Page 47 of Such Sharp Teeth

“And remember I’m working tomorrow,” she says.

“The shop or studio?”

When she’s not tattooing, Scarlett works as a freelance illustrator and has a studio space she shares with a few other local artists.

“Studio,” she says. “I’ve got a headache. I’m gonna go lie down.”

“Okay,” I say. “You need anything?”

“No. Thanks, though.”

She goes upstairs, leaving me alone with Reaper, who grunts in my general direction. I finish the beef on Scarlett’s plate, and whatever’s left in the wok. After, I go out back and hit my vape. The sky is clear, and the moon gleams above me, resurrecting the pain in my side. My bones undulate, and when I exhale, the thick cloud of my breath unfurls from my nostrils down across the lawn, rolling like a fog.

I put my vape away and go back inside.

I struggle to sleep, anxiously anticipating tomorrow night. My phone lights the dark.

It’s a message from Ian. It says, Thinking about you.

What else is new? I text back.

Not a thing.

I close my eyes and fall asleep smiling.

—

We used to go to the distillery to party as teenagers. It’s been abandoned for years, a big stone shell overgrown with moss, filled with beer cans and tasteless graffiti. It’s in the middle of the woods, the middle of nowhere. We never got caught, so I figure it’s as good a place as any to set up shop.

It’s a frigid November dusk. Doesn’t matter. I can barely feel the cold. The sun has almost set. I’m scrambling through the woods with a dog crate and sex handcuffs, praying for that pinkish twilight to hang on a just little longer. The day went by too fast. I slept in too late. Kept doing stupid internet searches in hope of answers, all in vain.

The distillery comes into view. It’s deteriorated significantly since I was last here. The roof has partially collapsed, and I doubt it’s safe for me to go inside, but it’s even less safe for me not to.

I enter through the gaping hole of a door. It’s as I remember. Dank. Pipes jutting out from all angles. Smashed beer cans and bottles. A rat skitters along the edge of my view.

I don’t have any time to waste. I start setting up the crate. I make quick work of it, ignoring the rats scuffling through piles of dead leaves and rotting wood.

I set my mind to this. This is the plan. I can’t question myself.

My heartbeat keeps skipping, but I won’t stop.

I can’t stop. There is no second-guessing.

I made the mistake of doubting myself before. Such a big mistake.

Shadows pool around me.

I get into the crate. I reach through and close the latch. I go to handcuff myself. I hesitate.

I hesitate like I did in the car, with Dave. I don’t know why tonight feels like that. It feels just like that afternoon. That sick in my gut. My heart in my throat.

I’m stuck. Trapped in this crate, this body, this moment. There is no out. No distraction. No escape.

The light fades. The shadows sneak toward me. Like his fingers. Like his hands in the car.

When she first brought Dave around, I knew right away. She let him come to our eleventh birthday party. That’s when we first met him. I saw him there, through the orange glow of my birthday candles, in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he kept licking his lips. His eyes were big and unblinking, focused on me. He smiled with his entire face. His eyes, his eyebrows, his cheeks, his mouth. Everything except his teeth. Those he kept hidden.

It was a blaring alarm, a physical reaction. A visceral disgust.