Hideaway Page 2

  I cleared my throat, moving on. “You need to work on your counter-attacks,” I told her. “And your speed. If you stop, you give the attacker a chance to get a good hold on you.”

  “I knew I was safe with you.”

  “You aren’t,” I replied sternly. “Always assume danger. If anyone other than Michael grabs you, they get what they deserve anyway.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, and I could feel her aggravation. I understood it. She didn’t want to live her life always on guard. But she was barely taking basic safety precautions, and there was no limit to how sorry she was going to be taking the wrong chances. Michael wasn’t always around.

  But when he was, at least he was with her. It had been weeks since I’d really talked to him.

  “How is he?” I asked her.

  She rolled her eyes, and I could tell the mood was shifting to something lighter. “He wants to fly off to Rio or somewhere to get married.”

  “I thought you both decided to wait until after you were done with college.”

  She nodded, sighing. “Yeah, I thought so, too.”

  I narrowed my eyes on her. So, what was going on then?

  Michael and Rika’s parents expected a wedding in Thunder Bay, and as far as I knew, the couple was fine with that. In fact, Michael had been very adamant about making a big deal out of it. He wanted to see her in a dress, walking down the aisle toward him. He grew up thinking she would marry his brother, after all. He intended to show everyone she was his.

  And then it hit me.

  Damon.

  “He’s afraid a fanfare wedding will entice Damon to return,” I guessed.

  Rika nodded again solemnly, still staring out the window. “He thinks if we get married nothing bad will happen to me. The sooner, the better.”

  “He’s right,” I told her. “A wedding—hundreds of people and Will and me at his side—Damon’s ego couldn’t take it. He wouldn’t stay away.”

  “No one’s seen or heard from him in a year.”

  I flexed my jaw, anticipation curling its way through my gut. “Yeah, that’s what scares me.”

  A year ago, Damon wanted Rika to suffer unimaginably. We all did, actually, but Damon went a little further, and when we didn’t stick by him, we all became his enemies. He attacked us, hurt her, and helped Michael’s brother, Trevor, try to kill her. Michael was smart to assume that Damon’s anger probably hadn’t dissipated. If we knew where he was, that would be one thing, but the detectives we hired to find him and keep tabs on his whereabouts hadn’t been able to locate him.

  Which explained why Michael wanted to take measures to keep Rika out of the limelight, as such a grand wedding in our affluent, seaside hometown would put her.

  “You don’t care about a large wedding,” I reminded her. “You just want Michael. Why not go off and just do it like he wants?”

  She was silent for a few moments and then spoke quietly, her eyes in a far-off place. “No.” She shook her head. “Just behind St. Killian’s, where the forest ends and the cliffs give way to the sea. Under the midnight sky…” She nodded, a beautiful, wistful smile touching her lips. “That’s where I’ll marry Michael.”

  I studied her, wondering about that far off, dreamy look in her eyes. As if she’d always known she would marry Michael Crist and had been seeing it in her head all her life.

  “What is that building?” Rika asked, jerking her chin, gesturing out the window.

  I followed her gaze, but I didn’t have to look to know which building she spoke of. I’d chosen this location for our dojo for a reason.

  Gazing out of the glass, I stared at the building on the other side of the street, about thirty stories higher than ours, the gray stone darkened by the rain and the broken street lights.

  “The Pope,” I answered. “It was quite a hotel back in its day. Still is, actually.”

  The Pope had been abandoned for several years and had been built when there was talk of a football stadium being constructed over here as a way to bring more tourism to Meridian City. And a way to revitalize Whitehall, the rundown, urban district in which we now stood.

  Unfortunately, the stadium never happened, and The Pope went under after struggling to stay in business.

  I scanned the darkened windows, the shadows of drapes just barely visible inside a hundred rooms that now sat quiet and empty. It was hard to think of such a large place not having an ounce of life in it anymore. Impossible, in fact. My leery eyes watched each dark void, my sight only taking me a few inches into the room before darkness consumed the rest.

  “It feels like someone’s watching us.”

  “I know,” I agreed, surveying each window, one after another.

  I saw her shiver out of the corner of my eye and picked up my sweatshirt, handing it to her.

  She took it, giving me a smile as she turned to go back down the stairs. “It’s getting cold. I can’t believe October is here already. Devil’s Night will be here soon,” she sing-songed, sounding excited.

  I nodded, following her.

  But as I cast one more glance behind me, chills spread down my body thinking about the hundred haunting, vacant rooms at the abandoned hotel across the street.

  And a Devil’s Night, so long ago, when a boy who used to be me hunted a girl who might be like Rika in a place that just may be that very same dark hotel out the window right now.

  But unlike tonight, he didn’t stop.

  He did something he shouldn’t have done.

  I walked down the stairs, inches behind Rika and matching her steps in perfect time as I gazed at the back of her hair.

  She didn’t realize just how close danger was to her.

  Kai

  Devil’s Night

  Six Years Ago

  Devil’s Night. This was it.

  Our last one.

  We were graduating next May, and once the four of us went off to college, we wouldn’t be home unless it was for winter or summer breaks. And by then, we’d be too old for this. We wouldn’t have the excuse of youth to explain why we chose to celebrate the night before Halloween, indulging in pranks and other childish shenanigans, for no other reason than to raise a little hell. We’d be men. It wouldn’t fly, right?

  So, tonight would be it. The finale.

  I slammed my car door shut and walked through the parking lot, past Damon’s BMW, and toward the rear entrance of the cathedral. Opening the door, I walked into the lounge area, consisting of some tables, a kitchen, a few couches, and a coffee table littered with pamphlets on how to pray the rosary and Fasting in a Healthy Way.

  I inhaled a deep breath, the ever-present odor of incense filling the quiet halls. I was Catholic by birth, as was my friend, Damon, but in practice, we were Catholic in the same way Taco Bell was a Mexican restaurant. I played along for my mother, while Damon played along for amusement.

  I headed down the hallway to the actual church, but a loud thud pierced the silence, and I stopped short, looking around for where it came from. It sounded like a book dropping onto a desktop.

  It was a Friday morning. Not many people would be here, although there were probably a few stragglers kneeling in the pews and praying their penance, since confession had just ended.

  “What did we discuss yesterday?” I heard Father Beir’s burly voice from somewhere off to my left.

  “I don’t remember, Father.”

  I smiled to myself. Damon.

  Taking a left, I stepped quietly down another marble hallway, dragging my fingertips over the shiny mahogany paneling on the walls and trying to withhold my laughter.

  Stopping just before the open door to the priest’s office, I hung back and listened. Damon’s smooth, calm tone answered Beir as if following a script.

  “You’re unrepentant and irresponsible.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  My chest shook. Damon’s words were always in complete contradiction to how they sounded coming out of his mouth. Yes, Father as if in complete agre
ement that he’d misbehaved, while at the same time Yes, Father, aren’t you proud of me?

  Most of us reconciled in the confessionals out in the nave, but Damon—after many years of failed “redirection” on the part of his father and his priest—was forced to be schooled face to face for weekly counseling sessions.

  He fucking enjoyed it. He took pleasure in being anyone’s devil.

  Twisting my head around, I peeked into the room, seeing the priest walk around the desk while Damon knelt on a single pew, Beir’s big, black Bible on the stand in front of him.

  “Do you want to be judged?” the father asked.

  “We will all be judged.”

  “That’s not what I taught you.”

  Damon’s head was bowed enough for his black hair to hang just over his eyes, but I could see the hint of a smile that Beir probably couldn’t. He wore our school uniform, khakis with his typical wrinkled, white Oxford, cuffs unbuttoned, and a loose blue and green necktie hanging around his neck. We were on our way to school, but he looked like he’d been in his clothes all night.

  He suddenly turned his head toward me, and I watched as he jutted out his tongue, moving it side to side suggestively and grinning like an asshole.

  I broke into silent laughter, smiling at him and shaking my head.

  Douche.

  Turning away, I walked back down the hallway, toward the church, and left Damon to finish his “lesson.”

  There were many things I loved about this place, but being lectured like that wasn’t one of them. The masses bored me, the Sunday school monotonous, many of the priests distant and cold, and so many of the parishioners vile to each other Monday thru Saturday who suddenly changed their tunes between ten and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. It was all such a lie.

  But I liked the church. It was quiet. And you could be quiet here without the expectation of forced interactions.

  Heading down the aisle, toward the back, I scanned the four confessionals, making sure no lights were on that signaled a priest inside. Since they were all empty, I walked down to the far right, choosing the last one, partially hidden behind a column and the one closest to the stained-glass windows.

  I pulled back the curtain and stepped inside the small, dark cubicle, pulling the curtain closed again. The scent of old wood surrounded me but there was something else I faintly noticed. A hint of being outside. In the wind and water.

  Sitting in the hardwood chair, I looked ahead at the darkened, wicker screen in front of me, knowing the other side was empty. The priests had all moved onto their other daily duties. Exactly how I liked it. I always did this alone.

  I leaned down, my elbows on my knees, and clasped my hands together. The muscles on my arms burned with an involuntary flex.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said in a quiet voice. “It’s been a month since my last confession.”

  I swallowed hard, always more aware that when a priest wasn’t listening to me, I was. And believe it or not, that was sometimes harder. No one to offer me forgiveness but myself.

  “I know you’re not there,” I told the empty air on the other side. “I know I’ve been doing this too long to keep making excuses, but…” I paused, searching for words. “But sometimes I can only talk when no one is listening.”

  I drew in a deep breath, my shell falling away.

  “I just need to say things out loud, I guess.” Even if I didn’t get the cheap penance that did nothing to absorb the guilt.

  I breathed in the smell of water and wind, not knowing where it was coming from, but it made me feel like I was in a cave. Safe from eyes and ears.

  “I don’t need you. I just need this place,” I admitted. “What’s wrong with me, that I like to hide? That I like my secrets?”

  Damon, I couldn’t imagine, had any secrets. He didn’t brag about his dirty deeds, but he never hid them, either. Will, the other member of our pack, didn’t do anything without back-up, so someone was always aware what he was up to.

  And Michael—our team captain, and the one I was closest to—hid only from those around him what he hid from himself.

  But me…I knew who I was. And I made a concerted effort never to let anyone see it.

  “I like that I lie to my parents,” I nearly whispered. “I like that they don’t know what I did last night or last week or what I’m going to do tonight. I like that no one knows how I like being alone. How I like fighting, and I like the private rooms in the clubs…” I trailed off, lost in thought, remembering the past month since my last confession and all the nights I’d lost myself.

  “I like that my friends are bad for me,” I said, continuing. “And I like to watch.”

  I wrapped one fist inside another, forcing the words out.

  “I like to watch people. Something new I just discovered about myself.” I ran my hand through my hair, feeling the ends rough with gel. “Wanting to be in it, to feel what they’re feeling, is almost hotter than actually being a part of it.” I looked up at the dark screen, seeing just a sliver of it left open. “And I like hiding it. I don’t want my friends to know me as well as they think they do. I don’t know why.” I shook my head, thinking. “There are just some things that are more exciting when they’re a secret.”

  Dropping my eyes, I sigh. “But as much as I get off on not being seen, it’s lonely, too. There’s no connection.”

  Which wasn’t entirely true if you saw it from the outside. Michael, Will, Damon… we were all cut from the same cloth in a way. We all loved the wild ride and craved the high that only came from doing anything we weren’t supposed to do.

  But me? I liked my privacy. More than they did.

  And I liked it sordid. As much as they did.

  I pushed the shame away, coming back. “So, anyway, I lie. All the time. Too many times to count.” To everyone. “I also resent my father most of the time. I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain about five hundred times the past month, and I’ve had pre-marital sex to break up the monotony of every waking minute consumed with impure thoughts.” I shake my head, laughing at myself. “Penance won’t make me stop, and I have no intention of changing, so…”

  So that’s why confessing to a priest does me no good. Again, I like doing everything I do wrong.

  But it felt good to admit it. At least I confessed, right? At least I knew I was doing things I shouldn’t, and that was something.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the wall and breathed in the silence.

  Fuck me, I couldn’t wait for tonight. Thinking about the catacombs or the cemetery or wherever we ended up filled me with need. My mask, the fear, the chase… I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling my body heat rise.

  The lull of the fountain at the back of the church dribbled softly, and I heard the echo of a cough in the distance. I didn’t know what I’d be doing first, breaking something, screwing someone, or fighting, but I wanted whatever it was now, and it wasn’t even dark yet. Tonight was the highlight of my year.

  “There’s a story…” a voice suddenly said, jolting me.

  I popped my eyes open, and my heart dropped into my fucking stomach. What the…?

  “What the hell?” I burst out, sitting up. “Who is that?”

  The voice—a woman’s—came from somewhere close.

  Like the other side of the fucking confessional.

  I leapt up from my chair, the legs screeching against the marble floor.

  “No, please, don’t,” she begged, probably knowing I was about to rip open the door to the priest’s chamber on the other side. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I was already here, and you started talking. I won’t say anything.”

  She sounded young, maybe my age, and nervous. I stared down at the screen, her voice inches away.

  “You’ve been in there this whole time?” I growled, my head a flurry of all the shit I’d just said. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  I whipped open my curtain, but then I heard the shutter on her side o
f the screen slide open all the way, and her plea, “Please,” she whispered. “I want to talk to you, and I can’t if you see me. Just give me a minute. Just one minute.”

  I stopped, locking my jaw together. What the hell was she doing over there? Did she know who I was?

  “You can see me,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”

  Something about her voice was fragile. Like she was a vase teetering on the edge of a coffee table. I stood frozen for a minute, debating whether or not to let my curiosity pull her ass out of that room or indulge her.

  Okay. Just a minute then.

  “There’s a story,” she started again when I didn’t move farther, “about The Pope Hotel in Meridian City. Do you know the place?”

  I eyed the screen, barely seeing her outline in the dark.

  The Pope? That multi-million-dollar waste on the shitty side of the river?

  I closed the curtain, taking my seat again. “Who are you?”

  “There’s a rumor about the twelfth floor,” she went on, ignoring my question. “It exists, but no one can get to it. Have you heard that story?”

  I leaned back just slightly, my body still rigid and on guard. “No.”

  “Rumor has it that the family that owns The Pope built a twelfth floor in every hotel they constructed. For the family’s personal use,” she told me. “The entire floor is their residence when they’re in a particular city with one of their hotels. It’s inaccessible to guests, though. The elevator doesn’t stop on that floor, and when it was investigated, there’s not even a possibility for the elevator to stop there. The floor is walled in.” Her voice evened out, and I noticed a touch of excitement in her words. “And so is the stairwell access.”

  “So, how does the family get to their secret floor when they want in?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” she asked. “That’s the secret. For the longest time, people assumed it was just some mystery promoted by the owners and staff to increase the allure of the hotel.” She paused, and I could hear her draw in a breath. “But then guests started noticing her.”