his skull, festered throughout dinner at my place, and slowly erupted like a pus-filled boil much later, when we were in my bed. His mother had most likely mentioned something about money. Maybe told him he should watch my spending habits, see if I could eventually be trusted with his precious money.

"You say that like it's such a bad thing," Seb murmured, looking away.

"It's not. I'm glad you're so close to your family," I told him, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. Tiny starbursts of light danced behind my lids. "I'm not so happy that you come here to parrot whatever your mother says about me."

"Maya..."

I opened my eyes when I heard his light footfalls approach me. His hands cradled my face, soft and warm.

"I don't care about what they say about you. I care about you," he whispered, pressing soft little kisses to my face. For a minute, they seemed comforting. "You know you can always ask me for help if and when you need it."

That was it.

I pulled away from him, catching the surprise filling his chocolate eyes. "I'm tired of hearing the exact same words from every chauvinistic, self-righteous, misogynistic male I come in contact with!" I snapped, shoving my feet into a pair of black ballet flats I'd kicked under the vanity.

"How is it chauvinistic, self-righteous and misogynistic to offer to help my girlfriend?" Seb exclaimed, sounding frustrated. His face paled when he finally noticed. "Where are you going?"

"I will be calm. I will be mistress of myself," I chanted, receiving a perplexed look from my boyfriend.

He followed me out my room, running his hand through his soft curly hair. "What?"

"Sense and Sensibility," I told him, heading into the living room. I snatched my keys off the coffee table and stuffed them into my jeans pocket, along with my wallet. "It seemed appropriate to quote Austen when she is who caused this fight. I'm going out."

And with that, I was out the front door, closing it gently behind him. It was after eleven and I was pretty sure most of my neighbors were fast asleep. I wasn't so insensitive as to slam doors and yell in the hallway at this time.

Only once I was outside and the cold night air was clawing at my skin like a wildcat did I begin to consider the fact that I had overreacted. Seb was likely scratching his head with a stupid expression on his face, asking himself what the hell just happened. Couldn't say I blamed him. I didn't know what had happened, either, but there was something about hearing Jacob Ford's condescending words coming out of Sebastian Brown's mouth that had me seeing red.

Did every man have to think of me as a charity case? A little philanthropic project? It was humiliating, to say the least. I had never wanted nor asked to be in this position.

While most girls in high school here hadn't even wanted to go to college – "What's the point if I'm going to marry a rich guy? Get with the program, Maya." – I'd had high hopes and aspirations. Law? Maybe. Journalism? Perhaps. Archaeologist? Possibly.

My mother had been a pediatrician; my father, a dentist. They'd been heavily in debt at the time of their death, according to my aunt, so they hadn't left me much, not even a small college fund. I'd been eight when they'd died in a boating accident, so I hadn't cared about college. Just wanted to see Mike and Chantelle Fenton again.

However, I'd always clung to an idea of being in the medical field in any way I could. It was my way of finding yet another piece of my parents. I was desperate to be close to them in any way.

Real life always hit me at the most inopportune times – whenever I was already low because real life had hit me.

It wasn't until I saw the bright lights and heard the dull thump of loud music that I realized where I was walking to.

The Wreck.

*~*~*

The large parking lot was filled with motorcycles and maybe only four or five cars. I made my way to the entrance, receiving a hard stare from the lone bouncer standing outside in the cold. He looked me over and yeah, sure, I understood why.

My baggy T-shirt proclaimed in neon green that I'd participated in the Sallow County Baptist Church Walk for Jesus, 2011, and my skinny jeans were so faded they looked like I'd crushed some chalk and deliberately rubbed it all over the denim fabric.

Grunting out a greeting, he nodded for me to go inside.

"Thank you," I told him sincerely.

I had no idea what I was doing there but I knew that I was a little hurt and disappointed that Sebastian hadn't defended me to his parents and had, instead, repeated their words to me. I knew that I was still reeling from the big cry fest I'd had today at my family's gravesite. And I knew that I was probably a bit pissed off that in some ways, Seb's parents were right: I was a bit careless with money. But only when it came to things I loved. Why shouldn't I be able to buy things that made me happy? Things that reminded me of my mother, and how she'd read Rudyard Kipling to me and tell me stories of bush veldts and the animals that lived there.

If I'd thought Velocity could get packed, The Wreck put it to shame. Of course, The Wreck was a nightclub and Velocity was nothing more than an indie bar, but I still hadn't expected it to be filled to maximum capacity. The place was packed with men wearing the leather vintage-style biker jackets with the familiar Phantoms cut on the back. Women in tiny skirts and tops were either on the dance floor, or melding themselves to a biker's lap.

Lights of every color of the spectrum hung overhead and black lacquered tables lined the walls. Very few people were seated.

I recognized Cage the Elephant's Come a Little Closer filling the room as I headed to the bar. Fortunately, a space opened up and I could get to the bartender. Being taller than most had an advantage: The spiky-haired man noticed me immediately.

"Hey, pretty lady – what'll it be?" he asked, flashing me a wide grin. A stud actually glinted in one of his front teeth. Pointless, if you asked me.

"Co-" I shook my head, mentally telling myself off. Non-alcoholic drinks wouldn't cut it tonight. "Shot of Patrón and pineapple juice." Kira ordered this drink whenever we went out.

Spiky eyed me carefully, his eyes traveling to my T-shirt. "Good choice." He moved along the bar and went to work deftly mixing my drink, mixing two different bottles of tequila and digging around for pineapple juice before finally squeezing a little lime into the concoction.

He pushed the highball glass at me and I dug into my pocket for my wallet, hoping I actually had some cash on me. If not, I didn't think Spiky was going to be grinning at me for much longer.

"It's cool, babe," he let me know. "Been paid for already."

"What? By whom?" I scanned the bikers leaning against the bar. None of them looked my way, none of them looked too familiar.

"Ripper," muttered Spiky, before his attention was captured by someone else.

Ripper.

Of. Fucķing. Course.

Tonight, even my mind was rebelling and choosing to be profane.

I took a long gulp of my drink, wanting to spit it out the instant it assaulted my tongue. God, how did Kira do this? It was a complex taste, but I soon got used to it. The pineapple juice made it better.

"Ripper wants me to lean on him like a crutch. Don't mind if I do," I mumbled to myself, raising my empty glass to signal Spiky. "The same," I told him, "and put it on Ripper's tab."

Spiky leaned in, smiling. "He already said as much. Wouldn't dream of putting somethin' unauthorized on that guy's tab otherwise."

I cursed. In my head. It just wasn't as fun if Jake had already agreed for me to get whatever I wanted on him. Spoilsport.

By the time my fourth drink – mm, pineapples remind me of SpongeBob's house. Someday, I'll put an offer on that house – glided its way down my throat, I was feeling more than a little loose. Not in the hey-I-want-to-have-drunken-sex-with-a-drunken-stranger kind of way, but the oh-my-gosh-they're-playing-Tainted-Love-and-I-wanna-dance way.

I'm actually a decent dancer, but that night, I could feel how uncoordinated and wild the alcohol had made me. It also made me okay with dancing with strange men with even stranger beards and scars on their faces. As long as they didn't try to feel up my breasts or butt, we were good. For the most part, those guys were great, until my spastic hopping around like I was at an EDM festival made them laugh so hard they couldn't keep up anymore. Or until they got so disgusted they walked away, weaving their way into the ocean of gyrating bodies.

That was okay, too. I was perfectly fine with dancing by myself, even if it was to the weird voice of Marilyn Manson. The song ended and melted into a slower one. Through blurry vision, I could see that the dance floor had suddenly morphed into dry-humping central, with a population of everyone but me. Even in my admittedly intoxicated state I could muster enough disappointment in my fellow clubbers – Is this even a term anymore? God, it's been so long since I've had a drink...

Strong hands, however, planted themselves on my waist and I felt the warmth of a body directly behind me.

Warm breath tickled my ear. "You stalkin' me, Maya Fenton?"

The bane of my existence was trying to get me to grind against him. I wasn't drunk enough for that. "Stalking you?" I yelled, since we weren't facing each other. I tried to swivel around to properly voice my opinion of him, but his hands were firmly situated. So I simply stood there, frozen, ignoring how uncomfortably close he was to me. So close I could feel his...

"That thing I get accused of on a regular basis," Jake replied, and I could actually feel the heat of his fingers through my jeans. As if he were touching my skin.

"But that's only because you actually do stalk me!"

"Nah. If I am a stalker, why don't you put out a restrainin' order on me?" Jake was moving, slowly, but just in time to the music. And because he was moving, I was forced to move as well, just as slow.

Why don't you put a restraining order out on me?

Good question. No – good fucķing question. A valid question. A good, valid question. A good fucķing valid question. A good –

"Thought so," said Jake, when I gave him no answer. One hand moved upwards, and because my shirt was so loose and billowed whenever I moved, his hand landed flat onto my stomach.

Either that hand of his was fresh out the oven, or I was burning up.         

"Get your hand off my skin," I said, so low I didn't think he heard me. But his hand moved and he spun me around so that I was now facing him, making me dizzy.

My head spun, my stomach protested.

"What you doin' here, babe?"

I looked Jake in the eye. For some reason, his eyes looked especially different. Were those flecks of green in them? How could I be so mad at someone with such beautiful colors in their eyes?

"Maya, I asked you a question."

"Can't I just want to have a little fun every now and then?" Even I could hear that I was slurring my words like a drunken letch and that I sounded like a thirteen-year-old off Disney Channel. But I just couldn't stop talking. "I keep getting told to live a little, after all."

Jake gave me a lazy smile. Or maybe it seemed lazy because I was starting to have lazy eyes.

"I get you, babe. But it don't look like you came out for the specific purpose of living a little," he stated, eyes going to my top. "Seems like you came out on a whim."

I found myself slinking my arms around Jake's neck, if only for the mere fact that I could trip and fall and possibly break a few bones if I stood on my own two feet. "Seb and I had a fight. Well, not a fight, per se. More like a disag-"

"Fucķ him, then."

My eyes widened. "Do you mean sleep with him as a way of reconciliation, or do you mean fucķ him, as in, he can go to hell?"

Jake gave me a wide smile. "What did you say?"

"Reconciliation. Meaning –"

Annoyance, I think, flickered in his eyes. "I know what reconciliation is. I meant the other word. The nice, little dirty word."

"Fucķ?" A small part of me was still sober enough to wince at such filth escaping my lips. Profanity, at least outside the bedroom, was unnecessary.

"I need to get you drunk more often, Maya Fenton. Say somethin' else."

"Shįt?"

"Continue."

"Bullshįt."

"That's technically cheating. Describing what animal the excrement comes from is not fucķing cursing," Jake informed me, his hands now on my waist as he moved me with the music.

And because I was drunk off my ass, I laughed until I became breathless and my head hurt like hell.

It felt like I was back in elementary school, where the older kids would try to goad me to say dirty words because "it's so much funnier when she says it! She doesn't know it's bad, so she says it loud and proud". But maybe I wanted to be seven again. Things were so much simpler when I was seven. Bills were just William Baxter in third grade and William Carter in fourth back then. Like I said: Simple.

The next time I swore, I leaned in and whispered into his ear, "Cocķ."

I think I might have felt the appendage in question twitch a little against my lower abdomen.

I was going to be sick.

No, really, I was going to regurgitate everything I'd eaten and drunk over the past few hours and how fitting that Lil' Jon could be overheard on the speakers telling me to bend over and make my knees touch my elbows.

Too bad most of it landed on Jake's shoes. God, he has big feet.