Hemlock Veils

“Good,” he said, slamming her into the car again, harder than the first time. She exhaled sharply but tried to hide the pain, tried not to wince. “That’s good. Sometimes me and Nicki play it like that.”

A deafening roar startled them both, breaking the static sound of rainfall just as she began to drown in hopelessness. With a jerk Brian looked behind him, but there was nothing. In his distraction, Elizabeth kneed him in the groin, making him drop her and buckle over. But before she could stand he grabbed her again, this time shoving her against the street and straddling her waist. Her spine was hardly chilled from the water beneath her, since she could focus only on the way it flooded her eyes, making her fight that much more difficult. He was strong too, much stronger than she would have guessed, and every time she thought she might get the upper hand, he didn’t allow it, eventually pi

Through the whooshing of her own breath in her ears, she attempted to focus on the calming sound of rainfall, faithfully steady. But by the pale light of the rising sun, veiled with clouds that seemed miles-deep, Brian’s face appeared more ominous than anything she’d seen in Hemlock Veils. Her muscles trembled with strain, failing to move the mountain atop her. Breathe. Breathe, and fight.

“Please,” she pled between breaths, tilting her face away from the rain. “Please, get off me.”

He smiled, and she regretted her plea instantly, since it seemed to drive him. He brought his fist up and she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for his blow, but then he didn’t hit her. Instead he grunted—a sound of surprise—and in her own surprise she opened her eyes, just as he was thrown off of her and the sudden weightlessness above became the most exhilarating hope of any hope she’d ever felt. He landed a few feet away, rolling. When she pushed herself up, where she expected to see the beast she instead saw Mr. Clayton, just as drenched as she and Brian.

Even stranger than his soaked figure—like he’d been out for hours, not minutes—were his bare feet. His unbuttoned white dress shirt revealed a torso so muscular that even in her current state of mind, her mouth hung open. His wet hair was disheveled and his face unshaven. His black slacks were only halfway zipped, too, the clasp and belt hanging low, and water trickled down his abdomen. His white shirt, transparent with water, only vaguely hid a dark spot on the skin beneath it, the size of a fist and just below his right collarbone.

Before she could get a better look, he ripped Brian from the ground and threw him into her car, making it rock. When Brian fell to the ground beside her, moaning, her eyes fell upon the dent in her back door. Trapped between her car and Brian, she inched away from him until the back tire pressed against her spine.

Mr. Clayton stared at her, his dripping hair the color of black coal. Crouching, she grasped her knees. She couldn’t speak, still shocked at seeing him here in the first place, and especially like this. As though he’d been in the middle of getting dressed and ran into the rain to save her.

Brian grunted, rolling to his back and shielding his face, clearly confused. With a movement that appeared far too easy, Mr. Clayton lifted Brian to his feet by his collar, then punched him in the jaw. Brian fell back, but Mr. Clayton lifted him to his feet again, pulling his face close to his.

“M—Mr. Clayton?” Brian asked.

“You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Dane, coming out here before sunrise.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but slump. Of course, this was about coming out here on his street before sunrise. She was a fool for thinking it had anything to do with defending her.

“I—I was only—”

“You were drinking, you idiot. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to tell you to stay in your own damn house when you get wasted. I will not have this kind of behavior in my town.”

“Mr. Clayton, I was just coming here—”

“I know what you were coming to do, Mr. Dane, and I should have you thrown in prison.” His low, growl-like voice emerged from clenched teeth.

“There’s no need. Elizabeth and I were just talking—”

Mr. Clayton punched him again, harder than the first, but let him fall to the street this time. He stood over him, chest heaving, as blood came from Brian’s nose. “If you so much as speak to her again, I will throw you in jail.”

He crouched on the ground above Brian and grabbed his collar with one fist, lifting his head from the street. Where the sleeve of Mr. Clayton’s shirt was pushed up, tendons and muscles bulged in his forearm. “Look at me.”

Brian did, removing his hand from his bleeding nose.

“You leave Ms. Ashton out of your deranged, meaningless life. She’s better than the rest of the women who are stupid enough to fall for you.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Clayton,” Brian said, his voice wavering, “but you told me once that my personal life is my business.”

“That was before you started endangering someone else’s life. You and Ms. Eastwood, and all the others you bring into town, can do whatever the hell you want, as long as everyone consents and nobody gets hurt.” He pulled Brian’s head closer. “And Ms. Ashton did not consent, did she, Mr. Dane?”

Brian didn’t answer and Mr. Clayton shook him, making him wince. With eyes still fastened on Brian, he asked Elizabeth, “Did you consent, Ms. Ashton?”

“No,” she managed between teeth and tight lips, her core heating with a balance of injustice, humiliation, and self-loathing. She would die before she would let herself get taken advantage of. She swore to God, never again.

“No, she didn’t,” Mr. Clayton said at Brian. “You’ve heard it from both of us, so you better learn how to recognize it. Because I promise, if you even look at her again the way you’ve been looking at her…” He trailed off, leaving a note of expectation hanging in the air.

“I—I’ll go to prison,” Brian answered for him.

“That’s right. And I’m not talking about the jailhouse here, Mr. Dane. I’ll have you ejected from town and thrown into a real prison, where you’ll suffer like you deserve.” He ground his teeth, making his wet temples pulsate. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Mr. Clayton,” Brian said, flinching when Mr. Clayton again brought his head closer. “I believe you.”

Mr. Clayton studied him before throwing him back to the ground and standing. It looked as though he was about to kick him, but then restrained himself. “Go,” he said. “And you are never to set foot on my street again, you understand me? Ever, night or day.”

Brian stood with difficulty, and the movement spurred the chattering of Elizabeth’s teeth. Her limbs trembled with heat. It rolled, expanded—numbing her fingers—and vile thoughts began entering her mind, covering her like a dark blanket. Thoughts of retribution and revenge, and worse: fear. As Brian began to stiffly stumble away, Mr. Clayton called to him, “And Mr. Dane?” Brian turned, just barely—not daring to glance at Elizabeth who sat like a coward against her tire. “Remember what I said. You will suffer.”

Brian nodded glumly, then limped away. After he’d rounded the bend, the broken glass from his bottle drew her attention. Her chest heaved as she studied the way it littered the street, glistening. Every surrounding noise faded into the background while her head drowned in the heat. The heat climaxed, turning her body into an oven and cooking her from the inside, burning away all reason. Before she knew it she was on her feet, clutching the largest piece of glass, every ounce of that dreadful fear taking over. It coursed through her blood rapidly, leaving her with the most savage urge to survive. With a hoarse scream that came from nowhere and deep in her gut at the same time, she threw the glass in the direction Brian had gone, wishing he was still there to catch the sharp edge, and hating herself for being too frightened to do it when he had still been here.