Zara's Curse (Empire of Fangs) (2 page)

Zara turned to get a better look at him. She was taken aback by his good looks.
 
He had bleach-blonde hair that hung carelessly to his shoulders like a surfer’s.
 
He wore designer jeans that probably cost more than Zara’s entire wardrobe.
 
He was in shape, but not overly buff.
  
His teeth were two perfect rows of white, and his eyes were a piercing shade of green.
  
He leaned on the bar with a casual assurance—that aura of invincibility reserved only for those who coast through life without ever getting their clothes wrinkled.
 
Usually when Zara encountered such a hunk, she would become a stammering, nervous mess, but something about the guy’s smirk…it just screamed “Tool.”
 

“Making friends?” Zara asked.

The jock aimed his smirk at Zara for a moment and then turned and shouted “Three Jay-mo’s” to the bartender.
 
The bartender sighed and went looking for the bottle of Jameson.
 
Abby was already asking what kind of car the guy had.
 
Zara cringed and wondered why Abby didn’t just ask to see a recent bank statement.

“2013 Mustang.
 
Muscle cars all the way.
 
None of that foreign crap,” he said, while setting a shot down for both girls and himself.
 

“No…I’m okay.
 
Thanks though,” Zara said, already peeved at the guy’s obvious intent to get them both hammered.
 
She would get herself hammered
thank-you-very-much
.
 
And why couldn’t, just once, the guy come and talk to Zara and not Abby? Even if he was a tool, the attention would be nice once in a while.

Abby picked up the proffered shot.
 
“I’ll take mine,” she said, and she threw it back.
 
She swung her golden locks around whipping Zara in the face with her hair and shouted “Woooo!” A few of the Goths couldn’t help but look over and shake their heads.
 

The jock liked this war cry though, and threw his shot back as well and grunted apishly and slapped the bar hard a few times, shaking the whole bar.
 
Even the bartender jumped.
 
Zara was surprised at the sound it made, this guy was pretty damn strong, she thought.
 

The back and forth flirting was more obnoxious now that the whiskey had been introduced into the mix.
 
It was a very boring mating ritual that Zara had witnessed umpteen times before in every hallway of her high school and now her college.
 
A guy tells a bunch of lies and the girl eats it up or vice versa.
 
Cut to a month later and at least one of them is usually bawling their eyes out over the messy break up.
 

“We’re doing woo noises already?” Zara asked.
 
“Can’t we work our way up to those?”

Abby was locking eyes with the jock and oblivious to Zara’s existence.
 

“It’s cool.
 
My name’s Drake,” the newcomer said, “What’s your guys’ names?”
 
He flashed his perfect teeth and swiped a few strands of hair from his eyes.

Abby replied with lightning speed.
 
“Abby Winters,” she said.
 
She always said her full name like that, and it irritated Zara to no end.
 
Abby offered a limp hand to him, as if she wanted him to kiss it.
 
And when he actually did, Zara got slightly nauseous.
 

Zara excused herself to the bathroom without giving Drake her name.
 
He seemed annoyed for a second but then shrugged and went back to hitting on Abby, who she could hear say, “Oh, that’s just Zara.”

Zara didn’t really have to go to the bathroom, she just wanted an excuse to go have a smoke and get away from Abby and her new friend.
 
She was trying to quit, but the combination of the sweet sugary booze and awkward flirting was just begging her to light up.
 
Also, she had a paper due for her history class on Monday that she hadn’t even started yet, which was gnawing at the back of her mind relentlessly.
 

She went down a long dark hallway with painted red walls and giant mirrors framed in ornate chrome, and came upon a metal staircase that spiraled upwards to the next floor.
 
As she climbed the stairs, she thought of how cool it was that she was partying in a former church. Well, at least
her
version of partying, which at the moment, was quite lame.
 
She told herself it would get better. She had only been 21 for a few days.
 
She needed time to turn on the awesome.
 
She needed to go out with her other friends too, friends who were on her same wavelength.
 

On the old stone walls there were old sepia-colored pictures of people from long ago, the kind of photos Zara sometimes found at her grandmother’s house, and would ask “Who is this?” to which her grandmother would always squint long and hard at the picture before saying: “Beats me.”

The dapper men in the pictures wore fancy suits and had handsome faces and devil-may-care hairstyles.
 
Zara gazed at one picture of a brooding heartthrob, leaning on some old tank of a car, with his hair slicked back and eyes as dark as crude oil, and thought: “Oh vintage cutie, wherefore art thou?” before dreamily continuing her trek upwards.
 

She came to another hallway and looked at more pictures on the wall.
 
She passed a few more doors, then stopped at one when she heard a whimpering sound coming from inside.
 
The door was ajar. She pushed it open a little more.
 
She saw a guy’s back. He was leaning on a girl who, judging by the look on her face, was in the throes of ecstasy. The guy seemed to be giving her a hickey.
 

Zara tried to close the door quietly but the guy, in one swift motion, jumped up and grabbed hold of the door handle with his hand, keeping it open and looking straight at Zara with an angry look on his face.
 
He had blood on his chin and wild eyes. “Just two people making out,” he said, before slamming the door.
 

Zara walked down the hall towards a sign that said “Smoking Patio.”
 
She felt slightly embarrassed about walking in on the lovers.
 
Embarrassed and a bit jealous.
 
How exciting it must have been for them, two lovers sneaking off to quench their untamable desires for each other.
 
Zara definitely couldn’t relate.
 
Her last boyfriend’s idea of spontaneity was ordering mushrooms on his pizza.
 
She sighed heavily at the thought.
 

The door to the smoking patio was heavy and it took her a few hard shoves to open it.
 
She went through and onto a stone patio slicked with rain.
 
She was only a story up, but it was a high story, and there was a nice view of downtown Denver.
 
Along the edge of the patio was an iron fence, with jagged, churchy spikes on it.
 
A few groups of people had been braving the rain and sitting at some of the iron tables, while some were standing huddled together and chatting about underground Goth bands, trying to trump each other with obscure musical knowledge.

Zara zipped up her hoodie tight and pulled her hood over her head.
 
It had gotten much colder since they arrived.
 
She thought of her grandmother, “Well it’s Colorado.
 
If you don’t like the weather wait five minutes,” she would say at the slightest complaint over the weather.
  

She took out her pack of blue American Spirits, pulled out a smoke and lit up.
 

She walked to the edge of the fence and looked down at the slick Denver streets.
 
The neon lights reflected on the puddles below, and it cast a dreamy, hypnotic effect on Zara.
 
She looked at the new line of people below who were waiting to get into the club.
 
The gloomy Goth rock band had begun playing again, and it sounded distant and muffled, like far off thunder.
 
She closed her eyes and listened to the cars swish around on the water in the street.
 
It was such a serene moment that she barely noticed the guy standing beside her.
 
When she did finally notice him, she was startled at first, and then embarrassed for flinching.
 
Had she really become this oblivious?
 
Or was every guy in this bar a ninja…

He was tall and skinny.
 
Not really scrawny, but slender.
 
He had dark black hair that was short and messy in a careless, yet attractive way.
 
He looked about her age, but much more adult around his eyes, which were such a light shade of blue they almost appeared to be silver.
 
Unlike most of the guys she had seen downstairs, he wore simple dark jeans, with no hooks or chains attached, and a simple short-sleeved white button-up shirt.
 
On his wrist he wore a leather band that looked dusty and old. He was looking off at the moon, which was only a white sliver in the dark sky, and smoking an electronic cigarette that glowed blue at its end and made Zara suddenly very self-conscious of her primitive tobacco stick.
 

“Hello,” he said, taking a long drag on his gizmo.
 
“You look deep in thought.”
 
His voice had a soothing tone to it, not happy or sad.
 
It sounded like music to Zara after hearing the grunts and growls of the jock downstairs.

Zara groped for something to say. “Just a little.
 
I’m uh…escaping my friend for a moment.”
 
She tried not to stare at him but couldn’t help herself.
 
He looked so familiar.
 
She had a strange feeling she had seen him somewhere, but could not place it.

“I know the feeling,” he said.
 
“I was actually thinking of jumping before you showed up, but I don’t much think it would do the trick.” He shot her a clever smile.

Zara laughed, “Well, I’m sure the staff here is used to jumpers.
 
It is a Goth club after all.”
 

He laughed, and Zara had never heard a laugh that sounded so sincere and natural.
 

“Micah,” he said, offering a hand, which Zara shook immediately.
 
His hand was as smooth as silk, yet firm, and just a bit cold.
 
Either that or her’s was very hot, which was a definite possibility, Zara thought.
 

“Zara,” she replied.
 
She took her eyes off his face long enough to notice his shirt was pretty wet from the rain. “Aren’t you cold? You’re all wet.” She said.

He looked himself over and seemed mildly surprised.
 
“So it would seem I am.
 
Guess I was in deep thought as well.
 
It’s just been one of those nights.”

“Here with friends?” She asked.
 

“I think so.
 
Hard to tell sometimes,” he said, jokingly but with a note of sadness in his voice.

The two laughed uneasily and Zara wracked her brain for something to say.
 
She began to say something but he cut her off.
  
He made a face like he just remembered something important.

 
He looked at her kindly, but it felt to Zara as if he was looking straight through her. Time seemed to slow to a stop.
 
Even the light around them seemed to dim and fade.
 
Her cigarette began to smolder into the filter.
 

 
“Well, Miss Zara, I must return to the fray,” he said.
 
“Have a pleasant evening.
 
See ya later.”
 
He then strode back into the club before she could utter more than an “Okay, you too…”