Bad Boy

  She gave me her bashful boy grin. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Know what I’m feeling before I do.”

  I glanced at her phone on the counter. On it was a pic of Vada, her eyes smoky and sly.

  “Oh,” Ellis said, blushing.

  I clapped her shoulder and walked her out.

  Vada was the one who’d put that ring on her finger. They lived on the East Coast, on the stone-strewn shore of Maine. Ellis was on temporary loan to us. To me, specifically. If anything happens to her, I will end you, Vada had said with a brightly murderous smile, and then punched my arm, printing a small purple flower there. She’d have been a perfect bruiser for our team.

  Right. So now you’ve met us:

  Me, the muscle.

  Ellis, the tech genius.

  Blythe, the charmer.

  Armin, the profiler.

  And Laney, our fearsome leader.

  We are Black Iris.

  ———

  Time to kill before midnight.

  The ground level of Umbra, the Cathedral, looked like its namesake: a marble-tiled chamber lined with Gothic arches and stained glass, holy rays in shocking blue and hot pink oscillating over the crowd, their faces upturned, eyes closed in rapture. A Muse track played, the electric organ echoing up into the vaulted ceiling. I prowled toward the center of the dance floor.

  I felt . . . hungry.

  It wasn’t real hunger. A physical craving, definitely oral, but particular. I craved the salt of human skin. The hot copper rush from a kiss with teeth. I thought of the guy who’d grinded on me, but boys weren’t my thing. If only. At least we’re utilitarian in bed.

  What I really wanted was wet cherry lips and soft hands and gasps in my ear as I held a girl against a wall.

  Not like I lacked opportunity. My subscribers had a not-so-secret Fuck Pool whose members approached me saying, You’re my favorite vlogger, I’m your biggest fan, can I dance with you touch you kiss you, and I’d think, You want that guy on the screen, the guy who looks so hot in pixels, but IRL when our clothes come off your eyes will soften with pity, and so sometimes, too often, I was a preemptive asshole. Me, Mr. Feminist. The guy who swore he’d never get privilege amnesia, never forget how shitty it feels to be on the receiving end of misogyny. So I made a rule:

  Don’t fuck fans.

  Worked pretty well, except for the fact that those fans, at least, totally accepted my trans status. Same couldn’t be said of the girls I met in the real world. Girls who didn’t know my history, my specialness.

  Kinda set myself up to be screwed on both sides here.

  I walked into open space as Selena Gomez cued up. This was the closest I came to satisfying the hunger: getting into the middle of a crowd and letting go, letting myself fully fill this shell I lived inside. It started slow. Every other beat a snake of muscle moved beneath my skin, tightness sliding through me as if I came alive only in segments. When the track intensified I started hitting each beat, throwing in a step, a snap turn, my hands playing off my body percussively. Another guy worked in and we shuffled side by side, white sneaker soles flashing. Sweat painted my arms with a neon sheen. Then I stopped feeling the moves, stopped calculating the next step. I simply existed as motion, kinesis, blur. Energy at a slow vibration. Pure flow.

  The track faded out and another thumped in and I felt eyes on me. The guy I’d danced with gave me a bro shake. A trio of girls squeed at us. My blood burned, lasers firing in my veins.

  This was what I dreamed of in those long dark nights when my body wasn’t mine. Someday, I told myself, you’ll stand among them and they’ll see the boy you are.

  It never got old, feeling like me.

  The moment I saw her a thunderclap of silence filled my skull. Everything went dim, stillness spreading from the point where our gazes met. Black ringlets tumbling around her face. Pale hazel eyes, a vivid contrast against dark skin. Tight leather molding to slim curves. Gorgeous, but that wasn’t what arrested my attention—it was the way she looked at me. Not coy, not like a fan who’d watched all my vids, but as if she knew me. Really knew me.

  We clocked each other across the dance floor. She raised one brow and dissolved into the crowd.

  I was on her heels in a heartbeat.

  I lost her in the shift and sway of bodies, the ocean of hot breath and damp skin. My pulse was still amped from dancing. Not just from the dancing now. Before T I’d feel instant chemistry with certain girls—lingering eye contact, slow smiles that felt like falling. The sense that instead of air we were surrounded by some clear ether that rippled when we moved, let us feel each other without a touch. After T it became hyperintense. A hard shot of adrenaline, a spinal jolt. Girls’ glances hit me physically now in a way that was impossible to ignore.

  This girl’s glance made me ache harder than I had in for-fucking-ever.

  I caught sight of her again, the swish of dark hair gleaming, gone, like ink trickling through the crowd. There she was in the foyer, rounding a pillar. Up the stairs. Across the catwalk while the living sea surged below, movements stamped in freeze-frames as the rave lights flickered.

  The girl looked over her shoulder straight at me. Smiled.

  When I reached the dead end of the catwalk, she’d vanished.

  How the hell?

  I stood in a stream of people, scanning. I hadn’t seen her double back and slip past. Either she was very good, or I was getting rusty.

  And I wasn’t getting fucking rusty.

  She beat me, somehow. Outmaneuvered me.

  Impossible.

  And it was quarter to midnight.

  I slunk back downstairs. Wandered into the game room with its glow-in-the-dark billiard tables, dartboards tracing the walls like luminous star charts under the black lights. Maybe a quick display of dominance to patch up my ego. There was always some drunk asshole trying to impress. I headed for the small crowd thronging around a likely candidate at the dartboards.

  It was her, lobbing a dart dead center into a bull’s-eye. In the ultraviolet it burned blue-white, a shooting star.

  The crowd cheered.

  She rolled another dart between two fingers, smiling. Her leather jacket shone.

  Flick of the arm. Bull’s-eye.

  More cheers. An offer to buy her a drink.

  I leaned on a table. Without her looking at me I could sense her awareness. She knew I’d find her here. She wanted me to.

  Interesting.

  I watched her toss the remaining darts in the shape of a smiley face. The bartender poured her a Guinness on the house. She murmured something, and he set another pint before the empty stool beside her.

  Then she turned and looked at me again.

  I took the empty seat, raised the drink.

  “Cheers,” we said at the same moment.

  Our heads tipped back. We watched each other through thick glass. The beer was the color of coffee, and as bitter.

  “You’re very good,” I said.

  “Actually, I’m very bad.”

  “I meant at darts. And losing a tail. But I like bad girls.”

  “Are you a bad boy?”

  British accent, silvery, a sterling precision to her words. London, I guessed. Her curls bounced when she moved, filled with a thousand tiny spirals of light.

  “Depends who you ask,” I said. “How’d you lose me on the catwalk?”

  “Trade secret.”

  I rolled a sip in my throat, savored the taste of loamy earth. “You were a step ahead. Leading me around like a dog on a leash.”

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  Because you know about us.

  “Thanks for the drink,” I said, standing.

  She tapped a nail on the rim of her glass. “Leaving so soon? We’ve hardly met.”

  “Got people waiting.”

  “Tell you what.” She took a long slug, and I could not look away from the waves of shadow cascading down her throat. “Beat me an
d I’ll tell you how I outfoxed you.”

  “I don’t hurt women.”

  “I meant at darts,” she said, imitating my deep voice.

  I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me as a guy or a trans guy. Her tone was dry, ironic, but it had been since she started talking.

  Hell with it. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Should I?”

  “You’re new here. I’m Ren.”

  No reaction.

  “The Ren. From YouTube.”

  “Is this the part where I’m starstruck?”

  “I saw how you looked at me.”

  “Same as I look at any pretty boy.” Her smile had a cutting quality, slicing my insides to ribbons. “So, Ren from YouTube, are you going to play?”

  “We’re already playing.” My voice was all grit. “And I don’t like your game.”

  As I turned to go, fingertips grazed my forearm. The hair there stirred.

  “Be fair. You’ve charmed me with that lovely face and these exquisite arms. Allow me to return the favor.”

  This was starting to feel like one big mind-trip.

  “Do I get your name?” I said.

  “Call me Cressida. Cress, if you like.”

  Chaucer flickered through my head. No calling her bluff—the names we give ourselves are the truest ones. Even when they’re lies.

  “Cress,” I said, “you seem like trouble.”

  “Good thing you like bad girls.”

  “They’re my Kryptonite.”

  “Does that make you Superman?”

  “It makes me a stupid boy.”

  She laughed.

  Oh man. Her laugh.

  “Play me,” she said. “One round.”

  “All right.”

  She carried her beer to the dartboard and I tried very hard not to stare at her ass. Until she bent to retie her boot.

  Nope.

  I made myself count the silver Slinky rings of condensation on a tabletop.

  Cress straightened, shot me a look with that crook in the corner of her mouth that never seemed to fade, and yanked the darts from the board.

  “What’s your game?” I said. “Round the Clock?”

  “With a twist.”

  At a nearby table stood a bottle of Captain Morgan and two shot glasses. She filled one.

  “What are you doing?” I said, my hackles rising.

  “Looking for a worthy challenger.”

  “No thanks.” I laid my palm atop the second glass before she poured. “I work tonight.”

  “What line of work are you in?”

  “One that needs a clear head.”

  She shrugged and did her shot. The leather of her jacket creaked. I could smell it, a pleasant mustiness, and the scorched vanilla of the liquor, and a scent that was her, something that made me think of crushed flowers—a sweetness created by violence.

  Fuck. Ren. Don’t.

  Cress didn’t say a word about me turning down the challenge. Didn’t have to. With a droll look she pivoted and flung a dart without aiming.

  Bull’s-eye, of course.

  She refilled her glass.

  I scrubbed a hand through my hair, grimacing.

  “If you can’t beat me with a head start,” she said, “maybe you should find another line of work.”

  My dumb male ego bristled. I chugged the rest of my beer, belched unrepentantly, and did a shot before my frontal cortex could kick in.

  “Judging by your body weight,” I said, unabashedly ogling her curves, “we’re equally intoxicated. Now give me a dart.”

  She did.

  I glanced once at the board and then, holding her gaze, threw sideways, my arm snapping between our bodies. Just as precise but stronger. I kept my bicep elevated between us, watched her eyes trace the cabled muscle.

  Something clattered to the floor. Her dart, dislodged by mine.

  “Nicely done,” she said.

  Ten or fifteen throws later—I don’t think either of us was counting anymore—we were soused and the score was tied and the crowd around us revolved, a carousel of weird faces, lurid in their glee. Their voices whirled dizzyingly around me.

  “Are you all right?” Cress said.

  If I answered, I might puke.

  I fumbled for my phone. Twelve thirty-four. Ellis had texted me a wolf emoji followed by an angry face.

  Uh-oh.

  I was late and Laney was displeased.

  Cress eyed me sympathetically. “Shall we call it a draw?”

  I leaned on a table. At least I tried to, but my palm slipped and my elbow cracked the wood. “I can keep going.”

  “You can barely stand.” She bent close, a coil of cool black silk tickling my face. Her voice was pitched for me alone. “You’re good. I’ll grant you that. But I’m better.”

  “Better at what?”

  “Your job.” Her fingertip brushed my cheekbone. “Go on, then. Go tend to your dark flowers, little boy.”

  It took a moment for her words to parse. My head snapped up, eyes clearing. Only strangers remained. I stood and lurched through the crowd, searching, but she was gone.

  And that was a very, very big problem.

  Because she knew about Black Iris.

  ———

  “Again,” Laney said.

  Blythe shrugged, drew her arm back, and smacked me full across the face.

  Reality cut out for a sec. When it resumed I was on my knees on a bare concrete floor. Two girls stood over me like executioners.

  “Feel anything?” Laney said.

  I shook my head.

  Her mouth twitched, her expression otherwise placid. Laney rarely displayed anger openly. She’d sooner burn a house down than scream.

  “This isn’t working,” Armin said. “He has to metabolize the alcohol. You can’t beat it out of him.”

  Blythe massaged her palm. “I could try a few more times. It’s quite therapeutic.”

  “Please.” Ellis stepped between us. “Enough.”

  I was still in numb drunk mode, and feeling guilty. Which apparently meant wanting to get beat up by pretty girls. “I’m game. Do it again, Blythe.”

  “You’re not supposed to enjoy this, mate.”

  Laney muttered and began pacing.

  Our meeting chamber lay in the lowest level of Umbra, the Oubliette. The hidden dungeon. In the farthest reach of serpentine stone corridors, in this tangle of Medusa’s hair, we made our lair. Dry ice slithered through the halls like viper tongues of vapor. Once upon a time, before Black Iris existed, this was the domain of a secret society at our alma mater. Now it was ours, for our own secret society.

  When Laney wanted something, she took it. No matter what—or whom—she had to rip it bloodily from.

  We all watched her pace. No one dared break the silence. A lone bare lightbulb threw her shadow at the wall, much bigger than she was. That shadow was jagged, toothy. It seemed about to bite.

  “Can I stand?” I said.

  Her eyes flicked to me.

  “On second thought, I’m good down here.”

  But Ellis gave me a hand up, and Blythe brushed my cheek, then pecked a kiss where she’d slapped me.

  “Worth it,” I said.

  “Is this funny?” Laney’s whisper was frighteningly soft. “Is it funny, Ren?”

  “No.”

  “Let me brief you on tonight’s target.”

  She stopped pacing, her shadow a dark fang jabbing at us.

  “He calls himself Crito.” Her voice remained soft. We all breathed softer to hear. “That should tell you something. He goes after women online. Ones who talk about the ways men hurt us, threaten us. You’d know some of these girls, Ren. He doxxes them—finds out where they work and live in the real world. Then he mobilizes his troll army.” Her fingers twitched. I imagined claws there. “He sends these girls messages. One day someone gets harassed on YouTube—typical stuff, ‘Kill all feminists,’ ‘You should be raped until you shut up,’ and so on—and then she com
es home to a bouquet of flowers at her apartment door. The card inside reads, ‘We love watching you.’ That’s the message: they can get to her.”

  I swallowed. I had my own trolls—you can’t be publicly trans without attracting transphobes—but by and large my haters expressed disgust, not threats. They didn’t doxx me. They just let me know how much my existence squicked them out. That was male privilege: even trans men took less abuse online than women.

  “This guy is basically the leader of a domestic terrorist cell.” Laney’s eyes burned through me. “He’s a rich little white boy with enough resentment and free time to ruin the lives of girls who’ll never fuck him. Elliot Rodger is his personal hero. That guy who went on a shooting spree at UCSB and killed half a dozen people. Who wrote a misogynist manifesto saying rejections from girls made him do it. Probably the only reason Crito hasn’t shot up his college yet is because he’s having too much fun destroying girls’ sanity.”

  So he targeted women who talked about toxic masculinity.

  Women like my roommate.

  Shit.

  “Has he taken it beyond threats?” I said.

  “He doesn’t have to. Threats are enough. They silence those girls.” Laney eyed us each in turn. “We’ve been letting this cancer grow in our city. We’ve let it hurt people we know. It ends tonight.”

  “What do we know about him?” I said. “Where does he live, work? Who is he in real life?”

  “I’ve been tracking him. Ellis is building a dossier.”

  I frowned. “You’ve been tracking him? Personally?”

  “I have eyes and ears in the city.”

  “I’m your eyes and ears. You should have sent me, Lane.”

  “I wanted to send you tonight.”

  I flinched.

  Blythe tossed her head, hair snapping around her shoulders in golden flames. “We know where he is, right? The rest of us can take him down. Cut off the head, and the body dies.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Ellis said, eyeing her nervously. “Crito’s established a hierarchy. If he goes quiet, his minions will pick up where he left off.”

  “Not if we make an example of him. What’s that phrase you Yanks love? ‘Shock and awe.’ ”

  “We’re not taking it that far,” Armin said. “We don’t kill.”

  Laney stared at him a long moment. “Right. We don’t.”