Hero Worship (5 page)

EIGHT

The taxi circles around the parking lot. Waving at the driver, I pile into the back seat of the vehicle. I give the driver the address, and he puts the car in gear and heads toward the freeway.

I double-check the address Eliza scribbled down on a piece of paper. At the restaurant the other night, she told me that if I wanted to engage in further discussion about trying out for the Core, I should meet her at this address.

“When?” I asked.

“Whenever,” she replied.

“How about tomorrow morning?” I said. “I always work the night shift.”

“I don't get out of bed until noon.”

“I don't have a shift this weekend …”

“Sunday, then,” she said. “But it'll have to be around five in the afternoon. I get outta bed late on the weekends too.”

When she handed me the paper with the address, I said, “Really? Bixby Gardens?”

She assured me it was the place.

The taxi now travels down deserted surface streets lined with abandoned buildings. This is Bixby Gardens, Loganstin's main industrial zone. This area has been devastated over the years. The automotive jobs were outsourced to other countries, leaving behind sprawling factories that are shadowy and silent. Once glorious, these factories are now ravaged by rust and disintegrating mortar, reducing them to skeletal remains.

Forced to slow down because of a fallen tree in the middle of the road, the taxi driver rolls to a stop and turns off the meter, which reads thirty-five dollars and change. “This is as far as I can go,” he says, pointing through the windshield. “The building you want should be just down there.”

I hand over two twenties. “Keep the change,” I say, sliding out of the taxi. The driver circles around and heads back the way he came.

The windows on the dilapidated three-story building have long been shattered. It appears that at some point, plywood was mounted to the front of the building to cover up the windows, but somebody kicked them in and now they lie on the ground covered in graffiti. Sticking my head into an open window frame, I get a raunchy whiff of something that's been decomposing for a while.

Double-checking the piece of paper, I say, “This is the place?”

Shattered glass crunches underfoot as I step into the building. A layer of ash covers everything. I run my finger along the wall and inspect the black smudge on my fingertip.

Heading deeper into the building, I find a rickety staircase. The structure moans under my weight as I head upstairs, wavering slightly with each step as I make my way to the second floor. All the rooms are empty. “She gave me the wrong address,” I grumble.

Heading up another flight, I check the final floor and find more of the same—the exception being one room with the door shut, located at the end of the hall. The wood floor creaks underfoot. A warm light shines through a crack at the bottom of the door. Placing my ear against the door, I listen for any sound coming from the other side. I don't hear anything. Testing the knob, I find that it's unlocked.

The apartment is strangely clean and homey. The dark hardwood floors are polished and clean, the furniture looks brand new, and music plays softly through a sound system wired to every room. Daylight shines through the two windows in the living room. Paintings and framed photos of Loganstin landmarks are meticulously placed on the walls. Track lighting is positioned to shine on the art, basking it in a soft light. Somebody spent a lot of time getting this place into shape. They might be squatting in an abandoned building, but that obviously doesn't mean they have to live in squalor, as evidenced by the flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

“You made it,” a voice says behind me.

Startled, I find Eliza—who's wearing a short silk bathrobe and has a towel wrapped around wet hair—sipping coffee from a mug. She leans against the wall and smiles at me.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “I didn't know if this was your place or not. Sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For barging in like this.”

“Marvin, people like us don't have to say sorry,” she says.

“This place is nice. Do you live here?”

“No, I live at the Core Mansion,” she says.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” I mutter, feeling the fool. “All the members of the Core live at the mansion.”

“This place is my own personal getaway. Like a safe house,” she says. She finishes the last of her coffee and motions for me to follow her. “Let me give you a tour.”

The stainless steel appliances and marble countertops in the kitchen look like a display in a home-improvement store. Eliza opens the dishwasher and sets her coffee mug inside, then removes a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “Do you want something to drink?” she asks.

“No, I'm okay.”

She unscrews the cap on the bottle and lifts it to her lips, drinking deeply. She holds my gaze the entire time. A mischievous glimmer twinkles in her eyes. She breezes past me, so close her silk robe brushes against me. “Come.”

We walk down the hall, and she enters a room that's a shrine to Roisin. There are posters hanging on the walls, many of which I've seen before in magazines, but some that I haven't. Glass cases are filled with Roisin dolls dressed entirely in white, including a complete collection of bobble heads that jiggle lightly, as if swaying in a phantom breeze.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Wow.”

“I know, right?”

“You collect Roisin … your memorabilia?”

“Yeah, I get a kick out of it,” she says.

“Hey, what should I call you?” I ask. “Eliza or Roisin?”

“Roisin means ‘Little Rose,'” she says. “It's a stage name, like something a stripper would use.”

“Um … okay.”

“If I'm in costume, call me Roisin,” she says. “But when we're alone, you can call me Eliza. And if everything goes as planned, we'll be spending a lot of time alone.” She gives me a wink.

Blood rushes to my cheeks. Embarrassed, I inspect the nearest glass case. There's a Roisin action figure holding hands with a male figurine wearing a skintight black outfit, chiseled muscles outlined underneath, and a blue mask that only covers his eyes. “Who's that?” I ask.

Eliza comes up behind me and rests her chin on my shoulder, gazing at the action figures. “Oh, that's Blackbird.”

“I've never heard of him.”

“He was a recruit from a small crew on the East Coast. He tried out for a spot on the Core. We were supposed to hook up or something,” she says. “At least, that's what was going to be marketed.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they were in the process of making these action figures of us as a couple. I didn't really mind. He was hot, that's for sure. He was killed in a freak training accident.”

“Oh, man, I'm sorry.”

She shrugs and says, “You get into this game, you're going to know people who die.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “Don't worry. You'll be fine if you listen to me and do everything that I tell you to do.”

The sound of a machine whirring comes from behind a closet door that's slightly ajar. “What's in there?” I ask.

Eliza closes the door. There's a security keypad mounted over the doorknob, and she presses the
6
key three times, which triggers the sound of a heavy lock sliding into place. She glances back at me but I look away, not wanting her to catch me watching her key in the passcode. A tiny green light on the keypad turns red. Eliza flashes me a warm smile and says, “I keep my computer in there.”

“Keep it behind lock and key, huh?” I chuckle.

“Do you know how many people would love to see what's on the computer of a member of the Core? Hell, even at the Core Mansion, Security monitors what songs I download. I've got to be careful. That's why I have this place. It's completely off the grid.” She grabs my hand and pulls me along behind her, leading me into a room at the end of the hall. “Come see my bedroom.”

The bedroom has a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, and a television mounted on the wall. Curtains are drawn over the windows.

“Nice room,” I say.

“You should see my room at the Core Mansion,” she says. “But this one isn't so bad.”

She opens a drawer and removes underwear and a bra. Before I realize what's happening, she's untying the belt around her waist and beginning to remove the bathrobe. I spin around with my back to her. “Sorry,” I mutter, my eyes gazing down at my feet.

She giggles. “Such a gentleman. You're sweet.” A moment passes, and then she says, “Okay, it's safe to look.” She's wearing her underwear and bra. She removes the towel from around her head, and her hair falls to her shoulders. She tilts her head to the side and pats her damp hair with the towel.

If my emotions were measured like a speedometer, I'd be clocked doing 125 mph. I have never been around someone who makes me as uncomfortable as Eliza—but uncomfortable in an exciting way.

“So, when's the last time you talked to your father?”

“My father?” I ask, hoping I heard her wrong.

“Yeah.”

“What do you know about him?”

“I know that he killed your mother during a domestic dispute,” she says. “He's serving a ten-year stint in prison.”

My stomach ties into a knot, and it feels like my tongue suddenly swells and gets stuck in the back of my throat. “How do you know all this?” I ask, laboring over each word.

She tosses the towel onto the bed and shakes her hair. “Marvin, Marvin, Marvin,” she says. “This is a courtship, and I won't give it up until I know you're a good fit.”

I wasn't prepared for this slap of reality. I've never told Yvonne or Kent about my father. I've tried desperately to bury the memories deep inside me. If I could wipe it from my mind I'd do it in a heartbeat, even if it means erasing all the fond memories of my mother, who died to protect me. The pain is too raw. And Eliza just opened the can of worms like it's the most inconsequential topic ever—like asking me who was my first kiss.

“You're powerful,” she continues. “But you're untrained, and you don't know how to maximize your abilities.” Opening the bottom drawer of the dresser, she retrieves a pair of jeans. She slides them snugly over her thighs and bounces to pull them over her hips, buttoning them at the top. Then
she puts on a sheer top and steps into a pair of combat
boots. “You ready? Let's go have some fun.”

“Right now? I thought we were going to talk about me trying out for the Core.”

She slips on a leather biker jacket. “There are many factors to consider with a new recruit.”

“Like what?”

Snatching a set of keys off the counter, Eliza heads toward the front door. “Like whether or not the recruit knows how to have fun.” Her boot crunches down on shattered glass in the hallway. “We spend nearly all our time together, and I'm not going to do that with someone I can't stand.”

Shutting the door behind me, I ask, “Do you want me to lock it?”

She waves me off and says, “Don't worry about it. Nobody knows it's here. We might as well be on a deserted island.”

As I follow her downstairs, I ask, “What do you do for fun?”

We climb inside her shiny orange car. It still has the new car smell. Eliza revs the engine. “Whatever I want.”

NINE

A valet attendant opens Eliza's car door. He hands her a ticket and gets behind the wheel. Realizing I'm still in the passenger seat, he clears his throat, signaling it's time for me to get out. As I step onto the curb, I notice the procession of vehicles behind us, whose occupants are growing increasingly more agitated the longer they have to wait. They don't strike me as belonging to a socioeconomic class that typically has to wait for anything. The women are adorned with expensive jewelry, and the men look like they drop more on weekly haircuts than I make in a month.

A velvet rope cordons off the people waiting in line at the entrance of the Mule Kick Club. I've never been here, but I recognize the exterior of the club from photos in celebrity magazines. If you're not somebody in Loganstin, you've never made it past the ropes at the Mule Kick.

Eliza walks to the front of the line. Two very large men with shaved heads stand behind the velvet rope. They wear headgear and one clutches a clipboard. “Hey, Big T,” Eliza says.

The man holding the clipboard turns to her and a smile spreads across his face. “Yo, E. What's shaking?”

“Nothing yet, but hopefully that'll change,” she says. “How's it in there?”

“It's bumpin'. You coming in?”

“My bumps need to bump, and that ain't gonna happen out here,” she says.

Big T unfastens the velvet rope and holds it aside for Eliza and me to pass. “Get bumpin'.”

This causes a chorus of grumbles from the people waiting in line, but if Eliza notices, she doesn't show it. We walk past Big T toward the door.

“Who the hell is she?” asks a man wearing a silk shirt with a dragon embroidered on it.

Big T shoots the man a glare and says, “If you knew, you'd wet yourself.”

A doorman opens the front door, allowing Eliza and me to enter.

“Shouldn't we get in line?” I ask.

“Why would you if you don't have to?” she asks.

“To wait our turn.”

Standing on the threshold of the club, Eliza leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “That's so cute.” She grabs my hand and walks inside.

Techno music blares at an ear-piercing level, a thumping bass that rattles your bones. Men and women gyrate in a hedonistic mass on the dance floor. The air is musty and thick, reeking of sweat, liquor, and perfume.

I follow Eliza through the crowd of people. She cuts expertly through them, heading to the back wall where VIP tables and booths are positioned so everyone can see and be seen by everyone. And a quick glance tells me that we're being seen. A hostess sees Eliza coming and motions us toward one of the empty booths, where a
Reserved
sign sits. I scoot into the booth and Eliza slides in next to me.

The music is so loud that the hostess has to lean over the table to shout, “What would you like to drink?”

Eliza says, “A Purple Hooter.”

Both ladies glance at me and I say, “A cola.”

“A rum and cola,” Eliza adds.

The hostess spins and heads off toward the bar.

Leaning in close to my ear, Eliza asks, “What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?”

“Do you come here—”

Before I can finish my thought, Eliza slides out of the booth. “I'll be right back.”

She walks toward a group of men standing around a tall table. They're dressed in tattered jeans and untucked dress shirts, and they're smoking thick cigars. The men all take turns embracing her, apparently pleased to see her. Eliza holds court. The men surround her and laugh as she talks. One of the guys offers her a fresh drink, which she takes and samples.

The hostess comes back to our booth carrying a tray. She sets down a glass with a purple cocktail and my rum and cola. I fumble for my wallet, but she waves me off and says, “Eliza's drinks are comped.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” I say.

Then the hostess sets her tray down, slides into the booth, and cozies up to me. “What's your name?” she asks.

“Marvin.”

“I'm Candy. So, are you in the Core? ”

“Um … no.”

“Come on, you can tell me. I won't say anything.”

“No, really, I'm not.”

“Okay, if that's how you wanna play it,” she says, rubbing her finger over her exposed neckline. “So, is Roisin your girlfriend or something?”

“No,” I say. “We're … hold it. What?”

The hostess smiles and says, “Don't worry about it. It's the worst kept secret in this place. Everyone knows.”

“Oh,” is all I say.

Eliza hugs all the men before heading back to the booth. The hostess slides out as Eliza approaches. They exchange curt looks, and the hostess hurries off. Eliza slides in next me. “What did she want?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

Eliza takes her drink and sips it. “I bet she didn't.”

“Do you know that everyone here knows that you're Roisin?”

“Really?”

“That's what she told me,” I say.

She shrugs. “I guess that's why they always comp me.”

“You're not upset?”

“You only need a secret identity if you want to live a normal life. Normal's boring,” she says, sliding out of the booth. “You ready to roll?”

I scoot out behind her.

She motions to my untouched rum and cola. “You didn't touch your drink.”

“Not much of a drinker.”

“Why'd you order it then?”

“I ordered the cola,” I say. “You ordered the rum.”

“I just assumed you'd want to go all the way,” she says.

Eliza takes me on a whirlwind tour of the city, hitting every reputable nightspot and some that aren't. We get fifteen-dollar drinks at the Factory, share a basket of greasy appetizers at the Owl, and she forces me onto the dance floor at Mulligan's. She mingles with people I recognize, and disappears with people who look like hardened criminals. While this is happening, I try to find secluded spots and take a seat. I
people-watch until she ushers me off to the next place.

She holds my hand and leads me to a place called the Library. It's dark and smoky, and music plays softly through speakers. It's actually the quietest place we've been to all night. The loudest noise comes from the steamers frothing milk for lattes. People mill about the place or sit on plush chairs and velvet sofas, smoking cigarettes and sipping espressos. Eliza waves at a group sitting in the corner. “Hey, you,” she calls, crossing toward them.

Left behind, I find a large chair and sit down. An assortment of books are scattered across the battered coffee table. I rummage through them. There's apparently no theme in this collection of books—they range from self-help how-to's to romance paperbacks.

I pick up a stained copy of a book titled
Strange Phenomenons Explained
. I open it and start reading. One of the strange phenomenons is the toppling of the city of Jericho's walls during the Battle of Jericho in the Bible. After crossing the Jordan River, Joshua led the Israelites into Canaan, where they laid siege to the city. The Lord spoke to Joshua, telling him to march around the city once each day for six days, with seven priests carrying rams' horns in front of an ark. On the seventh day, they were to march around the city seven times, after which the priests were to blow their horns. Joshua did this, commanding his people not to give a war cry until he told them to do so. After marching around the city the seventh time, the priests sounded their horns, and Joshua ordered the people to shout. The walls collapsed, and the Israelites charged straight into the city, destroying it.

The book then states that the Israelites' silent marching created a seismic wave within the city's walls. So, when they shouted to the heavens on the seventh day, it caused an acoustic shockwave, which prompted a mini earthquake. Thus explaining why the walls came tumbling down.

I don't know how much time passes before Eliza plops down in the chair across from me, but I'm on page seventy-three. “Here you are,” she says. “What're you reading?”

I hold the book up and show her the cover.

“Good?” she asks.

“Yeah, it's interesting,” I say.

“You like to read?”

“Yes.”

“Not really my thing.” Eliza lifts her feet and rests her boots on the table. “So, Marvin, what do you do for fun?”

“I hang out with my friends.”

“So what do you do when you're hanging out?”

“I don't know. Go to the park. Get a bite to it eat. Just hang out.”

“Wow. You guys sound really boring.”

I close the book and replace it on the coffee table. “I suppose.”

“We're going to have to loosen you up,” Eliza says. “So, do you wanna get high?”

The roar of the water rushing out of the Porcupine Dam into the Loganstin River is deafening. Standing on the ledge of the concrete valve tower, I marvel at the sheer volume of water being released, watching as it settles into a violent churning pool. A black abyss. The mist is so dense that it blankets Eliza and me like a sauna, but this water is rather chilly. I shiver and zip my jacket up.

“You ready?” Eliza yells over the roaring water.

“For what?” I say.

She takes my hand and walks off the ledge. I instinctively pull away from her to avoid plummeting into the water below, but with more strength than I'd think her capable of, she pulls me with her.

Clenching my eyes shut, I prepare to drop to my death.

But something strange happens. Instead of free-falling, we move upward. I open my eyes and panic when I realize that Eliza and I are walking up the mist, like we're climbing a staircase. Or rather, Eliza is walking skyward and I'm the unwitting passenger along for the ride.

“Oh … my … god,” I say.

“I told you we were going to get high.” She laughs.

“You're walking on the mist?”

“Anything denser than air, and I'm good to float.”

We move higher and higher until we reach the top of the mist. It's like flying through the top of a cloud. We perch there like butterflies on a leaf. The open vastness below my feet is awe-inspiring. “How am I doing this?” I ask.

She pulls her hand from mine, so that our fingertips are just barely touching. I slowly sink down through the mist, like I'm tethered to the ground and it's pulling me down. “If I pulled away my hand, you'd sink like a stone,” she says.

“Then please don't pull away your hand,” I say, bobbing up and down on the mist like a buoy.

Smiling mischievously, Eliza lifts her fingers so only two touch me. It feels like I'm hanging by a thread. Gravity's grip fastens around me and threatens to pull me to my death as Eliza toys with me. “Uh-oh,” she says. “This isn't looking good for you.”

I sink lower. The tip of Eliza's index finger is all that's
keeping me from plummeting downward. I wrap my other arm around her legs, clinging for dear life. The contact with her restores my immunity to gravity. She laughs as I climb up her like a utility worker climbing a telephone pole. My face slides along the front of her body as I scurry up. Something has changed in Eliza's eyes. She pulls me in close and kisses me like she's trying to extract all my secrets. I kiss her back, as we embrace hundreds of feet in the air.