Page 101 of Devils' Day Party
“Only in shitty teen novels does any group of friends have a name. You don't want to know some of the names Raz has for you and your shitty friends.” He steps back as I pull the plastic tag off the shoes, and slip them on my feet. Oddly enough, they fit. They're only half a size too big.
I stand up, but Calix doesn't move back like I thought he would. Instead, we end up pressed fairly close together, with him staring down at me, crow-black eyes unreadable.
“Hey asshole!” a male voice shouts, and I jump, terrified that one of the Knight Crew has found us, that our moment together is over before it even begins. Adrenaline floods me, and I decide that I might just kick the shit out of whoever it is. Why not? Today is the start of my new forever.
Instead, we both glance over and find the couple that was in the car Calix just screwed out of a space.
“You nearly crashed into us,” a woman adds as the pair of tourists storm up to us. It's a little late in the season, but we're never entirely without over here. How do I know they're tourists? Because they're wearing matching olive green tees with the shape of Arizona on them. Arizona Homegrown the words underneath the design read. “That was our space.”
“I'm calling you into the police station,” the man snarls, his nostrils flared, face red with frustration. Rightfully so. Calix barreled right over the curb and snatched that space. The fact that he's driving a car worth more than most people's houses probably doesn't help either.
“Why don't I give you some money to fuck off?” Calix says, completely deadpan, his eyes flicking to the woman as she gives his outfit a strange once-over. It's not often you see a hot dude dressed in a white doublet and leather pants with boots, black makeup streaked down his cheeks. As tourists, they'd likely be unaware of the existence of Devils' Day. “Would five hundred bucks help?”
“Five hundred bucks?” the guy asks, glancing over at his female companion. Her eyes widen slightly, as if to say take the fucking money. I quiver slightly, gritting my teeth as I watch the situation play out. How can their dignity be worth any amount of money? Yet … I know what it's like to struggle. Maybe they really need the cash? “I want eight hundred.”
“Fine. A thousand. Take it.” Calix throws a wad of cash on the ground, and the man and his wife scramble to collect it before the wind carries it away. Calix doesn't even bother to wait around to see if they manage to get it, grabbing my hand and dragging me away from the scene. My hand burns where he touches me, even as my heart simmers with anger.
“You can't just throw money at people and get away with being a jerk,” I snap, yanking my hand from his, just outside the front door to the café. It's getting later and later, and I'm exhausted. As soon as I eat, it's going to be game over. I can't fight sleep forever.
“Can't I though?” Calix asks, looking back at me with one dark brow raised. “It's worked for me thus far. Maybe those people need money more than they need me to smile and pretend to be nice?”
My mouth drops open as Calix continues past the front entrance of the café and toward a storefront with men's clothing in the window. I jog after him and grab his arm before he can step inside. We both pause to look down at the spot where my fingers curl around the white sleeve of his doublet.
“You don't need to buy new clothes right now,” I challenge, looking up into his ebon eyes.
“I'm dressed like fucking Shakespeare,” he growls back at me, and one of my brows goes up. I redirect my gaze to his pants.
“Pretty sure Shakespeare never wore low-slung, ass-hugging leather pants.” Calix rolls his eyes and tries to pull away from me, but I just cling tighter to his arm. He lets me keep holding onto him, refusing to drag me along the sidewalk in front of all the passersby. He seriously needs to stay in his own lane and stop worrying about what other people are thinking. If he's so interested in the thoughts and feelings of others, maybe he should try philanthropy instead of paranoia over his own self-image? “You don't need to change, Calix. Just … maybe button up the jacket for the restaurant. Hygiene, and all that. Plus, nobody wants to see your nipples.”
That last statement's supposed to be funny. Only … it doesn't come out that way. A strange tension pulls between us. One of, uh, a sexual nature.
“People are staring at me,” he says, lifting his gaze up and surveying the people passing by. Occasionally, someone glances our way, but even with the tourists, Eureka Springs is still an artists' colony. The shops sell tie-dye and crystals, glass pipes and gay pride flags. There's even a haberdashery—that's a fancy name for a hat shop—that sells steampunk top hats. The town is basically the antithesis of the rural Arkansas.
