Page 7

Scarlett

Twigs snap under my feet as I sprint through the woods.

I can just barely make out the shape of the moon past the trees, but I keep my focus on it to distract myself. My calves start to cramp, so I duck behind the closest tree and take a second to catch my breath, panting loudly with my hands on my knees.

There’s a rustling of leaves to my right, in the direction I came from. He’s not far behind now. I don’t know how I got here or when he started following me, but I do know I’m in danger.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, Ruby.” His voice echoes through the trees, but I can’t judge how far away he is.

Another pile of leaves crunch, so I dash from behind the tree and haul ass again, keeping my eyes on the moon. Something smacks into the tree next to me, causing me to scream and give my position away. Except, I guess he already knew where I was…judging by the knife jutting out of the tree near my head.

The motherfucker is throwing knives at me.

He can see me, but I have no idea where he is. I’m not willing to look back, either. I run for what feels like hours—and I could be hallucinating—but I swear I keep passing a tree to my left that has a knife stuck in the bark.

Then, I trip .

I fall flat on my stupid face, and he’s on me before I can find purchase in the leaves and twigs that litter the ground. I try to scream, but he’s pushing down on the back of my head, suffocating me in the dirt. All hope seems lost until I feel a tugging at the waist of my leggings.

That gives me the strength to thrash and buck around, finally getting enough grip on the dirt to turn myself over and look directly at my attacker.

He’s masked, but not a jeweled eye-mask like at Eden. This one covers the entirety of his face, completely disguising his identity. It sort of looks like the Anonymous mask from V for Vendetta , except it’s a dark crimson-red color with devil horns on each temple.

I wiggle one of my hands from between us and try to rip the mask away, but he’s faster. All of my strength has been replaced by fear, and I’m still as a statue. It’s cold here on the forest floor, with snow covering the ground in little patches that haven’t been melted by the sun yet.

He takes advantage of my petrified serenity, somehow gathering both of my wrists in one of his hands to pin my arms above me. His free arm disappears behind his back, emerging with an object I don’t even need to see with my own eyes.

It’s a knife; it has to be. It’s all I’ve been dreaming about since my last run-in with the mystery guy from Eden’s Deliverance, two weeks ago.

I’ve been avoiding the club ever since.

“Say you’ll come to the Red Room, Ruby.” The masked man’s voice is ominous and slow. “Say you will, or else I won’t let you come.”

It doesn’t matter, he’s going to kill me either way. I shake my head, crying and begging for mercy—but even in my dreams, he doesn’t care.

I’m not in control. I’m never in control.

He cocks his head, glaring down at me with eyes I can’t see. In a flash, he hovers over my face with the blade pressed to my throat. The sound of his frustrated breathing inside the mask only makes things worse. He’s furious at my rejection, and it’s so much more painful when he’s angry.

“Why do you do this to me, Ruby? You know I just want to play with you. I want to taste you. I want to feel you. I want to make you scream.” A sharp pain comes when he presses the tip of the knife into my skin, but I don’t scream. I won’t give him the satisfaction. “Why do you fight this? You know, deep down, you want it just as badly as I do.”

I wish I could say that he didn’t know. He isn’t real, and he doesn’t know a thing about me. Except, he does. He is a figment of my imagination, after all.

“Fuck you,” I spit back.

The man barks with laughter, tilting his head to the other side as he brings the tip of the knife up to my cheek and slices a clean cut down the side. I wince but hold back my screams. “You will, Ruby. That’s the whole point. You will. You know it, and I know it. You’re only delaying the inevitable.”

He sits up again, straddling my hips between his thighs as he reaches up to remove his mask. I’m surprised; he’s never done that before. I watch him, sick with anticipation and so eager to finally see the man under the hood.

He tosses the mask away, but what emerges from the hoodie isn’t a face at all. Out comes a creature with hundreds of insanely long teeth, snapping its vertical jaws together while acidic saliva drips onto my stomach and burns holes into my exposed flesh.

What the fuck?

Now, I scream. I scream until I can’t anymore—until my throat is hoarse and until a long alien tongue slides out of its mouth.

He leans over me again, and that tongue is everywhere. It’s curling around my cheek to suck up the blood from my cut, diving into my ears and nose, and then it’s in my mouth.

I choke and sputter, trying to evict the tongue and the horrible taste it’s leaving on my own. But it’s impossible. It snakes farther and farther towards the back of my throat until I swear it’s reached my stomach.

I can’t breathe, I can’t talk, and everything is going black.

Sitting up in bed, I cough and heave until the realization sets in that I’m awake and safe. The byrus from my dream starts to make a little more sense when I see Dreamcatcher ’s credits roll across my TV screen.

No more horror movies before bed.

The soft buzzing of my tattoo machine is a welcoming sound—a win I’ve really needed after the past few weeks of doubt and isolation. The world around me feels like it’s been getting smaller and smaller.

Most nights, I find myself slipping into the darkest corners of my mind, shutting out everyone and everything else.

Until today, I’ve only been allowed to do basic things around the studio, with a focus on drawing and design composition. My mentor, Jill, has me on this guided curriculum for my apprenticeship—a checklist of skills for me to master as I go through the learning process.

For the first few months, I was studying the basic history of tattooing before I moved to drawing flash. During that step, I was allowed to start sitting in on her own tattoo sessions so I could observe her techniques, but now I’m finally allowed to practice tattooing my own designs onto fake skin.

I picked out this really pretty floral design I made of a Pat Austin rose with a few leaves sprouting off of it, and I’m working on the shading when Jill comes over to check my progress.

“Really nice, Scarlett! You’ve seriously got this down, I don’t see why we can’t have you working on live guinea pigs soon,” she exclaims. “Do you have a list of people worked out yet who will let you practice on them?”

“I have at least one, for sure. Penelope, you’ve met her a couple of times. She’s been begging me since I started with you.” We share a laugh about Pen’s candidness, then she sends me off with a few pointers on how to bolden the piece and make it stand out more.

The door chime rings, and I look up from my work to check on the customers—as is my apprenticeship duty—but almost instantly, I’m contemplating whether or not I really need this job.

Skylar and three of his friends burst into the lobby, making a fucking ruckus, but I can’t duck down fast enough before he spots me across the room. All the chipper energy fades from his face. He’s seething, just like any other time we’re in the same room.

“Scarlett, can you go check on those guys for me? See what they need and let’s get them taken care of, okay?” Jill suggests.

Really, it’s not a suggestion. Apprentices don’t have the privilege of saying no to their mentors, and being the desk-girl is one of my biggest responsibilities.

I make my way over to the desk and fiddle with the computer’s scheduling system so I have a reason to look at literally anything else when I address the group. “Hi guys, welcome in. What can we do for you today?”

One of the guys, I think his name is Tommy, wraps his arm around Julian’s shoulder. “My boy here’s looking for someone to finish up his back piece. Got anybody who works with black and grey? What about you?” He winks, but I look right back at the computer screen to separate myself.

“Oh, um…I’m just the apprentice, sorry. We’ve got two artists who work with black and grey. There are a few portfolios over on the table by the couches if you wanna have a look.” I nod towards the waiting area. “If you see someone you like, I’ll go ahead and get you connected with them for scheduling.”

As much as I’d like to refrain from looking any of them in the eye, the last thing I need is for a gaggle of jock fucks to leave some kind of bad review about me being horrible in customer service.

I glance up at Julian with an artificial smile specifically meant for customers, but he’s got this really weird look on his face.

Despite the odd skew of his facial features at this moment, he’s very pretty. Not necessarily pretty in a feminine sort of way, but like someone you could just see yourself looking at all day. Almost like a painting in a museum.

He’s got straight blonde hair the color of straw, except maybe he used gel to tousle it for that out-of-bed image. That’s sort of how he looks right now—almost like he hasn’t slept or taken care of himself in weeks—but the disheveled visage still looks good on him .

It’s a stark contrast to Skylar, who looks as groomed and immaculate as ever. Not that I’m looking.

That would be gross.

It's just that he’s handsome too, and they all run around like a bunch of smoking hot psychopaths whose emotional capability is limited to putting their fists through walls. I’ll never really understand why Skylar is studying psychology, unless he intends to use his degree for self-reflection.

“We’ll have a look. Thanks, Red,” Julian says, and they all snigger together like I’m the butt of some joke.

I really hate it when they call me that. Like it’s some insult that I have red hair, and wear red tops, and red shoes, and…

Fucking whatever . I get it; I like red.

While the guys are looking through the books, I head down the hall to the artists’ rooms and give them a heads up about the potential booking. It’s not really in my range of expertise yet to give suggestions based on anything other than recommending an artist for their style, and I don’t need to see Julian with his shirt off.

Since avoiding Eden, I haven’t pursued anything with the local riffraff like I used to, so I’m a wired-up horn dog who can’t really handle being around a man as pretty as him right now.

I might do something stupid.

Jason, the artist Julian chose to work with, takes over talking and scheduling with the boys. I return to my post and continue working on my fake skin, not lifting my head again until they’ve all left.

I’m fucking exhausted by the end of the night, having taken well over an hour to sterilize the studio and prep for everyone who’s coming in tomorrow.

The apprenticeship is good, school is good, everything’s good. Everything’s fine. I’m fine. My life is fine.

But I miss Eden.