The Pledge
Page 18
He tucked the blankets around me and leaned down, gently pressing his lips against my forehead. My heavy eyelids closed, and I remember feeling safe and secure, knowing that my father had protected me, just as he would always protect me . . .
. . . as I tried to forget about the blood that covered his shirt.
I sighed as I looked at my father now, knowing that all he’d ever wanted was to keep us safe, me and Angelina. So why was it so difficult for me to admit that I’d made a mistake? “You’re right, Daddy,” I finally said. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”
He smiled up at me. It was a puny attempt, but I appreciated the effort. “I know you will, lamb.” He reached out and took my hand, squeezing my fingers in a fierce grip.
The front door burst open then, and Angelina came bounding inside, small and energetic, her blond hair tangled and wild, making her look like a tiny whirlwind. My mother trailed in behind her.
“Are you ready for bed?” I asked my sister, swinging her into my arms and using her as an excuse to escape the lingering feeling that I’d disappointed my father.
Angelina nodded, looking anything but sleepy.
I shrugged at my parents over my shoulder as I carried the wiggly little girl into the bedroom we shared and settled her down on the only bed. I left her to undress as I went to fetch a wet rag so I could wipe away some of the filth she’d managed to accumulate throughout the course of the day.
“You’re a mess,” I accused as I scrubbed away the grime from her alabaster skin. She flashed me a toothy, four-year-old grin. “Muffin’s a mess too,” I complained, looking at the grubby doll she carried everywhere she went, the worn-out, hand-me-down rabbit I’d given her.
The years hadn’t been good to Muffin. His fur was worn so thin it was transparent in spots, making him look mangy. Stains made his original soft white appear brown and blotchy, sickly even.
Angelina clutched the tattered bunny, refusing to even allow the washrag near him.
By the time I finished cleaning my little sister and chang B my and chaning her into her nightgown, Angelina was leaning heavily against my side, barely able to hold up her own head.
“Come on, sleepy girl,” I whispered, slipping her small body beneath the blankets and nestling the dirty little rabbit beside her on the pillow. Angelina never slept without Muffin.
I climbed into bed beside her, leaving on the bedside lamp and pulling out the fabric Aron had given me. I’d already cut it into pieces, fashioning a pattern of my own creation, and pinned them all together. I plucked a sewing needle from the spool of thread I’d left sitting on my bedside table and set to work, noting, once more, the feel of the silken fabric between my fingers, and wondering what it would feel like to wear something so scandalously fine.
Angelina’s feet moved over to my side of the bed, across the cool sheets, and found their way beneath my legs as she sought my warmth.
It was Angelina’s way of saying good night.
It was the only way she could.
V
It hadn’t been difficult to talk Brooklynn into going to the club again, and I really hadn’t expected it to be. Brook was predictable if nothing else.
“So? Who is he?” she’d asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning cloand hooking her arm through mine. She winked at Angelina, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching Brook with rapt admiration. “I didn’t see you with anyone the other night, but you’ve never wanted to go to the clubs twice in one week.”
She wasn’t wrong; I hadn’t stopped thinking about those stormy gray eyes since that night at Prey. And that was two days ago, longer than any boy had ever occupied my thoughts.
I wasn’t sure what it was about Max. He frightened me almost as much as he intrigued me. Still, as much as I worried about the possibility of running into his friends, I was desperate to see him again.
“It isn’t like that,” I’d tried to explain, but Brooklynn refused to listen.
“Really, Charlie? I don’t believe you for a second, especially if you’re planning to wear that.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she appraised me.
I almost smiled. Even though I’d designed the dress myself, it felt like too much. Or not enough, really. I wasn’t like Brooklynn. I wasn’t accustomed to feeling so exposed; one shoulder was bare, and the other was covered only by a thin strip of the dark silk. The fabric felt sheer as it hugged my body in ways that my loose cotton dresses never would.
“Whatever. If you don’t want to tell me . . .” Her words trailed off in a pout that I imagined worked on every boy she’d ever used it on. “Has she told you anything?” she asked my little sister.
Angelina shook her head, setting her chin on her hands as she leaned forward expectantly, her blue eyes wide.
“Seriously, Brook, it’s nothing. He’s just someone . . . unusual. I only want to talk to him again. It’s not what you think.”
But in the end, my motivations hadn’t mattered; Brooklynn would’ve gone regardless of my reasons. So later that night, when I found myself back at the red steel door, I was relieved to find that Prey was still open, that it was still a club. Yet I was even less comfortable than I had been the first time we’d gone.
But some things never changed: different bouncer, same routine.
Brooklynn, as usual, seemed to enjoy the skin inspection, while I felt defiled and revolted by it. More so, because so much of my skin was bared.
As always, the man at the door let us pass in exchange for dosing us with a hallucinogen-laced hand stamp. Even before we could tuck our Passports away, my skin smoldered where the ink was working its way beneath my flesh. I barely glanced at the mark; I was too busy searching, scanning the club for something—someone—else, but I knew there would soon be a welt.
. . . as I tried to forget about the blood that covered his shirt.
I sighed as I looked at my father now, knowing that all he’d ever wanted was to keep us safe, me and Angelina. So why was it so difficult for me to admit that I’d made a mistake? “You’re right, Daddy,” I finally said. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”
He smiled up at me. It was a puny attempt, but I appreciated the effort. “I know you will, lamb.” He reached out and took my hand, squeezing my fingers in a fierce grip.
The front door burst open then, and Angelina came bounding inside, small and energetic, her blond hair tangled and wild, making her look like a tiny whirlwind. My mother trailed in behind her.
“Are you ready for bed?” I asked my sister, swinging her into my arms and using her as an excuse to escape the lingering feeling that I’d disappointed my father.
Angelina nodded, looking anything but sleepy.
I shrugged at my parents over my shoulder as I carried the wiggly little girl into the bedroom we shared and settled her down on the only bed. I left her to undress as I went to fetch a wet rag so I could wipe away some of the filth she’d managed to accumulate throughout the course of the day.
“You’re a mess,” I accused as I scrubbed away the grime from her alabaster skin. She flashed me a toothy, four-year-old grin. “Muffin’s a mess too,” I complained, looking at the grubby doll she carried everywhere she went, the worn-out, hand-me-down rabbit I’d given her.
The years hadn’t been good to Muffin. His fur was worn so thin it was transparent in spots, making him look mangy. Stains made his original soft white appear brown and blotchy, sickly even.
Angelina clutched the tattered bunny, refusing to even allow the washrag near him.
By the time I finished cleaning my little sister and chang B my and chaning her into her nightgown, Angelina was leaning heavily against my side, barely able to hold up her own head.
“Come on, sleepy girl,” I whispered, slipping her small body beneath the blankets and nestling the dirty little rabbit beside her on the pillow. Angelina never slept without Muffin.
I climbed into bed beside her, leaving on the bedside lamp and pulling out the fabric Aron had given me. I’d already cut it into pieces, fashioning a pattern of my own creation, and pinned them all together. I plucked a sewing needle from the spool of thread I’d left sitting on my bedside table and set to work, noting, once more, the feel of the silken fabric between my fingers, and wondering what it would feel like to wear something so scandalously fine.
Angelina’s feet moved over to my side of the bed, across the cool sheets, and found their way beneath my legs as she sought my warmth.
It was Angelina’s way of saying good night.
It was the only way she could.
V
It hadn’t been difficult to talk Brooklynn into going to the club again, and I really hadn’t expected it to be. Brook was predictable if nothing else.
“So? Who is he?” she’d asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning cloand hooking her arm through mine. She winked at Angelina, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching Brook with rapt admiration. “I didn’t see you with anyone the other night, but you’ve never wanted to go to the clubs twice in one week.”
She wasn’t wrong; I hadn’t stopped thinking about those stormy gray eyes since that night at Prey. And that was two days ago, longer than any boy had ever occupied my thoughts.
I wasn’t sure what it was about Max. He frightened me almost as much as he intrigued me. Still, as much as I worried about the possibility of running into his friends, I was desperate to see him again.
“It isn’t like that,” I’d tried to explain, but Brooklynn refused to listen.
“Really, Charlie? I don’t believe you for a second, especially if you’re planning to wear that.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she appraised me.
I almost smiled. Even though I’d designed the dress myself, it felt like too much. Or not enough, really. I wasn’t like Brooklynn. I wasn’t accustomed to feeling so exposed; one shoulder was bare, and the other was covered only by a thin strip of the dark silk. The fabric felt sheer as it hugged my body in ways that my loose cotton dresses never would.
“Whatever. If you don’t want to tell me . . .” Her words trailed off in a pout that I imagined worked on every boy she’d ever used it on. “Has she told you anything?” she asked my little sister.
Angelina shook her head, setting her chin on her hands as she leaned forward expectantly, her blue eyes wide.
“Seriously, Brook, it’s nothing. He’s just someone . . . unusual. I only want to talk to him again. It’s not what you think.”
But in the end, my motivations hadn’t mattered; Brooklynn would’ve gone regardless of my reasons. So later that night, when I found myself back at the red steel door, I was relieved to find that Prey was still open, that it was still a club. Yet I was even less comfortable than I had been the first time we’d gone.
But some things never changed: different bouncer, same routine.
Brooklynn, as usual, seemed to enjoy the skin inspection, while I felt defiled and revolted by it. More so, because so much of my skin was bared.
As always, the man at the door let us pass in exchange for dosing us with a hallucinogen-laced hand stamp. Even before we could tuck our Passports away, my skin smoldered where the ink was working its way beneath my flesh. I barely glanced at the mark; I was too busy searching, scanning the club for something—someone—else, but I knew there would soon be a welt.
