FEVERCHAIN 5

Lesbian werewolves, et cetera. FEVERCHAIN is a contemporary horror-romance serial set in the fictional Pinetown, New Jersey.

Emily S Hurricane at it again with another fantastic narration. She is unstoppable.

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Wade texts me: here

His evergreen Jeep is huffing in the driveway. I turn from the den window and scratch the velvet behind Smokey’s ears. He’s splayed across our dumpy suede couch, ice eyes open. Blinks one at a time like a weirdo. I press on the TV. Hockey. I feel bad leaving him when the house is empty. Mom and Clyde are at his sister’s place. Hopefully they don’t stay too late—I don’t know when I’ll be back and the doggy door is staying locked. Thankfully he already took a turd that I had to pick up from the neighbor’s yard.

When I turn the doorknob he lifts his head.

“I’ll be back, buddy.” I crack the door and slide through it, puffer coat swallowing me while I squint at the wind.

The Jeep’s back door opens from the inside. “Wade’s our taxi.” Gwen smiles. She’s wearing a fitted rib-knit thermal, no coat. But she looks happy, eyes and teeth shiny.

“Fucking Robby Bob’s,” I laugh as I get in the car, shaking micro-flurries from my hair. She puts her arm around me, and my heart doesn’t know whether to quicken or slow. Wade’s got Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark playing low on the radio, but the bass is too loud.

He glances at the rear view mirror. “All good?”

“Yup.” I shift in my seat. Should probably buckle up, but Gwen’s hand is over my chest, and I don’t want to disturb it.

“I need a drink,” is all Wade says during the sixteen minute drive.

A bright spot off a dirt road is the bar. Robby Bob’s is pretty busy—the neon lights are buzzing, and there are cars I don’t recognize. I do spot the cars of Wade’s high school friends—the guys he transforms into a giant asshole around.

Sure enough Derek Gugger and Cam LaBorde have a stool table waiting for us, regarding Wade, Gwen, and me like we’re all good pals. This is what adults do—pretend.

I wonder, again, if Gwen heard about the jizz-tits thing.

“Hey!” Derek booms, spreading his arms. The air is hazy and the country music is whining, but his voice carries. “Look who it is.”

The dudes hug, slapping each others’ backs.

“Gwen!” Derek goes for the side hug. “How the hell are ya?”

“Pretty good.”

“Heard about everything, and man, I’m sorry. It’s just fucking crazy, that health stuff.”

“Yeah.” She looks around at the huddles of townsfolk.

“What was the diagnosis again?” Cam’s mouth twitches. “Lesbianism?”

Everyone laughs, but I can’t. Maybe it would actually be funny if they weren’t asshats. I want to tell Gwen hey, don’t fall for it. Her smile is huge—looks genuine.

“Cam’s a fuckin’ drunk. What’s up, Binnie?” Derek hugs me, quick and stiff like he can sense my loathing. Cam tips his beer at me as an alleged greeting.

“How’s the diner?”

“Same as always.” I catch Gwen’s eye. “Let’s get a drink?”

She keeps her hand on my lower back as we snake through tables to the bar, the soles of our shoes sticking to the tacky floor and kicking spilled ice. At the end I see the UPenn students, their faces shadowy from the weak bulbs overhead—Erica and I forget the other guy’s name. He’s wearing the same rain jacket with the big red and blue P. Erica spots me and waves with violent excitement, immediately hopping from her seat. The other student reluctantly follows.

“Who’s that?” Gwen asks. Before I can meaningfully answer, Erica is within earshot.

“You’re Bianca! From the diner!” But she’s looking at Gwen, stroking her green highlights and sipping from her seltzer can. “We haven’t met.”

“I’m Gwen.”

Erica’s smile grows. I feel like my best secret just got uncovered.

“Hi, Gwen,” she holds out her hand. Gwen shakes it. “I’m Erica, and this is Dustin.” Erica gestures to the general vicinity behind herself—Dustin isn’t even there. I don’t know where he went. “We’re ecology researchers.” The last word slurs.

“Ecology? Cool.”

Erica tilts into Gwen’s orbit. “Do you live here? I mean, Pinetown?”

I don’t know if I’m losing it or if Erica is really pushing her breasts together with her arms or if Gwen is falling for it, falling for everything.

“I’m here for now,” Gwen says. Not forever, she doesn’t say, but I know it. Not forever, like Bianca. Oh god. I look at the liquor stacked on the shelves, reflecting red string lights. There’s a stuffed buck’s head mounted to the wall over everyone, watching blindly.

“Me too!” Erica chirps. “Maybe you could… help me out.”

My head whips around at Erica’s tone; I know I must be making a face. Erica’s too drunk or oblivious to notice, her gaze lingering on Gwen’s form fitting top, loose jeans, the thin stripe of tan skin between.

“What’s going on with the coyotes here?” Erica presses, getting close, way too close. “Have you seen any? Please, please, please say yes!”

“Oh, the coyotes again.” Gwen has to lean away to laugh. “I haven’t seen any. Everyone else seems to. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“I’ve been talking about their shit all day.”

“Wh—”

“For their study.” I explain flatly. Gwen finally glances at me. Her amusement fades. Erica ignores me.

“We’re looking around town for shit samples, but their movements are so concentrated, like thirty coyotes traveling together—unheard of. All of the poos are like one, two months old in one part of town, then all like a week old or less in the next... like they’re being attracted, then repelled, by something humans are doing.” Erica finishes her drink and crushes it. “It’s incredible! Just wish my thesis didn’t hinge on me explaining it.”

Gwen looks skeptical, like she has a question but resists. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Hopefully,” Erica sighs. “Could I get your number? In case you see anything?”

I strain to keep a straight face.

“Um, I just broke my phone, actually.”

“Oh,” Erica’s mouth tightens. “That sucks.” She surveys for an exit. “I’ll see you around, see you guys later.” She darts all the way to the pool table, where Dustin is watching a game, holding his drink with two hands like a squirrel.

Gwen looks on after them. “She’s passionate.”

I raise my brows. I’m kinda flaming hot jealous, kinda into it. I’ve never hated other girls, and I don’t hate Erica for what she just tried. I get it. Respect it, even. Clearly, I’m not doing enough to mark my territory during this unprecedented sapphic concentration in Pinetown.

Ew. Bad analogy.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask. No more moping on the barstool. I do that at work.

Gwen turns to me. “No. I’m getting you a drink.”

“I’d like to buy you a drink, Gwen. What do you want?”

“I’m California sober.”

“Oh my god. Like how you’re vegan, too?”

I’m not sure if I should’ve said that, but Gwen laughs pretty hard, a line of spittle connecting her sets of teeth. “I’m serious!” she claims.

“Okay,” I grin. Weird how the atmosphere here makes you feel drunk without a drop. “Want a soda or something?”

“Milk, if they have it.”

“Please don’t make me ask this bartender for milk.”

“I’ll get our drinks, then.”

Oh god, she’s serious. I tell her strawberry daiquiri, please. Please let that cool me down and numb my nerves. Gwen leans over the bar, displaying the brawn of her back and shoulders, precious rib-knit underboob peeking beneath her arm. Her brown eyes track the bartender.

It’s Robby Bob’s son, Billy (their last names aren’t really Bob, but god, imagine). He’s skinny and unshaven, wearing a dirty-looking Giants cap and looking like his tolerance for bullshit is zero under his unibrow.

“Hey, can I get a strawberry daiquiri and a glass of milk?”

Billy cringes before moving towards the slushie machine. Once finished, he sets the drink down like it’s radioactive. Gwen slides it to me. Through the straw, I suck a sweet omen for a hangover.

“What else?”

“A glass of milk, please.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Did you say milk?”

Gwen scratches the back of her head. “Uh, yeah.”

“No. You didn’t. That’ll be five for the pink ice slop.” His gaze glides over the bills in her wallet. “Plus tip.”

Gwen slaps down six bucks, grips my arm, and pulls me away. “What a dick,” she says through her teeth.

“That’s just Billy.” Her grip on my arm pinches. “I’d probably be like that too if I was bartending for hours. In the summer and fall, when we have campers and tourists, it’s awful—”

“Yeah but I’m not rude like the rest of these people. Smells like piss and high fructose corn syrup.” She exhales, long and slow. Rests her hands on my hips. “Sorry.”

“Want to go outside?”

Gwen’s eyes flash. “Always. But I’m trying to have a normal Saturday night with someone I like.” She squeezes me, smiles wanly. “How’s your drink?”

“Corn syrupy, thanks.” Breaking eye contact, I locate Wade, Derek, and Cam with others I vaguely remember from high school at the same table near the entrance/exit. I would really like to leave with Gwen, but her brother has the car keys. I assume Gwen is driving us back since Wade is drinking, but that also means we have to wait for him. “Any idea how long Wade wants to stay?”

Gwen lowers her head a little. “You’re ready to go?”

“No—I mean, drinking at the bar has kinda lost its thrill for me. I’d rather just hang out with you, do what you want to do.” I stamp my boobs under hers, kiss her warm lips.

“No.” She sucks in my breath. “You wouldn’t.”

I push my strawberry tongue into her mouth and she melts. So wet, so hot. Wordlessly, we reach for each other, waves rolling in me, my body flushing to match her heat.

Her lips slide to my ear; she puts my cartilage piercing between her teeth and plays with it, her hands on my waist keeping me close. I take the opportunity to squeeze her ass and feel her smile against my skin. “I want us to take our clothes off.” She pauses. “And fuck in the woods.”

I laugh. “I wouldn’t be opposed if it weren’t for the coyotes, peepers, and that it’s fucking winter.” I look at her face. “It’s flurrying out—you really wouldn’t be cold?”

Gwen stops smiling. “No.”

“You’re gonna get hypothermia.”

She nestles her head between my neck and shoulder. “I’m so hot,” she murmurs. “All the time.”

Slowly, I press my frozen drink against the side of Gwen’s forehead. She puts her hand over mine to keep it there, groans. I feel it thaw, the cup giving way. She’s sucking and sliding her tongue along my neck, her wispy curls tickling my chin and lips, smelling like campfire smoke and fresh-cut hay. I want to let go; I want her to taste me, and I want to taste her. As I try to devise a scheme to get somewhere private, somewhere indoors and with a bed, because we are both too sober and sensitive for the Robby Bob’s bathroom, I catch eyes from the corner of my vision. Cam and Derek are watching us. Derek looks away quickly, but Cam’s gaze lingers as he speaks, the roar of music and voices from the bar burning my ears. Wade’s farther away, his back turned.

Gwen must feel me tense because she shifts from me. “I didn’t give you a hickey.”

I touch my neck and laugh. “I know. I just wish we could go somewhere private.”

“Molly’s Motel. Six minute walk. I’ll carry you there.”

“You cannot.”

“I’m serious.” Kisses so tender. “What do you think?”

“I think—”

Cam’s sauntering towards us, eyes locked on mine as he sips his beer. Gwen turns around.

He snorts and covers his mouth. “Sorry.” He hunches and sways. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Ugh.” I jerk Gwen’s belt loop to pull us away, but she stares at him, vein in her neck jutting.

She digs her heels in, keeps glaring. Cam’s padding into people and chairs. His gaze never leaves us.

I tug on Gwen’s jeans but she doesn’t budge. “Let’s go. I hate this asshole.”

“Me too,” she says, remaining frozen. Eventually he reaches us, gaze blurry glass as he blinks slow.

I watch in painful silence while he giggles, rubs his red nose, claps his hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “Y’know,” he begins, “you with jizz-tits would’ve been a loahhht hotter if you hadn’t cut your hair.”

Fast, Gwen drives a fist beneath Cam’s chin. He gags, clutches his throat and stumbles, eyes bulging.

Holy shit! “Holy shit!”

I expect Gwen to turn around triumphant, but she’s shaking, biting down on her fist. It’s bleeding. What? I move her towards the wall and rub her back. Red is soaking her sleeve and trickling to the floor as she presses her forehead against a nailed up YIELD sign, breathing hard, teeth splitting her finger-flesh.

“Gwen. Gwen. Gwen. You’re hurting yourself.”

She releases her jaw. Spits pink. The skin is curled down from her finger joints where so much is flowing. I stuff my mouth with my palm so I don’t scream. Gwen wipes her face with her arm.

“Grab some napkins and let’s go. Let’s go to Molly’s.”

I don’t know what to do, so I do just that—grabbing fistfuls of scratchy, recycled-pulp napkins like they’ll heal her inside and out. Her beautiful hand, oh god. She’s still tight against the wall, hiding herself.

“Thanks.” Gwen puts the papers over her hand and they darken. She immediately moves for the door, twisting around people, tables, chairs. I struggle to keep up. Erica is observing us. She tries to speak to me when I pass; I pretend not to hear. Once Gwen and I near the door—Wade blocks us.

“Where are you going?” He stares his sister down, sober and serious.

“You’re in my way,” Gwen says.

“Where are you going? Please, Gwen. I’m not even gonna ask about your hand.”

A droplet from her soaked napkin-wad hits the floor. “We’re getting a room at Molly’s. You look fine enough to drive yourself home.”

Wade glances at me, presses his lips together and inhales. “Please don’t.”

“Move.”

“Molly’s.” He looks at me again. “That’s a bad idea.” I don’t know if he’s talking to me or Gwen, but probably to the both of us. I’m not sure why he’s acting like Gwen’s dad—he’s only two years older than her. She’s not a teenager, she’s twenty-four, and it’s not like I’m gonna get her pregnant. But I don’t want to ask, I want to get the fuck out, and I want Gwen to relax and smile again because she deserves that. I think she deserves the whole world for throat punching Cam LaBorde.

“Careful,” Wade growls as Gwen shoves past.

I know not to offer her my coat. She keeps both of us warm, arm-in-arm while we walk towards our bad idea, under the pines and stars until we reach the unnatural lights of the main road, with MOLLY’ OTEL promising refuge in flickering fuchsia.

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