Page 27

Dallas

I’m sure this house was haunted at some point.

When I look past the frozen insect silhouettes beneath the caked-on layers of eggshell paint and the cheap folding table that’s become a permanent fixture on the front porch, I can vaguely see some ostentatious Victorian family with a millionaire tycoon husband and a socialite wife in her bustled dresses and feathered hats. But I’m sure any ghosts that are still here have fled to the attic by now. I would too if I spent the better part of a century in peace until some rental company purchased my home and turned it into student housing for a bunch of degenerates.

This is why I’m all the more entertained by the fact that Austin opts to spend so much time here instead of his dorm specifically built for the men’s basketball team. I’ve seen the inside of it before, even slept there a couple of times. You’d think the Cavs lived there instead of college basketball players.

Or maybe I’m just still salty because my brother got to live in our cousin’s riverside mansion while he was in college, but then his job transferred him out of the country right after Colson graduated. Even though this house should be condemned, it’s nothing some stellar decorating and strategic furniture placement can’t fix. Besides, it’s how Shelby, Carter, Maddie, and I managed to live together this long and stay on campus.

“You only come here after you and your latest flavor of the month break up,” Shelby teases as she settles into the sofa with a bowl of popcorn and a very full glass of white wine. “I’m shocked you even come down here to hang with us plebs.”

Oh, yeah, and the girls that go in and out of the basketball dorm look like NBA wives in training.

“At least he comes here at all!” I call from the kitchen as I peck at the microwave buttons and start my own bag of popcorn.

“Only because the season’s over,” Shelby mutters.

While it’s popping, I wander back into the living room, pulling my purple plush robe tighter around me. Did I mention this house is also drafty? The window units can barely keep up in the summer and it’s a fucking icebox in the winter.

“Now that I’ve been sufficiently chewed out, are you watching the movie with us?” Austin asks before downing half a bottle of Gatorade in three gulps.

“No, I’m going to play games for a while.”

“Play what?”

“ Dark Souls , the usual.”

I only tell him because I know he won’t be interested in that one. If Austin knew that I’ve been playing Call of Duty for the past two hours, then it would be a different story. I still think it’s boring, preferring RPGs over first person shooter games, but it’s easy…and popular.

Normally, I wouldn’t bat an eye if Austin wanted to play with me—it’s what we’ve done since high school—but I didn’t know he would be coming over tonight. Maybe Shelby’s comment about his latest breakup has something to do with that. Or the fact that everyone is still depressed that the basketball team was upset by the second lowest-ranked team in the conference and got knocked out of the tournament before it even began.

As soon as the microwave beeps, I empty the steaming bag into a bowl to take back into my room with me. I don’t bother taking any wine. The popcorn will be hard enough to eat as it is.

I trudge back upstairs to my room, where I make sure to lock the door behind me before heading to my dresser to grab some clothes. If I’d known that Austin was downstairs, I’d have changed first instead of coming down to get a snack. At least I had a robe on…

I pull a grey cami and a pair of sweatpants out of my drawers and then shed the robe. Pressing on my breast with one hand, I peel off the little strips of black athletic tape in quick, fluid movements. In a few seconds, they go from X’s over each of my nipples to sticky wads in the trash can. Finally, I turn off the purple neon light mounted across my headboard and head back to my desk. My second part-time job is done for the night and now I can play for fun, but there’s still a catch.

Shoving a handful of popcorn in my mouth, I take a seat in my leather chair and don the purple Purge mask again, ready to play. When I turn on my camera, I see a familiar face in the corner. Well, kind of. What I really see is a familiar mask, but I recognize him all the same.

A guy in a black t-shirt and black pants appears in the right-hand corner, swiveling back and forth in his chair while curling his fingers in a cutesy wave.

“Hi, AJ,” I respond with a cutesy tone to match.

“Riley Storm,” he says from behind his skull mask, “having a good night?”

Me deciding to go by my middle name, Riley, while streaming and AJ wearing a Call of Duty Ghost mask was completely coincidental. However, it’s the main reason we became friends.

I, SilentStorm, found out quickly that I’d met my match with GhostW@ke. Together, we embody the game.

“If this keeps up, I should be able to pay my last year of tuition and maybe even replace my car.”

I’m by no means a superstar, but my following is steadily climbing. I did the math, and I’m pretty confident that I’m correct. Colson’s Civic has gotten me this far, but it’s old and years of him pushing it to the max hasn’t done it any favors. I also hate driving a stick.

“Look at you,” he croons into his microphone. “Make sure to build yourself a fancy vacation in there somewhere.”

I know AJ is very successful. He has more subs than me, and that’s saying a lot. But we’ve never streamed while playing each other. It’s kind of like an unwritten rule. We’re friends, not competition.

“Where would I go?”

“The Maldives are nice. I went there last year.”

“I’ll get right on it. How about you put together an itinerary for me?”

“There’s not one. You get a drink, lay on a beach, and maybe get on a couple of boats here and there.”

One thing’s for sure, if I go on a vacation, it is going to be a fancy one. The only reason I still work at the pub on campus is to keep up appearances. I can’t have anyone, especially my closest friends, asking how I have money to do things when I’m not working, getting it from my parents, or taking out loans.

OK, fine, I’m technically still working, but this job is way more fun. I can sit at my desk, in front of my monitors, play games, and get paid. A lot. I just have to wear a lot less clothing while doing it. But now I can afford tuition, pay my bills, even go on spring break with my friends.

And I don’t have to catfish my brother’s friends to do it.

I introduced AJ to the superiority of RPGs. He never even played Dark Souls until I got him into it. And, now, he’s pretty fucking good at it—like me.

You’re welcome.

Maddie and Carter are at the library studying for exams, so I know they won’t be home until later. But after about an hour, when I hear a bang on the door, I know it’s Shelby and maybe Austin, too.

“Alright, I have to go,” I say with a wave.

“Quitter,” AJ responds with a wave of his own, which is usually how our games end.

“Come in!” I call as soon as I turn off my camera and stash my mask in my desk drawer.

I’m right, Shelby steps through the door, followed by Austin. She glances at my screen and then comes to an abrupt halt while Austin continues past her, collapsing onto my bed.

“ Damn it, ” she growls, “did I miss him again?”

“Sorry,” I say with a coy smile.

Shelby knows about my streaming gig, but she’ll never tell on me. She’s my best friend, after all. And, besides that, she likes a good secret. She’s also not a big gamer, so she’s guaranteed not to blow my cover online.

“He’s so hot,” Shelby gawks at the frozen frame in the corner of my screen.

“You can’t even see him!” I laugh.

All she can see on the screen is AJ sitting in his chair wearing fitted joggers and a compression t-shirt. Granted, you can still see the contours of his muscle underneath, but he’s completely covered. Sometimes he wears a black undershirt, other times he’s shirtless or wears a black tactical vest with nothing underneath, and other times it’s like tonight.

But just like Shelby, I’ve never actually seen AJ’s face and I’ve never met him in person. The best part about the image on my screen is that he’s wearing a mask, just like me. I’ve only ever known him as AJ who wears the Ghost mask and he’s only known me as Riley who wears the purple Purge mask.

“Who’re you talking about?” Austin peers down his chest from my bed. He’s so tall, he takes up the entire fucking thing.

“AJ, one of my friends I play games with.”

Shelby’s voice drops an octave. “ Friend… ” she snickers with an eyeroll.

“How old is he?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where does he live?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is he American?”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know if he’s American? ”

I give a shrug. “He has an American accent, so I guess he is. But he could be Canadian, or from somewhere else.”

I would never ask, but I have my own evolving hypotheses. At first, I thought AJ might be Italian because he had a giant Italian flag hanging on the wall behind him for a while. Then I thought he might be Middle Eastern because he mentioned his dad travelling to Kuwait for work.

Or he could just be some dude who owns a passport.

“For real, though,” Shelby chimes in, “how long have you known him again?”

I pause, doing the calculation in my head. “Three years.”

Austin looks appalled. “And you’ve never seen his face?”

“No.”

“Because you have a mask kink and now you’re kindred spirits?” Shelby guesses. “He’s the reason you stopped seeing Houdini, isn’t it?”

“Houdini?” Austin squints.

“As in,” I shoot Shelby a pointed look, but I can’t keep a straight face to save my life, “ Harry Houdini.”

“That’s his name?”

“No,” I snicker, “his real name is Bailey.”

“He likes—” Shelby stifles a laugh, “tying people up.”

I cast her a sideways glance. “Don’t judge.”

“Trust me, I’m not! ”

“What?” Austin scrunches up his nose. “Like you? ”

A smile pulls at my cheeks. “What can I say? Electrical linemen have a lot of useful skills.”

“Quit acting so demure, Austin,” Shelby scoffs. “I’ve seen the kind of porn you watch. Besides, this is what happens when you ditch us for a bunch of hoes on a golf course—you miss all the good stories.”

“ Anyway, no,” I interject, “AJ’s not the reason I stopped seeing Bailey. The mask’s just a bonus.”

“This is weird,” Austin mutters dismissively.

“I don’t want anyone online to know who I am, and neither does he,” I retort. I don’t mention the streaming part. Wanting to remain anonymous as a girl on the Internet is enough to convince Austin that mine and AJ’s arrangement is understandable.

AJ might have different reasons than me, but it’s still common ground. He says it’s because of his family, that it’s not safe to flash around his real name or where he lives. He could be straight up lying to me, but it doesn’t actually matter. I respect his decision and he respects mine. It’s why we get along.

“Ooh, what if he’s royalty?” Shelby’s eyes go wide. “Or the son of some high-ranking politician? He could be a billionaire! ”

“Or he’s just some loser in his mom’s basement,” Austin chuckles.

“Hater,” Shelby quips over her shoulder. “Anyway, what are you doing Saturday night? And if you say you already have plans, then no, you don’t.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“ Guess who’s coming to Riverfront Live?”

I arch my brow in anticipation as Shelby leans forward dramatically.

“Shapeshift,” she hisses, her eyes ablaze with excitement.

“ What? ” I exclaim.

“ What? ” Austin’s head pops up. “Why didn’t you tell me until now? I’m leaving tomorrow for an interview in New York.”

“Where at?” I ask with intrigue.

“I don’t know,” Austin shrugs. “Out in the Hamptons—some guy my dad knows who works with the Knicks.”

“Well, that’s a bummer,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.

“The band just announced it, you know how they are.” Then Shelby turns up her nose. “And maybe this is your comeuppance for only showing up after a breakup so you can watch movies, eat our food, and sulk.”

“I’m in,” I say, considering the matter closed.

Shelby lets out a whoop and prances to the door. “I’m going to bed, I have class in the morning.” She turns and shoots me a look. “ You— prepare for the night of your life,” and then she turns to Austin, “and you— good luck with your sulking.”

No mercy.

Shelby disappears around the corner and I take a seat on the edge of my bed next to Austin.

“She’s right, you don’t come here anymore unless you don’t have anyone else to entertain you.”

“Yeah. I miss you all…” He trails off for a few seconds, like he’s deep in thought. “I miss you, Dallas.”

“Tell me about it,” I scoff. “You used to play with me almost every night and now you barely ever log on.”

“You want to come with me?”

“Where?”

“To New York.”

I cast a skeptical glance over my shoulder. “Like your wing woman?”

“ No, like my actual woman.”

“Don’t make it weird,” I chuckle. “And I’m sure you would be sorely disappointed— again. ”

I’ve seen the girls Austin dates. And to be clear, I’m cooler than any one of them. That being said, I don’t fit in with that life. I don’t go to the places Austin and his teammates go or associate with the people they do, who are well-connected, whether it be in professional sports or the corporate dynasties that absorb them after graduation.

I start to rise, but Austin grabs my forearm before I can. “Why?” he asks incredulously.

Then I look him right in his caramel eyes that still look the same as they did when we were kids.

“Because we’ve already done this, and it didn’t end well.”

Because I remember what happened during my freshman year of college.

My mom’s voice echoes in the back of my head. Stay with Austin, he’ll watch out for you. And I listened to her just like I did when I was a freshman in high school. Except, this time, instead of going to movies and the pool and running around town in his Range Rover, Austin asked me to go to the basketball team’s post-tournament party on some fancy rooftop downtown.

I went as his date, and it felt different at first. We felt different; him in a tailored outfit instead of sweats and me in a long bodycon dress and heels. No one asked for any IDs and no one cared who I was as long as I was next to him.

But then, sometime around midnight, Austin disappeared. He was gone. Eventually, people started leaving, and before I knew it, the only people left nearby were a girl in a skin-tight green catsuit and thigh high designer stiletto boots and a guy who was almost eight feet tall and looked like he stepped out of a Gucci ad.

“This is so embarrassing, and I’m really sorry, but I can’t find Austin. I need a ride home.”

What’s even more embarrassing is that while standing next to them, I looked like their pre-teen daughter, even in heels.

“Oh my god, of course!” She motioned for me to follow. “I think I saw him talking to Addison, but that was a while ago.”

Addison, his most recent flavor of the month.

“You’re Dallas, right?”

I nod.

“Austin loves you.” That’s great, where is he? “You’re like his little sister,” she coos endearingly.

Come to find out that Addison Moseley’s father is on the university board of trustees, a partial owner of the New York Knicks, and is probably the mystery associate Austin is meeting with on this trip. Maybe I can hang out with his driver while he’s with Addison and her father at some exclusive club. No, thanks.

As soon as I climb into the back of his teammate’s Audi, I block Austin and don’t speak to him again for another eight months. Because, now, I can’t help but notice that Addison, and every girl that comes after her, looks the same—not like me.

“This is your villain origin story,” Shelby said in an attempt to make me feel better.

“No,” I replied, “I think that happened a while ago.”

That’s the last time I try to be someone I’m not. It’s also what I remember every time Austin gets on his flirty bullshit. Because that’s what it is—bullshit.

And, right now, that’s exactly what his hand is on my back as I continue.

“Anyway,” I say dryly, “you date HBO series and I’m a Sci-Fi Channel marathon.”

Without a word, Austin’s hand slides up the back of my neck and then I feel a gentle pull, subtle but familiar. He’s not even listening. He’s never listening. I keep the armor on, and this is why things are the way they are. I pull back before his face gets too close, his grip loosens, and we’re back to where we started—acting like it didn’t happen.

You don’t get to mess around with the goth girl just because you’re bored.

“Besides,” I shoot him a sardonic smile as I spring off the bed, “you know I don’t have boyfriends.”

I head to the bathroom for a shower, where I shut myself inside to steam like a lobster before bed. And, just like every other time, Austin is gone by the time I return.

●●●

It never fails, I can own five of the same pair of black skinny pants for work and every time I go to change, they’re nowhere to be found. I should’ve taken my clothes with me to class. I had a meeting with my adviser, which ran long because we got into a long and drawn-out discussion about the latest cyber security issues as applied to the job market. Totally useful in the context of planning out my courses for senior year, but not so great when I realized I still had to go home and change before work.

I’m running around the house in my shirt and underwear until I finally find all my black pants in a pile on top of the washer. Then it dawns on me that I was going to run them through a steam cycle after a keg exploded all over me a few days ago. Now, all of them have been marinating in a pile with the one soaked in an IPA.

Awesome…

I fish out a pair that smells the least foul and sprint back up to the bathroom to finish fixing my hair. After running a curling iron through it, I touch up my eyeliner and do a final once-over. Realizing I forgot to put on my necklace when I left this morning, I hurry to my room and reach for the vintage black glass bowl on my dresser where my everyday jewelry resides when I’m not wearing it.

But it’s empty.

My stomach drops and I start scanning my room, laser focused on every surface. But my necklace is gone, nowhere to be found. I run back to the bathroom and search the floor, the cabinets, the shower, and even shine the flashlight on my phone down the sink. Nothing.

No, no, no, no…

I go tearing down the hallway and down the stairs, scanning the floor as I go, until I burst into the kitchen where Shelby has her homework spread out over the table.

I’m practically out of breath. “Have you seen my necklace?”

“Huh?” Shelby squints at her laptop screen.

Heat blooms across my cheeks and my eyes begin to water. “My necklace—have you seen it? The amethyst!” As if that’s news to anyone. It’s the only necklace I’ve ever worn on a regular basis.

“Hold on,” she mutters, clicking away at something.

“ WHERE…IS IT? ” I roar at the top of my lungs.

Shelby’s eyes go wide and she slowly swivels her head around. I must look insane, shaking and half wild with anxiety.

“It's on my dresser ,” she snaps. “You said you wanted me to clean it the next time I cleaned mine!”

“What?” I drag my fingers beneath my eyes, wiping away the tears that escaped during my outburst.

Shelby furrows her brow. “What's wrong with you? Why are you crying?”

“Nothing,” I sniff, trying to compose myself. “Sorry, I thought I lost it and I was freaking out.”

“ Ya think? ” She shoots me a pointed look. “Don’t worry, it’s laid out to dry with everything else.”

And when I scurry up to Shelby’s room, my necklace is there; the vibrant amethyst pendant on a silver chain. Once it’s clasped around my neck, I press my palm to it like I have to memorize its feeling all over again.

After making it out of my own personal crisis unscathed, I step straight into the drama at Blood Horse. As soon as I approach the bar, Kara, my coworker, lets out a grunt and pops up at the far end of the counter near the basement door.

“This is clearly harassment!” she shouts over her shoulder.

When I round the corner, I see a five-gallon bucket sitting at her feet with Whole Kosher Dills stamped on the side. She plants her hands on her hips and glares down at the bucket with disdain.

“Why are you hauling a bucket of pickles out here?” I ask, glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen.

“I don’t know!” she bellows. “Because Ron said it’s pickle night! Fifty cent pickles all night long!”

“Equality!” Ron’s booming voice echoes up the stairwell, and a moment later he appears at the bottom of the stairs. “Doing my part for the feminist cause. Anyway, I thought you said you work out.”

Kara looks like she’s about to crack a tooth from clenching her jaw so hard.

“How much are pickles normally?” I ask.

And do that many people here order whole Kosher dills with their beers?

“Who can say, Dallas?” she chirps before whipping around to glare at Ron, who appears at the top of the stairs. “ But everyone’s getting their fucking pickles tonight! ”

This shouldn’t be a shock to any of us. Beneath his phony exterior with the five o’clock shadow and tousled hair shiny with product, I get the feeling that Ron got married, had a kid, and immediately regretted leaving the bar scene. Which is why he hangs out here more than any owner should and then tries to simultaneously hit on and insult any woman in a 10-foot radius.

It’s also not out of the norm for Ron to create odd specials to move product faster, even pickles. I’m just glad I didn’t have to drag them up the basement stairs. But pickles or not, I’m in a good mood because since I turned 21, I’m finally allowed to freely work behind the bar. Up until now, I could only run food and serve beer, but not pour it, which slows everything down. And liquor? Forget about it.

However, on really busy nights, Ron bent the rules out of necessity and I got to practice, which Kara and the rest of the bartenders were stoked about.

“If anyone asks how old you are, just run out the back and Ron won’t fire you.”

Based on Ron’s behavior around women, which I picked up on pretty quick, running out the back door always seemed like a viable option regardless of the situation.

But Ron picked a good night for his pickle special because Thursday nights are always busy on campus. He tries to convince Duane in the kitchen to fry them whole, but ends up getting cussed out instead. I make a really cute design for the sign board outside, the “ Pickle Ron Special ”, complete with pink lettering and a neon green Kosher dill with Ron’s stubble and wavy hair.

However, since I have no seniority compared to everyone else at Blood Horse, I still have to run food and drinks when it gets busy. But I like talking to people, especially tonight when it involves shit-talking my boss and his pickles. So, that’s exactly what I do when I load up with two armfuls of chicken wings for three guys at a table by the window.

“What’s the deal with this pickle special?” the one with chestnut hair asks while I set down the baskets of wings.

All three of them look strikingly similar with their high and tight haircuts, clean-shaven faces, and the same thick black watches. And based on their facial features, the ones with chestnut hair and black hair look like they could be related. The third just kind of looks like he’s either spaced out or drunk.

“It’s a pretty sweet deal,” I reply, leaning on the back of the empty chair. “The owner is a misogynist and a cheapskate, so we’re hawking his old-ass pickles to unsuspecting patrons.”

“ Damn, ” the one with black hair chuckles.

“Let me know if you want any.” I point to a half empty pint glass sitting near the empty chair. “Can I take this one?”

“No, not yet,” the chestnut-haired guy pipes up. “We have a fourth,” then he nods over my shoulder, “right there.”

A few moments later, I sense someone at my shoulder, and when I glance up, I do a double-take. The fourth man with shiny black hair looks down at me, studying my face, and then smiles.

“ Da-allas… ”

I blink, and then my mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I just stare at him for an awkward amount of time, until I can finally coax a sound out of my throat.

“ You… ”