Read an Excerpt
Vicarious
By Paula Stokes Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2016 Paula Stokes
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7620-0
CHAPTER 1
THREE YEARS LATER
Rose is crowding me out as usual, the reflection of her slender elbow obscuring part of my face in the mirror. Her scattered powders and potions cover the marble vanity of the bathroom we share. They're made of all things bold and glittery, just like she is. In contrast, my neat little cluster of toothbrush, hairbrush, and eyeliner feels like an unruly child put in the corner.
"Move over," I say.
She's busy curling her eyelashes. I watch as she clamps a little torture device over one eye. People say we look alike, but what they mean is that we look alike except she's more striking. She has the same basic bone structure and pale skin, but bigger eyes, fuller lips, longer hair, and now, apparently, curlier eyelashes.
"You move over. I have plans tonight." Rose tosses the eyelash curler into the sink and blinks sweetly at my reflection before rummaging through the mess on the vanity to find a tube of mascara.
"Me too." I finger-comb my shoulder-length black hair, and then grab my eyeliner. A soft brush of black pencil across my lower lash line is usually all the makeup I wear.
"With Jesse Ramirez?" Rose wrinkles her nose at my pencil. "I could help you with your makeup."
"Maybe." I ignore her offer to slather me up with products. Jesse's not my boyfriend, and even if he were, I wouldn't waste time trying to impress him by masquerading as someone else.
"Winter," Rose starts, her voice getting that whole mothering tone like she's forty instead of twenty. "You know Jesse loves you."
"No he doesn't. We just work together, all right?" I've caught Jesse staring more than once, but I'm fairly certain his feelings are more practical in nature. He wants what all guys want. Too bad for him.
Rose blots her eyelashes on the back of her hand and applies a coat of shiny red lipstick. She looks like something out of a black-and-white movie. I've never seen a dress with so much fringe before.
"You should just give him some. See what it's like to be with someone who actually cares about you."
I flinch slightly as I tug at her scooped neckline, pulling up the fabric to cover her cleavage. "Maybe you should try not giving some to everyone you meet."
"Funny." Rolling her impeccably made-up eyes, Rose twists her curtain of black hair up under a white-blond wig. "I'm going to Inferno. Come by later if you want."
Inferno is the club in the building next door. I've been there only a couple of times since I turned eighteen three months ago. "Are you ... working?" I ask.
She smiles coyly. "Maybe."
"Then I'll just see you tomorrow."
Lately, Rose's idea of work has gotten increasingly provocative: modeling, club dancing, switch parties. Inferno holds a switch party every Saturday night. It's basically a make-out version of speed dating, where they turn out all the lights and everyone pairs up, hooks up, and then switches partners. As you can imagine, finding enough men isn't a problem, but the club usually ends up having to pay the women. Rose swears she doesn't let things go too far with anyone, that it's all about teasing and control, but sometimes I wonder. It's her body and she can do what she wants with it, but the thought of some dirty stranger's hands on my sister makes my insides wither.
I love Rose, but sometimes I don't understand her.
"When's your next therapist appointment?" she asks suddenly, as if the look on my face might indicate an impending breakdown.
"Why are you asking me that? You know I quit seeing her."
Rose arches a dark eyebrow. "I'm surprised you're getting away with that."
She means Gideon. He and Rose ended their relationship shortly after we left Los Angeles. Despite the breakup, they've remained friends and the three of us still live together in Gideon's penthouse. Which means now he's sort of our landlord, older brother, and boss rolled into one. It's complicated.
"He's so busy working that he probably doesn't realize I've stopped going," I say. This is a half-truth. My therapist's office seems to be a few weeks behind on billing, so that's why Gideon doesn't know I've been skipping sessions. "I'll make an appointment if I need to."
Rose acts like I might kill myself at any moment, but that's just her being dramatic. Maybe I was depressed in Los Angeles, but I got better once we escaped. My therapist here diagnosed me with PTSD, but even at its worst, it was never anything that serious. I just sometimes got my dreams confused with reality, or saw things a little differently than they actually were.
Now, other than the occasional nightmare or bout of anxiety, I'm fine. I don't need to waste time in Dr. Abrams's soothing blue-green office talking about how it felt to be repeatedly violated. Sometimes it's best to just move on.
"All right." Rose raises her hands in mock surrender. "You seem fine to me."
Rose lived the same life I did, but she doesn't have PTSD. No bad dreams, no missing memories. Sometimes I'm jealous that she seems to deal with everything better than I do. But then I'll catch her with this hollow look in her eyes and think maybe she just disguises everything for my benefit.
Maybe she's broken on the inside too.
She leans in to give me an air kiss on each cheek, and her jasmine perfume makes me sneeze. A row of shiny bracelets jangle against each other as she pulls a chunk of my hair forward from behind my left ear. It falls in front of my eye, kind of seductive-like. Satisfied, she smiles.
"I'm just going to put it in a ponytail." I lift my arm so she can see the plain black elastic band looped around my wrist.
She sighs deeply. "You're hopeless." She reaches out to hug me, and her warmth makes my rigid muscles start to loosen.
And then go tight again.
Sometimes when we touch, I flash back to the two of us huddled together in a tiny room in L.A. after one of our "dates." I'm sobbing. She's consoling. I'm hoping for death and she's demanding I stay alive.
She usually gets what she wants.
Rose spins around once to check her reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the outside of the bathroom door. Fringe flares out from her slender body.
"Be safe," I say.
"But not too safe." Flashing me a grin, she sashays out into the living room.
Still trapped between here and thoughts of L.A., I grab the bar of soap and turn the faucet on all hot. Clouds of steam blanket the mirror as the scalding water turns my hands pink. I close my eyes and count to ten. My flesh protests, but I lather for another ten seconds and then rinse. The pain washes away the memories.
Someone raps sharply on the front door of the penthouse. It's probably Jesse, and I'm not ready. "Can you answer the door?" I ask.
No response. More rapping. I turn the faucet off and dry my hands on an embroidered hand towel. "Eonni? Did you hear me?" I head for the living room.
Our cat, Miso, sits just inside the front door, his black-and-white tail twitching with anticipation. Otherwise, the penthouse is empty except for a whiff of jasmine perfume. Rose must have left when I was washing my hands.
"I'll be right there," I call. I head into my bedroom and grab my lightweight Kevlar body armor from a hanger in my closet. I slide it over my head and pull the Velcro straps tight. Then I open the top drawer of the nightstand and pull out a stun gun and a pair of throwing knives.
I'm in a slightly different line of work from my sister.
CHAPTER 2
There's a black hoodie folded neatly on my dresser. Tugging it over my head, I slide the stun gun into the middle pocket. I grab a few other things I'll need for tonight and then head for the hallway, slipping my feet into a pair of boots just inside the front door. Miso is still sitting like a sentry, ready to welcome or pounce as needed. I peek through the peephole and see Jesse standing in the corridor. Like me, he's wearing all black. His brown hair is mostly hidden beneath a black knit cap.
I open the door. "Hi."
Jesse steps into the penthouse. "Moo!" he exclaims with a smile, scooping the black-and-white cat into his arms.
"Why do you insist on calling him that?" I ask. Miso squirms a little but then stretches his neck up so he can lick Jesse's cheek.
"Because he's cow colored, and he seems to like it."
I lean in and scratch Miso between his ears. He purrs, but his attention is solely focused on Jesse.
My lips twitch as I remember the day I found the cat prowling back and forth in front of the fireplace. I half thought he was some unfortunate test subject that had escaped from Gideon's study, which also functions as a lab. But Rose told me later she found him in the alley, starving and scared.
"Look at you," I say, patting Miso's little round belly. "Hard to believe you were ever homeless."
Miso gives me a baleful look and then licks Jesse's face again.
"That cat likes everyone else better than me," I mutter. I bend down to strap a knife to each ankle and tie my boots.
Jesse drops Miso to the ground and the cat wanders off toward the kitchen in search of food. "I like you," he says. "Even better than Moo, but don't tell him I said that."
I like Jesse too — at least I think I do. In a normal life, we might be going out for pizza instead of sneaking across town to commit a crime together. Sadly, broken people do not live normal lives.
Jesse fiddles with his hearing aid and it makes a sharp whistling sound. My eyes flick to his disfigured ear, to the jagged scar running from his left temple to his jawline. He's never told me about his injury and I've never asked. I heard Gideon telling someone once that it happened in the army.
"I almost never see you with your hair down." Jesse reaches out to pet my dark hair, his knuckles accidentally grazing my skin.
I slide away from his touch. In one smooth motion, I take the elastic band from my wrist and pull my hair through it. I double the band and tug until I have a short but secure ponytail. Jesse's lips curl upward and something stirs inside me. I find it disconcerting, the juxtaposition of his war wounds with a smile that projects so much warmth.
I am not warm. That is one of the reasons I chose the name Winter.
"Just a minute." Dropping to the floor, I quickly do twenty push-ups and then spring back to my feet. Exercise helps turn off all the extraneous thoughts in my brain.
Jesse lifts his legs behind him, one at a time, in a halfhearted stretch of his quadriceps. "You ready for this?"
"Yes." I peek out into the hallway to make sure it's empty. Gideon, Rose, and I are the only people who live on this floor, but college students occasionally come up here to try to get on the roof through the utility room window.
We walk down the carpeted hallway, past the elevator to the stairwell. The penthouse takes up the entire top floor of a fifteen-story building, but I always use the steps. I have a bit of an elevator phobia. They feel like tiny moving cages to me.
"Do anything fun lately?" Jesse asks as we start to descend the stairs.
I shrug. "Nothing special." The last few days are a blur of sameness. Wake up. Work out with Gideon. Eat. Study. Lift weights. Study some more. Gideon has been homeschooling me with online lessons since shortly after we moved here. I was agoraphobic at first, and both he and Dr. Abrams decided that placing me in public school would be detrimental to my adjustment process. Sometimes I think regular school would be fun, but I still get nervous in crowds. Navigating the packed hallways and common areas would be a struggle.
A heavy metal door opens out into the lobby of our building. Persian rugs lie over smooth marble tiles, and crystal chandeliers hang from the painted ceiling. A long wooden bar runs the length of the room, empty except for a pair of businessmen sipping from wineglasses. At the far side of the lobby, a half set of stairs leads to Escape, Gideon's gaming club. Escape boasts three big-screen virtual reality gaming setups, computers for online play, and private rooms for other activities.
Jesse and I head for the exit. We pass two more men in suits at the revolving door that leads out onto the street. At first glance they look like lawyers or bankers, but they're too young and their necks are too broad. Their haircuts aren't quite slick enough. Athletes.
One of them makes eye contact and nods. He's got the look of a farm boy — muscular build, tanned skin, clear blue eyes. Wholesome. I don't really follow sports, but I recognize him from clips on the news. His name is Andy something and he almost led the state university to the college football national championship, but then he fell apart in the fourth quarter and we lost. Tough break.
I nod back. I like people who aren't perfect.
"Hey," he says, his voice husky and low. His eyes cling to my form a second too long, as if we know each other, but I'd remember if I'd met him before.
A third man behind him nudges both of the players forward. He stares at me with dark, unfriendly eyes as the three of them pass by. He's also lined with muscle but too old to be an athlete. Probably a coach trying to keep his players from doing something stupid and making the late-night news.
"Friends of yours?" Jesse asks as we step out of the revolving door.
"Not my type." I exhale a foggy breath and pull on a pair of gloves.
We live in an area of St. Louis called the Lofts, bordered by downtown on one side and poorer neighborhoods on the others. It used to be nothing but abandoned warehouses, but a wealthy developer bought them, razed them, and erected several blocks' worth of high-rise apartments. Many of the basements and ground floors feature clubs, bars, or restaurants, and the whole area functions as both home and a playground to the city's richest residents.
Jesse and I head west, the shadows absorbing our black-clad forms. Shards of snow and ice crunch beneath the soles of our boots. In front of the next building, tight clusters of club rats huddle together in the cold, thin filaments of smoke emanating from the orange glow of their cigarettes. They're waiting to get into Inferno. It's where Rose said she was going.
A guy in a down-filled NFL parka and a knitted ski cap moves from circle to circle, hoping to be called upon to peddle his wares. When it comes to drugs, pretty much everything is available if the price is right.
The dealer catches me looking and takes it as an invitation. "What you need, baby?"
I avert my eyes but he shuffles over and walks beside Jesse and me. The sweet scent of marijuana clings to his oversize coat. "I got stuff to make the pain go away, stuff to make you forget."
"I'm fine," I say tersely.
"Sounds like you need something to relax." He yanks open the side of his coat and digs down in a pocket, producing a clear vial of fluid. "This shit'll take you to heaven and back."
"Back off." Jesse slides between us. "She doesn't need anything from you."
The dealer looks ready to start something, but then Jesse lifts his sweatshirt high enough to expose the grip of his gun. The guy turns away, muttering under his breath. A trio of college kids on the other side of the street call out to him. He shimmies his way between two parked cars and then saunters the rest of the way across the road, his high-tops disappearing in the fog of a steaming manhole cover.
We pass a group of girls in glitter makeup and sky-high leather boots, shivering in their short dresses. The damp glow of the streetlight illuminates wide eyes and skin that is soft and perfect. They're not old enough to get into the club, but they're going to try anyway. They look good; the bouncer will probably let them in. A prickle of envy moves through me as I watch three of the girls link arms and huddle together for warmth, giggling and smiling at each other. I haven't had friends like that since the orphanage.
The Lofts end abruptly at a vacant lot that sits in front of an old train yard. Two girls, one with a shorn scalp and the other with a matted braid, are spooning under a knitted afghan where the lot meets the sidewalk. Braid Girl opens her eyes just briefly as our shadows pass in front of her. They've got a coffee can full of change and a sign made from a cardboard box that reads: Ran away from abusive home. Please help.
"Wait," I say to Jesse. I reach into the front pocket of my jeans and slide out a twenty-dollar bill. I always carry a little cash on jobs, just in case. As I bend down to place the money in the coffee can, I notice that people have put trash in it while the girls were sleeping. I fish out a crumpled-up napkin and a candy wrapper and tuck the twenty deep inside.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Vicarious by Paula Stokes. Copyright © 2016 Paula Stokes. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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