Page 72 of White Lights
“Hold up.” Simon stops walking, thrusting a hand in front of Dez. “Isn’t that the ski lift?”
There are no streetlights, only the waning artificial moon, but they’ve been walking long enough for their vision to adjust.
“And isn’t that … a bunch of idiots hanging from the cables?” Dez squints up above the chairs where it appears a handful of last-years have climbed atop the chair lift and are swinging from the steel wire.
“That’s Jet,” Simon says, obvious awe in his voice. His mentor whoops maniacally, swinging and letting go, catching random cables like a suicidal gymnast.
“Forget the party, I’m not doing that,” Simon says.
“Just because your mentor’s doing it doesn’t mean you have to,” Dez says, pointing at a crowd of first-years waiting in line to board the chair lift like regular people, like people without a death wish. Every one of them stares up at the last-years on the wire like they’re crazy.
Which they are.
Speaking of which, is Rafe there? Dez can’t see him on the wires yet, but she wouldn’t put it past him to show o? like these unhinged lunatics.
She and Simon join the line behind Alice Quinn, Paul Rowan, and other first-years. They nod hello, but everyone seems nervous, wound tight with the anticipation that they might soon let loose.
Dez doesn’t feel right about being here. How can she go out to a bar when her brother’s in the hospital, fighting for his life? And besides, the last time she’d come to Villains, all she’d done was humiliate herself, then black out.
“Please don’t leave me,” Simon says. “You’re getting that look in your eyes like you’re about to bolt, and I need a wingwoman tonight.”
“You’re finally going to go for it with Esther?”
Simon nods. “I’ve gotta shoot my shot. It’s getting ridiculous.”
“The school year just started, and Esther’s not going anywhere. But I support you shooting your shot. Just support me in not getting wasted. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”
“’Tis a deal, m’lady.”
“Don’t talk like that to Esther.”
“T’will not.”
“That’s not even correct.”
“Fucketh off and sit thine ass on the ski lift.”
Dez and Simon both squeal as the chair lift scoops them up, carrying them toward the distant chalet at the top of the mountain.
“Back home in Oklahoma,” Simon says, “the local dive was in my cousin’s trailer. He used to buy Milwaukee’s Best at the Food 4 Less and charge double the price. Then I read online how to build a thermal immersion circulator, and voi-fucking-la, Golden Eagle Moonshine was born.”
“The last bar I went to,” Dez says, swinging her legs, watching the snow pass distantly beneath her, “was in this beach town called Ventura. I’d just finished shooting the film that got me into Acheron. And I took the cast and crew to celebrate. All two of them.”
She smiles at the memory. She can still see Asher at the bar, beerson the table between them, the moment he reached out and ran his thumb across the back of her hand.
“Oh,” Simon says. “You were into one of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve literally never seen that expression on your face. What is that, a smile?”
“I was into one of them,” she admits. “His name’s Asher. But I’ll probably never see him again.”
“I think you will,” Simon says.
A noise behind them makes Dez duck. Jet and his fellow last-years swing through the air, grabbing hold of the wire over their heads. She and Simon stare at each other, incredulous.
“How are they doing that?” Dez asks.
