Touch (Denazen #1)(6)

But Kale didn’t crush my windpipe or try to choke me. He just turned toward me—staring. His face pale and eyes wide. Watching me as though I was a fascinating first-place science project, mouth hanging open like I’d presented the cure for Cancer.

On my neck, his fingers twitched, and then he let go. “How—?”

Movement by the door. Dad reached into his pocket—and out came a gun? Things had gone from really weird to I-fell-down-the-rabbit-hole—surreal. My dad didn’t know how to shoot a gun! He lifted the barrel and aimed it at us, hand steady.

Then again, maybe he did.

“What the hell are you doing, Dad?”

He didn’t move. “There’s nothing to worry about. Stay calm.”

Stay calm? Was he crazy? He was pointing a gun in my general direction! If anything about that situation said calm, I was missing something.

Thankfully, my normal catlike reflexes saved our asses. Yeah. More like dumb luck. Dad squeezed the trigger and I dropped to the floor, pulling a very surprised Kale with me. I nearly ripped his arm out of its socket in the process, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He wasn’t concerned about the gun either, his attention still fixated on me. We hit the ground as a small projectile embedded itself into the wall behind us with a dull thud. A dart. A tranq gun? Somehow this didn’t make me feel any better. I could console myself with the fact that the dart hit the wall closer to Kale than me, indicating I hadn’t been the target, but still. Bullets or not, a gun was a gun. And guns freaked me the hell out.

“Move!” I hauled Kale to his feet and shoved him through the door and into the kitchen. He stumbled forward but managed to keep himself upright. Impressive considering he still had on my ill-fitting, soggy sneakers.

“Deznee!” Dad bellowed from the living room. Heavy footsteps pounded against the hardwood as he chased after us. No way was I stopping.

Dad had a specific tone he used when mad at me—which was like, ninety-eight percent of the time—and it never fazed me. In fact, I found it kind of funny. But tonight was different. Something in his voice told me I’d gone above and beyond and it scared me a little.

Something shattered—probably the half-full glass of Coke I’d left on the coffee table last night while watching “SNL” reruns. “Get back here! You have no idea what you’re doing!”

What else was new? Truthfully, even if the gun hadn’t freaked me out, it was obvious Kale, despite the badass vibe, was afraid of my dad. He’d been through something brutal—and Dad had somehow played a part in it. I wasn’t sure why this guy’s past was so important, but I needed to find out.

I propelled him out the back door and into the cool night air. We didn’t stop—even when we came to the property line. And even as we put distance between Dad and us at a breakneck speed, I could still hear my father’s angry words echoing in the cold night, “This isn’t one of your goddamn games!”





3


“We’re almost there,” I said. We’d stopped running a few minutes ago so we could catch our breath. Kale hadn’t spoken since he’d threatened to kill me, only continued to stare as though I’d grown a second—and third—head. I was full of questions, but they could wait for now.

We finally reached the mustard-yellow Cape Cod on the other side of the railroad tracks and followed a small stone path around the back, to a set of bilko doors that had been spray painted black. Written across the front in bulbous white graffiti was Curd’s Castle. I kicked the hatch twice, then waited. Several moments later, with an ear-piercing clatter, the doors opened, and a spiky, blond-and purple-streaked head popped out. Curd. With a nod and a too-eager smile, he waved us inside as if we were expected.

We descended the dark cement staircase and stepped into a dimly lit room. It was surprisingly clean—none of the typical staples you’d expect to see when walking into a seventeen-year-old guy’s room were visible. No half-eaten plates of food or empty soda cans. No scattered piles of video games or magazines. There weren’t even any posters of skanky women in obscene poses on the wall. Not that Curd wasn’t a dog. The place may have looked clean, but it smelled of sex and pot.

Kurt Curday—Curd to his adoring public—was the go-to guy for all your partying needs. Kegs, pot, X, Curd could get it all. A big name on the raver scene and fellow senior-to-be, Curd was one of the organizers of Sumrun. The party, one of the biggest raves in four counties, was a week away, so Curd was a busy guy.

“Dez, baby, I’d be much happier to see you if you weren’t towing along a little pet.” He ran a finger up my arm, then curled a lock of my hair around his thumb, “But hey, I’m up for whatever.”

“This isn’t a social call, Curd.” I glanced at Kale. He stood stiffly by the door, eyes fixed on Curd’s finger running along my skin. His gaze lifted to mine, and I felt a shiver skitter up my spine. Shaking it off, I shuffled away from Curd and into the room. “I got into some trouble with my dad again. I need a place to lay low. You were the closest.”

He shot me a disappointed frown and flopped onto the futon, kicking his heels onto a small, rickety table. “Not to worry, baby. What’d ya get caught doing this time?”

I forced a sly smile and shrugged. “Oh, you know, the usual.” I hitched my thumb back at Kale. “What Dad is thrilled to find a half-naked guy in his daughter’s bedroom?” I hoped that would explain the clothing Kale wore—clothing that obviously wasn’t his.