Chapter 3: Burning Rubber and Bad Decisions
The SUV’s interior was a capsule of perfume, hairspray, and the faint, acrid smell of fresh latex from Shantel’s dress. City light strobed through the windows, painting their faces in momentary flashes of neon pink and electric blue.
“Okay, real talk,” Shantel said, twisting in the middle seat to face Sammy. Her crimson outfit creaked. “Your brother is unfairly hot. It’s a problem. But Rebel? Rebel is a whole other category of catastrophic.”
Sammy felt a familiar blush trying to climb her throat, hidden under the white foundation. “Can we not?”
“No, we cannot,” Lindi cut in, her neon harness glowing in the dark car. She pointed a black-varnished nail. “You’ve been in love with that man since, what, you learned how to apply eyeliner?”
“It’s not love. It’s a… historical fascination.”
“A historical fascination that makes you trip over your own feet when he walks into a room,” Cora said quietly from the front passenger seat, not turning around. She was watching the streets slide by, her face reflected in the window.
Sammy groaned, leaning her head back against the seat. “He’s Caleb’s best friend. He’s practically family. It’s a non-starter.”
“Family is a vibe, not a blood test,” Shantel declared, waving a hand. “And your vibe with him is a five-alarm fire in a fireworks factory. Which brings me to my point.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “Tonight. You need to loosen up. Let some hot stranger with terrible taste in music and fantastic taste in women bite that lipstick right off you. Reset the system.”
Cora finally turned, her calm eyes meeting Sammy’s in the rearview mirror’s sliver of reflection. “I actually support that plan. A reset. He’s… intense, Sam. You live in his orbit. A little centrifugal force might be healthy.”
“No,” Lindi said, her voice slicing through the bass from the Uber’s stereo. Her eyes were serious, all teasing gone. “Forget strangers. Bad plan.”
“Why?” Shantel challenged.
“Because Rebel doesn’t do ‘healthy.’ He does ‘absolute.’ You want to reset the system?” Lindi’s gaze locked onto Sammy. “Then you make him fucking lose it. You walk into that house tomorrow smelling like someone else’s cheap cologne, with a smile he didn’t put there, and you watch him. You watch that control of his crack right down the middle. That’s the only way you’ll ever know what’s really under there.”
The words hung in the air, charged and dangerous. Sammy’s heart thumped hard against the stiff bones of her bustier. The idea was terrifying. Seductive. Impossible.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch.
The sound was unnaturally loud. Everyone fell silent.
Sammy dug it out, the screen blazing in the dim car. Another message from the unknown number: Enjoy your night.
Three words. Cold. Flat.
“Caleb again?” Cora asked, her voice careful.
“Yeah,” Sammy said, too quickly. She typed back, her thumbs stiff: I will. Stop spamming me.
She waited. The other girls watched her. No immediate reply dot appeared.
“He’s worse than my mom,” Shantel laughed, but the sound was thin.
Traffic congealed ahead, a sluggish river of red brake lights painting their faces in a hellish glow. The Uber slowed to a crawl, the thump of the bass fading into the impatient hum of the stalled city.
“Don’t worry, ladies,” their driver said, a middle-aged woman named Troy with kind eyes in the rearview. “Friday night on the 101. It’ll clear up after this exit.”
“No rush,” Shantel said, though her tapping foot said otherwise. She turned back to Sammy, the earlier tension snapped by the gridlock. “But back to the main event. Rebel. He looks at you like you’re a locked room and he’s memorized the blueprint.”
Lindi nodded, picking at a silver chain on her harness. “It’s true. Who wouldn’t have a thing for you? Look at you. You’re a hot goth mommy. It’s literally his aesthetic.”
Cora shifted, her lace sleeve catching the streetlight. “He’s too intense, though. The whole thing is scary. The dark alt look, the leather jackets, the long black wolf cut. The smudged eyeliner. All the tattoos.” She shook her head. “It feels like a costume for something way more serious.”
Sammy felt a spike of defensive heat. “I did those tattoos,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “The one on his neck, the filigree on his hands. I’ve done most of his new work.”
The car went silent for a beat. Shantel’s painted lips spread into a wide, knowing smile. “See? That’s it. That’s the confirmation. He lets you put permanent art on his body. That’s not a client. That’s a devotion.”
“It’s my job,” Sammy insisted, but the argument sounded weak even to her. “He’s my brother’s best friend. He’s just supporting my career. I’ve known him since I was seventeen. He has never, not once, seemed interested in me like that.”
“Or he’s been waiting,” Lindi said softly. “Patiently. Like a wolf.”
Sammy stared out the window at the motionless traffic. The unknown number’s messages felt heavy in her pocket. I’ll be watching. Enjoy your night. She remembered Rebel’s expression earlier, the blank wall she’d always seen. Could a wall hide a wolf? She hoped it was. She hoped he was watching.
Troy smoothly changed lanes, finding a gap. “Almost there, team.”
The car began to move again, the lights of downtown rising like jagged glass teeth ahead of them. The conversation died, swallowed by the sudden acceleration and the shared, unspoken weight of possibilities left hanging in the perfumed air.
They pulled up to a stark, industrial building throbbing with sub-bass. A simple, blood-red neon sign above a steel door read BLOOD. The line snaked around the block, a pulsating artery of fashion and hunger.
“Game faces on,” Shantel said, fluffing her hair.
Sammy stepped out into the warm, bass-heavy night, the platform boots hitting the pavement with a sense of finality. She didn’t look back at the disappearing taillights of the Uber.