Under Different Stars (3 page)

Sipping a glass of water, I glance at the world beyond the bar. It’s a crush of people and I’m glad that I mostly get to stay back here and don’t have to venture out there except when we need ice. Drunken people make me nervous. I dislike their predictable unpredictability—the emotions that are so intense and seem to turn on a dime. I’ve been subject to too many drunken people in my life. Once I get out of my situation, I plan on staying away from bars and nightclubs…and drunken people.

“HEY…HEIDI…HEIDI.” I hear a male voice slurring behind me. A handsome man dressed in a dark suit is hailing me. His tie has been loosened rakishly at the neck while his short, brown hair is falling artfully over his brow. He’s leaning over the bar between us. Seeing that he has my attention, he shouts, “I DON’T LIE, HEIDI. WHERE ARE YOU FROM, SWEDEN OR SOME SHIT? HEY, COME OVER HERE.” He crooks his finger at me, trying to get me to approach the bar.

I shake my head and continue sipping my water.

“HEIDI…I LIKE YOUR BRAIDS—COME ON—I WON’T BITE. I DON’T LIE! I SWEAR I’M TELLING THE TRUTH WHEN I SAY THAT YOU HAVE THE SWEETEST ASS I’VE EVER SEEN,” he calls with the look of drunken earnestness.

Glancing down the bar, Tina approaches the man calling to me. “YOU NEED SOMETHING?” she yells above the din, throwing down a napkin in front of him.

“I NEED HER,” he points to me, leering.

Before Tina can answer him, an enormous man behind the drunk reaches down and pulls him off his feet by his necktie. “Apologize to her,” I hear him say, just above the noise of the crowd. The look on the corporate man’s face would’ve been comical if I wasn’t so absorbed by the sheer size of the man holding him. He’s at least a half-foot taller than the man he’s holding. In this light, his hair looks blond—platinum, the same as mine. It’s long, to his shoulders, pulled back from his face and tucked into his black, leather jacket.

“I’M SORRY!” the drunken man shouts hastily. I give him a mute nod, accepting his apology. The giant blond man in front of me lets go of the drunk’s tie, dropping him to the floor. The intoxicated man fumbles backward away from the bar, disappearing into the crowd behind him.

“Thank you,” I sigh in relief to the tall stranger, beginning to step forward to speak to him. Then, I see his neck. Large, inky, tribal tattoos shoot up one side of it. I stop and my eyes widen. Two other blond men, each around the same size as the one in front of me flank him then, their eyes focused on me.

As I step back, Tina gets closer, dropping a new napkin in front of each of them intending to take their orders. Backing up further, I put my hand on the wooden doorframe leading to the basement. Feeling like I just hit a tripwire of a trap, I place my foot on the top step leading to the basement and see what I don’t want to see. The tall, blond man tenses and begins to spring over the bar.

Pounding down the stairs, I dash toward another set of stairs that lead up to the cargo doors. My braid is seized from behind and my head snaps back brutally, knocking me off my feet. A meaty arm goes around my waist pulling me back into a tree-like chest.

“Kricket, you can’t outrun me,” he whispers in my ear.

“Who’s Kricket?” I ask, clenching my teeth against the pain from the whiplash he just gave me. “Let go of me, freak!”

“You’re Kricket,” he says lightly, turning me around to face him. “Daughter of Arissa Valke of Alameeda clan.”

Holding my neck and staring into his blue eyes, I retort, “I’m Jane Klume…of the White Sox clan, so let go of me before I scream, you piece of sh—” He shakes me roughly.

“You’re a little rebel and you’re definitely Etharian—I’ll prove it,” he says sternly, pulling out a knife from a shoulder holster. Holding my braid in his hand, he slashes the sharp edge over my hair, severing it. Immediately, the hair in his hand turns black and becomes dust while the stub of hair that’s still attached to my head begins to lengthen and grow until it’s the exact same length it was before. I’m not shocked. It has been doing that since before I can remember. He smiles. “Greetings, Kricket.”

“Who are you?” I ask, watching the stairs as the other two men tread cautiously down toward us.

“My name is Kyon and this is Forester and Lecto…we’re your friends,” he replies, attempting a smile that looks more like a shark showing its teeth. Visions of every social worker I’ve ever been assigned to bounce rapidly through my head. They were all very different, but they all have one common thread. They always claim to be my friend right before they leave me in the deepest pit of hell.

“What do you want?” I ask, trying to buy time so I can figure out how to get out of this.

“We want to return you to your family.” He watches my reaction.

Feeling a deep sense of déjà vu, I try to think of what to do next. “What family? What are you talking about?”

“The family from which you were stolen. You’re a very important member of our clan,” The shark smile comes back to his face.

“Is that right?” I ask sarcastically, not believing a word he’s saying. “What am I, royalty?”

“No…you’re much higher than that. You’re the daughter of a priestess, which makes you a priestess, too,” he replies, his eyes assessing me.

I laugh, but not with humor. “Okay…glad we cleared that up. This is a joke, right? Did you and your buddy Trey get together, pick me out—decide to play with my head or something? It’s not funny, freak!” I try again to pull away from him.

Kyon’s eyes shrink to slits. “You’ve spoken with Trey Allairis of Rafe clan?” he asks angrily.

“The conversation was really one-sided, kind of like this one,” I reply, flinching as his grip becomes even tighter before he shakes me hard again.

“What did he tell you?” Kyon demands.

“I don’t know—something about taking me back to my family so that I can pay for my crimes,” I retort. “It didn’t appeal, so I had to say no.”

He flashes me a lightning-fast smile that dies just as quickly. “He has no idea what you’re worth.” Somehow I know he’s being truthful, or at least, he believes what he’s saying is true. “It’s a pity…your eyes…they’re Rafe, but you have your mother’s face—her hair. You look Alameeda, too.” A shiver escapes me.

“You knew my mother?” I ask, seeing the cold calculation in his eyes. I’ve always known that I’m different. My first haircut made that shockingly clear and is the very reason one foster family returned me to DSS the next day. The caseworker didn’t take my foster mother seriously and I never let anyone cut my hair again after that. I’d scream and cry and make a huge fuss until they’d give up.

“Your ignorance makes you less appealing. You should try not to speak,” he says, ignoring my question about my mother with an arrogant twist of his lip.

I ignore his suggestion. “So, what are you going to do now?” I can’t see any way out of this because not only does Kyon have a death grip on my arm, his friends, Forester and Lecto, are flanking us. 

“Now I—” Kyon doesn’t get a chance to finish because the sound of a shotgun racking cuts him off.

CHAPTER 3

STRANGERS

“Bug, you okay?” Luther’s deep voice calls from the stairs behind us, holding the shotgun trained on Kyon next to me. He inches down the basement stairs toward us, watching my eyes. Shaking my head, my eyes drift to Kyon, trying to read what my defiance will cost me. Kyon’s murderous scowl speaks volumes.

“We called the police,” Jimmy yells from behind Luther on the stairs. He’s near Scott, the beafy head bouncer.

“That is a shotgun, is it not?” Kyon directs his question to Luther.

“You’re damn right it’s a shotgun and it’s liable to tear a hole clear through you if you don’t let go of Kricket,” he replies, clenching his teeth.

Kyon smiles down on me, tightening his fingers on my upper arm. “Kricket,” he grins. I close my eyes briefly, knowing my lie has been exposed. “It’s such a powerful name,” he breathes. Not taking his eyes from me, he says to Luther, “You fire that weapon, and you will hit Kricket as well.” Kyon turns, hauling me again toward the cargo door.

“Shit!” Luther says behind us. “Scott, hand me your piece.” An instant later, the sound of a slide being engaged echoes behind us. “That’s the sound of a Glock 22PT pistol, black, 40 S&W, 15 rounds, polymer full-size frame with a 4.49” barrel and night sight. Personally, I would’ve gone with something that has more bling, but Scott here has a hard-on for law enforcement.”

“Am I supposed to be frightened?” Kyon asks, turning back to Luther and grinning.

“That’s the general idea,” Luther says, matching his grin except his is capped with gold teeth. “Now, let her go before I see how many rounds it takes to drop you.”

Holding my breath, I wait to see what Kyon will do next. Deliberating for a moment, Kyon lets go of my upper arm abruptly. Feeling his gaze on me, I want to hide from him as he’s memorizing everything about me. Slowly, I take a step back from him, watching his blue eyes follow me.

“Don’t go far, Kricket,” Kyon says softly, smiling his shark smile at me again. I grimace, seeing the look of confidence in his body language, a second later, Kyon strides menacingly toward Luther.

Luther tightens his grip on the gun. “Blondie, you’re about to get capped. Stay where you are!” Luther stresses the last few words, but Kyon continues to cut the distance between them. Not thinking at all, instinct takes over when the loud report from the gun sends a burst of adrenaline through me. Running out the cargo doors, I look over my shoulder just in time to see Kyon stagger back from the bullet entering his shoulder. Pausing, my heart lurches painfully in my chest as Kyon reaches Luther, picking Luther up off his feet and throwing him back into Jimmy on the stairs.

Seeing Forester and Lecto look in my direction, I don’t waste any more time, but run full out into the alleyway between the buildings. Running down the dark, snowy street, the sounds around me muffle. All I can hear is my heavy breathing. Entering the busy sidewalk, I cut through the crowd of people waiting to get into the club. I run like a butterfly, dodging between parked cars and traffic to get to the other side of the street. Glancing over my shoulder, Forester emerges from the alley, spotting me.

I whimper before darting down the street and turning onto Clark when I come to the corner. Ducking into a head shop, I look wildly around for a place to hide amongst the racks of t-shirts and shelves of old vinyl records. The clerk doesn’t even look up from his comic book as he sits on the stool behind the counter.

“There’s a back door—straight through, behind the black curtain,” he says in a bored, monotone voice.

“Thanks,” I breathe. I find the back door leading to a parking lot. Sprinting to the next street, I go north toward Wrigleyville. Running flat out for about a mile, I have to revert to a fast walk as I pinch my side, trying to relieve the stitch in it while looking over my shoulder. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary behind me, I enter a diner that has a payphone. Pulling change and a wad of singles from my pocket, tips from my job tonight, I insert the change into the payphone before dialing Enrique’s cell.

“Yeah?” Enrique answers.

“Enrique? It’s Kricket. Listen, I need your help. I’m at Leo’s Diner in Wrigleyville. Can you meet me?” I ask, hearing the desperation in my own voice.

“Yeah…okay. What’s the 411, Kricket? You sound like you’re trippin’,” he replies.

“Just…can you hurry, Enrique? Please?” I plead, trying to remain calm.

“Yeah, of course. This new club is filled with Abigails anyway…lame. Can I bring Michael?” he asks.

“Yeah, just hurry,” I repeat, peering through the glass doors of the diner.

“Okay. I’m on the way,” he says. Hanging up the receiver, I walk into the diner. Finding a seat near the back, away from the doors, I sink onto the bench seat, picking up the menu and hiding my face behind it. When the waitress comes over, I order a coffee.

Glancing at my watch every few seconds, relief pours through me when Enrique and Michael push through the doors. When Enrique sees me, he grasps Michael’s hand as he leads him to my booth.

“Two coffees,” Enrique says, holding up two fingers to the waitress before turning to me, “Girrrl, ‘sup with you?” Enrique asks, his eyebrow rising in question. “You got a braid on one side and your hair’s just hanging loose on the other side. I gotta say that I’m not loving this look—it’s very Cher meets high school cheerleader.” He’s dressed for the club; his dark eyeliner makes his brown eyes appear almost black.

“And never the twain should meet, in my opinion,” Michael adds, sitting next to Enrique on the opposite side of the booth. He shrugs out of his Burberry coat, keeping his meticulously wrapped scarf in place. “Where’s your coat? It’s arctic out there. All we need are penguins and Nanook of the North.”

“I know, right?” Enrique agrees, not letting me answer. “I should get one of those Russian fur hats, but faux fur, not real fur ‘cuz did you see what they do to those poor animals?”

“Enrique, you’re wearing leather boots. That’s cow,” Michael points out with an eye roll.

“But they’re Gucci!”

Pulling the braid from my hair, I run my fingers through it to unbraid it. “Your sense of moral outrage is well placed, Enrique, but I’m about to join your furry little friends if you don’t help me,” I cut in, causing them both to look at me in question.

“What?” Enrique asks, his eyes going wide.

“Three guys tried to jump me on the train on my way home from work this morning before I ran from them. Now, three different guys tried to take me at the club tonight,” I explain in a stream of words. “I think Luther might have shot one of them before I bailed.” Silence greets my explanation as Michael looks at Enrique. “I need a place to crash for a few days. I need to figure out what I’m going to do.”

“Luther shot someone?” Enrique asks, his jaw dropping open.

“Yeah…this big one, Kyon. He’s like a giant and he was trying to make me leave with him,” I say breathlessly, feeling a burst of adrenaline at the memory.

“What happened? What did they want? Were they DSS?”

“They’re definitely not social serve-thy-selves and I don’t know what they want exactly—it’s something to do with my family—the ones on the train were—they were like really beautiful—tall, like dark-haired athletes—with these warrior, tribal tats on their necks and eyes the exact shade as mine,” I explain, wrapping my hands around my coffee cup and seeing the ripples in it from my trembling.

“Your family? But I thought…” Enrique’s question fades.

“They knew my parents’ names and everything, but they could’ve gotten that out of my file at DSS.” I continue. “The other ones at the club were blond, blue-eyed, but otherwise they could’ve been from the same mold as the guys on the train…except…” I trail off.

“Except what?” Michael asks.

“Except, the ones on the train didn’t try to lie to me. They said they were going to take me to my family where I could ‘pay for my crimes,’” I tell them.

“Pay for your crimes?” Enrique’s voice gets higher with agitation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, but they were being truthful,” I state, feeling my mouth go dry so I take a sip of my coffee.

“How do you know they were being truthful?” Michael asks, looking from me to Enrique.

“Ah, you gotta show him, Kricket. I can’t explain it ‘cuz he won’t believe me,” Enrique says to me before he turns to Michael. “She has like a radar for bullshit. Here—tell her some things about you and she’ll tell you if you’re telling the truth or if you’re lying.”

“Serious?” Michael asks as his eyebrows go up.

“As camel toe,” Enrique replies.

“Um…okay…hmmm…I’m a young republican.” He watches my face.

“True,” I reply, hearing Enrique choke on his coffee.

“You’re what!” Enrique scowls at Michael, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Oh my Gawd, why?”

“I support the NRA,” Michael continues, ignoring Enrique’s derisive tone.

“True,” I reply. Enrique’s eyes widen even further.

“I’m out,” Michael says, looking in my eyes.

“Lie.”

“I have a sister named Beth,” he says.

“Lie,” I reply.

“I’m for real about Enrique,” Michael says softly, looking down.

“True,” I reply, watching Enrique’s frown soften.

“How do you do that?” Michael asks me, sounding awed.

I shrug. “I could always do it, but it’s not absolute. I can’t tell you why you’re lying…I also have trouble discerning a lie from someone who is drunk because the signals fluctuate…it messes me up. And I only know if you’re lying, not whether it’s the truth. You can believe something to be true, but you could be wrong…you see what I’m saying?”

“Yes, it’s still a little subjective,” he replies, and I nod my head in agreement. “So the men on the train were telling the truth?”

“Yes, Trey was one of the ones on the train, but the one in the bar, Kyon, lied,” I say, paling.

“What did he say?” Enrique asks, his brows pushing down.

“He was truthful when he said they wanted to take me to my family, but he lied when he said they were my friends,” I explain, feeling ill.

“So, no glad tidings from home?” Michael asks. I shake my head slowly. “When did your parents die?”

“When I was young—five…I remember them a little, but it was just us, no one else.” My mother’s beautiful platinum hair flitters through my memory. “I can’t recall any other family…I don’t know what these men are talking about.” I drop my chin, not looking at them because I’ve always hidden my odd characteristics from others. I’ve never told Enrique about how my hair re-grows instantly because there’s been no good explanation for it.

Enrique’s expression becomes one of resolve. “Kricket, you’re coming home with me and we’ll figure out what to do. Do they know where you live?”

“Yeah…Kyon, that’s the one at Lumin. He must’ve known because I live right above there,” I reply in a raspy voice. “Luther shot him.” My throat begins to close as the shock of what happened is now wearing off. “The police are probably looking for me. I left my backpack there. They’ll find everything I’ve worked so hard to hide.” I think of the keys to my apartment. Someone from the bar will tell them where I’ve been living, believing that they’re helping me.

Tears that I can’t hold back fill my eyes. Reaching across the table, Enrique takes my hand. “Maybe we should go to the police station. Maybe you’ll be safer with them.

Pulling my hand back from his grasp, I wipe my eyes on the back of my fists, feeling embarrassed by my tears. “It depends on where they put me. Since I’m a runaway, I’ll probably be put into corrections. If that happens, I probably won’t last until my birthday,” I say honestly.

“Why not?” Michael frowns.

“’Cuz I look like Barbie.” I reply, knowing they can connect the dots.

“Bad girls don’t like Barbie?” Michael asks, both his eyebrows rising.

“No. Bad girls want to rip Barbie’s head off and flush it down the toilet,” I state emphatically, with a half grimace. “I might have a chance in a fight if it’s one-on-one, but that rarely happens. Usually, it’s a pack and they have someone distract the guards. You can see it coming and have no way to stop it.”

“What do you mean?” Enrique’s mouth is open in shock. I lift up my shirt, exposing my abdomen and show them the scar in my side. Enrique gasps, putting both his hands to his mouth.

“Shank,” I say, running my fingers over the ugly crescent scar, “made from a plastic comb that was sharpened to a knife’s edge. They cornered me in the Rec. Room after the social worker left with their friend who pretended to be sick. I can’t go back. I really need your help,” I plead quietly.

“You got it, sister,” Enrique assures me, looking from me to Michael with a “holy crap” expression on his face. “Listen, I’ll pay for the coffee while Michael goes and hails a cab. You just sit tight here.”

Tears brighten my eyes at his words. Unable to answer him, I nod my head. Reaching across the table, he grasps my hand and squeezes it before letting it go. Michael and Enrique rise from the booth, moving toward the cashier at the front of the diner.

Following Enrique with my eyes, I watch him walk casually by a booth at the front of the restaurant that contains two men. Feeling the hair on the back of my neck begin to rise, I recognize the violet gaze from the man on the train—Jax. Feeling like I’m moving in slow motion, I get up from my seat, backing away from the front of the restaurant.