Wicked Hunger (4 page)

“Where are they from?” My curiosity gets the better of me and a hint of excitement slips through my mask. Samuel sees it and grins.

“LSU and Alabama.”

The two top college football teams in the country. I can’t contain my smile any longer. I’ve got for sure full rides with a dozen colleges, promises of scholarships and more from twice that number if I commit now. But most of those offers are from my home state colleges UNM and NMSU and the surrounding states, which are good schools, but not the best. I want a top college. It’s not that I care about the prestige or the fame that goes with playing for teams like Alabama or LSU. I want the carnage. Teams like that play other top teams. They go at each other with bone crushing force born from a need to be the best. I’ll help them out with that, but I’m after the pain, not the record.

Coach Benson’s whistle calls our attention back to practice, and I’m forced to put on hold my dreams of inflicting maximum damage on other college players. I’ll have to settle for my own teammates for now. I throw myself back into practice, although I tone down my enthusiasm a little in order to keep from maiming my teammates before the scouts get here. Most of the offense that comes in contact with me still walks back to the locker room feeling the residual ache, but it’s not too bad. As for me, I find myself almost happy as I follow the rest of the team into the locker room.

The feeling lasts through my shower, through getting dressed, all the way until I get out to the parking lot and see her.

Just
the sight of her pink and black hair sends fire racing through my entire body. The chin length cut with the ends fraying out in a pixie-like style make her defined cheekbones stand out, the pink wisp matching her full lips in a way that makes them look even sweeter. Her smoky eyes watch me carefully, on guard. Every inch of her is beautiful, I realize for the first time, but it’s only a small, unimportant thought in the back of my mind, about to be swallowed up by the aching need to wrap my fingers around her neck.

For several excruciating minutes, neither of us moves or speaks. Ivy holds perfectly still, but I can see the fear in her eyes. She doesn’t move because she’s likely afraid of looking aggressive. I don’t believe for a minute that Van is right about her knowing something about us. This girl is simply smart, level-headed enough to realize that I am more dangerous than I look. Running only incites a predator’s drive to conquer. Even with her standing still, I am the first one to take a step.

My other foot follows, picking up speed as they go, and carrying me over to her before I can form a thought coherent enough to stop my body from taking control. Ivy’s eyes are big and bright when I finally pull myself to a halt less than two feet in front of her. She draws in a slow breath as her blue eyes sparkle with panic. Her bottom lip trembles so slightly I would never have noticed it if I weren’t staring at her so intently. I want to touch her rose petal pink lips, but whether to see them turn scarlet with blood or simply to feel their softness against my mouth, I don’t know. I just want…to touch her.

“Z-Zander,” Ivy says quietly, her lips barely able to form the single word.

I can’t respond. If I move a single muscle, my hunger will take control. She’ll be dead before she can even start to cry out for help.

She bites the corner of her lip, looks at the ground, and then back up at me. “I’m, um, sorry, if I, uh, did something to offend you earlier,” she manages to say.

Ivy bites her lip again, which does absolutely nothing to curb my desire to make her suffer, and waits for me to say something. All I can do is watch her canine dimple her flesh and beg it to keep going. My hand moves from my side, toward her. Ivy flinches at the movement, and I pull myself together enough to bring it back.

“I…should go,” Ivy says suddenly. She starts to turn, but my hand snaps out and grabs her arm before she can complete the movement. Her eyes fly to mine. I can see the tears forming. The glassy affect they cause makes her eyes melt into liquid sapphires.

We are frozen like this, with her about to cry and me holding her arm, when Samuel and a couple of the other guys walk around the building and see us. All three of them slow to a halt as they take in the scene.

“You okay, Zander?” Samuel asks. “Is she bothering you?” The three with him square their shoulders in my defense. Ivy only blinks in disbelief, dislodging a single tear.

“No,” I say, “we’re fine.”

“You sure?”

Samuel scrutinizes Ivy. Her average height, maybe five foot seven, is nothing compared to mine, and our weights are an even bigger discrepancy, but these guys know me. Thanks to my careful control, they only see me as a quiet, calm guy who never raises his voice or shows any kind of aggression off the field. They know, too, that I’ve had trouble with persistent girls before. None of them have ever asked why I don’t date, and no one has ever been brave enough or stupid enough to insinuate that I might be gay, but they are aware of the fact that status-hungry girls have no place in my life. They’ve run interference for me before, and they must all think this is just another one of those times.

“We’re fine, Samuel,” I assure him. “Go ahead. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

The three of them nod reluctantly and head toward their cars. I don’t let go of Ivy’s arm until they leave. Fear that she’d run away isn’t what made me hold her until we were alone again. It’s the bruises. My hand springs away from her skin and blood rushes to the injured tissue, discoloring it instantly. She sees the finger-shaped splotches and her other hand reaches up to cover them. Her touch must hurt, because a few more tears fall down her cheeks.

I don’t know why, but my fingers are suddenly on her cheek. Her gasp makes me pause. Another tear falls, and I watch as my fingers glide across her silky skin and brush it away. It is by far the strangest experience I have ever had. Not just touching a girl’s face, but touching Ivy’s skin and feeling something other than the desire to crush and disfigure it. Those feelings aren’t gone, not even close, but battling with the urge to dig my fingers into her skin and strip it away is the desire to simply run my hands over every inch of her. It’s almost as strong as my hunger.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

She just stares back at me.

“About your arm,” I add.

My gaze is drawn down to the hand that is hiding the damage I did to her. My fingers follow. Ivy doesn’t stop me from peeling her hand away and revealing the bruises. The mottled purple spikes my hunger to the point that nothing else matters. It takes all my effort to keep my hands still. Pain ripples off her arm. I can almost see it. I
can
taste it, warm and luscious on my tongue. The most decadent desserts have nothing on the taste of suffering for me. My tongue runs across my bottom lip, begging for a deeper draw.

Without warning, Ivy jerks her arm out of my grasp. She stumbles back a step and bumps into her car. “I have to go,” she mumbles, turning and stepping further away from me.

I panic. She can’t leave. “You didn’t do anything,” I blurt out.

She stops, but doesn’t turn back around. I should let her leave, get her away from me as soon as possible and make sure she never comes near me again. Just let her walk away.

But I don’t.

“Earlier this afternoon, you didn’t do anything to offend me. You didn’t even say anything. It wasn’t you.”

Ivy’s body stays turned, but her blue eyes peek back at me from over her shoulder. “It wasn’t me?”

I shake my head, a lie, but one that will keep her from walking away from me like she should.

“You seemed pretty upset.” She turns around to face me slowly.

“Just having a bad day,” I say honestly.

“Oh.”

We stand there in awkward silence. I don’t know what to say now. The only girl I ever talk to is my sister, and that usually involves arguing. I don’t want to argue with Ivy. What
do
I want to do with her? No, strike that. What
can
I do with her that won’t involve getting arrested or locked up somewhere worse than jail? I can say goodbye, I tell myself.

I can’t seem to get the words to leave my lips, though. Frustration spins me away from Ivy, and I stalk over to my truck without another word to her. A collection of sounds drift past me, but the blood pounding through my body doesn’t let me hear them clearly, let alone understand them. My hunger screams at me to turn back. Desperately, I want to give in. My truck door slams shut behind me and the tires squeal as I tear out of the parking lot. In my rear view mirror, I catch sight of her pink striped hair as she stands in the middle of the parking lot staring after me.

Keeping my truck on the road consumes me. More than once, I find myself slowing down, signaling to exit the freeway, only to speed back up and get into the far left lane, away from the exit ramps. In the middle of rush hour, my fellow drivers hardly appreciate my struggle. Their honking and angry gestures roll off me. Their problems are so insignificant.

I drive. And drive.

I can’t understand the intensity of my attraction to Ivy. Yes, she is beautiful, and there is an edge of something captivating in her eyes I can’t quite pin down, but I know this isn’t a normal reaction to a pretty girl. It’s as if my emotions are trying in vain to beat out my hunger, pushing me to lose myself in her before I kill her. That thought sticks with me. The truth of such a simple idea wedges itself into my consciousness.

Eventually, the traffic thins. It’s the lack of people flipping me off and blaring their horns that actually makes me notice. When I realize I’m through the never ending construction on I-25 and approaching the exit to Bernalillo, I finally let myself jet across the lanes to the exit and take it. It’s a small town on the outskirts of the Albuquerque metro area, miles away from Ivy. Instead of turning toward Bernalillo, I take a right and head past the Sandia Mountains.

Two hours until I have to pick Van up. It’s more than enough time to give my hunger what it wants. It will take me at least that long to burn away my encounter with Ivy. A random dirt road that looks to be heading out into the plains catches my eye. I speed through the high desert in search of something that will sate the hunger still pulsing inside of me. The sight of a herd of Pronghorns moving through the scrub and grasses grabs at my hunger viciously. Seconds after sighting them, my truck is abandoned on a dirt road, my feet silently carrying me toward the herd as my hunger swells in anticipation of being fed.

Van would launch herself straight into the thick of the deer-like creatures and let her hunger take over. I have no desire for chaos. Instead, my hunger becomes increasingly unbearable as I stalk forward silently. A deliberate noise made by me kicking a rock spooks the herd. Their black, pronged antlers perk up, bringing images of Ivy to life and fueling my hunger even more. The animals scan the area cautiously, but they don’t run. I can taste their wariness as it hovers on the verge of full out fear. The memory of Ivy’s wide eyes and racing pulse slips through my control. Any thought but fulfilling my hunger is shoved away.

I creep forward, making enough noise to frighten the animals, but not enough to scare them away. Their quivering muscles, poised to run, drip with panic. I drink it in. Nearly close enough to touch one, I stand to my full height. The second they see me, they flinch, but remain locked in indecision. This is the ultimate moment of fear for them. The musk that fills the air is thick with terror. I crave this moment just as much as the pain that will follow.

In an instant, the moment passes, and every Pronghorn in the herd jumps into action. Completely overtaken by my hunger, I have no ability to resist. I lunge after them in a mindless need to consume. It only takes mere seconds to reach one, to pull it down and succumb to my hunger completely.

I don’t know how long it takes for me to shake off my hunger-induced haze. Only the sound of my phone ringing snaps me back to reality. Van’s face staring back at me from her contact picture sends my eyes to the time. Eight-fifteen. I snap the phone open as guilt piles on top of my shoulders.

“Van, I’m sorry, I’ll be right there,” I say as soon as I get the phone to my ear.

“What the crap, Zander? I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes. Where are you?” she asks.

“Uh, hiking. I’ll be there in half an hour. Sit tight.”

“Hiking? What on earth…?”

She’s just going to rant at me, so I end the call and start booking it back to the truck. I push myself to get back to the road as fast as I can. I make it in less than fifteen minutes and jump into the truck. When I finally make it back to the dance studio, the sun is almost completely gone. My baby sister sitting in the shadows of the building looking scared and angry kills me. She knows it, too.

Van sits there staring at me with her narrowed eyes and huddled posture for a full minute before picking herself up off the ground and stomping over to the truck. She turns to glare at me as soon as she sits down, but her fierceness falters when our eyes meet.

“Zander,” she says quietly, “are you okay?”

“Great,” I say. “Sorry I was late. Let’s go home.”

I move to shift into reverse, but Van stops me. “Zander, you’re never late. And you’re sunburned.” She stops to wrinkle her nose. “And you smell weird.”

She waits for me to say something. I opt for silence.

“What’s wrong? Did you slip up?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“No,” I snap. She flinches at my sharp tone and I sigh. “Almost.”

“What happened?”

I almost tell her. So badly, I want to tell someone. Van is the only one who will really understand what I’m going through. But I can’t. When she told me how much she wanted to kill Ivy, I passed it off, blamed it on her hunger maturing. If I admit how close I came to ending her life myself, not once but twice now, she will be furious with me. Even worse, she’ll be more convinced than ever that this singular girl holds some kind secret to our release.