Fruitbat

9. 9

9

Si

1:42 am

I sense Danny wants me to go, but I don’t think he’s okay. He still seems jarred by the fall and may need me. I’m not leaving just yet. It’s too early to go back home. Our house parties don’t end until the sun comes up. My friends can use my place as long as they need. I’m occupied with more interesting distractions.

Looking from the side of my face, out past the storefront, the murky stillness of the streets is eerie outside the blackened windows.

Where is everyone?

Halloween isn’t over. Technically, it’s a new day, but there are still several hours of the night left .

My eyes drift back to the cooler.

“Hmm . . . Coffee milk, is that good?” I quirk my brow and peer back over my shoulder.

Danny’s eyes race away from my backside. I can’t help but grin. I’d give him a little shimmy, if he were still looking.

He’s not really my type. Is he? I’m not sure that I have a type. The guys I’ve dated just happen to be cut from the same mold, conventionally polished with big-money aspirations and bizarre adoration for my parents. They just happen to be the sort who ask me out, I guess

Danny is cute, in a way I don’t usually gravitate toward. He’s dark but handsome, and a bit rough around the edges. His body is thick and solid, with curves in all the perfectly proportioned places. His chest and belly look like the softest of pillows, I just want to curl up against him. He’s shorter than me, by a few inches, but I’ve always been lanky and awkward. The boys in my sixth-grade class talked me into playing basketball that year. It was a nightmare. I never finished the season.

I spin on my heels, curling my shoulders, and stuff my hands in my pockets, strolling back to the counter.

The entry bell chimes as the door swings open and a young couple materialize from the dark void outside the mirrored glass, squeezing past me, heading straight for the back of the store.

Danny’s eyes narrow and track their every move .

The pair huddle in front of the cooler, under the far-end portion of the wall, labeled “wine, spirits and beer” in bold white lettering across the top.

“Do we know them?” I lean on the counter and whisper.

Danny’s intense stare doesn’t waiver. He also doesn't seem to hear me. I gently tap his forearm with my finger. Static sparks our skin, and startles his focus back to me.

He rubs the charged area of his arm, creasing his brow with saucer-wide pupils boring into me.

“Do we know them?” I repeat, in a softer whisper, as I see them approaching in my peripheral vision and step out of the way.

“Fruitbat?” the male queries.

He’s as tall as I am, dressed in a vintage Cranberries: World Tour t-shirt with ripped skinny jeans painted onto his spindly legs, checkered Chucks on his feet and goopy mascara clinging to his eyelashes.

Danny doesn’t speak, but his hands grip the edge of the counter, flexing those delicious forearms. I want to drag my tongue up his milky skin and sample his decadence.

“How the hell are you?” the guy carries on. “Ames, you remember Fruitbat, don’t you?” He turns to the petite brunette with angular features, wearing a black camisole over a little white t-shirt, under a black leather jacket adorned with silver grommets and a leather miniskirt with chunky boots. They’re the sort that used to fearfully intrigue me as a kid.

Very retro-goth. They must be coming from a Halloween party too .

I shimmy to the side of Danny’s counter, hiding between magazine and gum displays, while he acquaints himself with old friends.