Tear You Apart (3 page)

Viv hung up and walked back to the car. Regina was standing by the blown tire, poking at the torn rubber with the pointy toe of her black witch heels. “You called Henley?” Regina asked.

Viv gave a curt nod.

“At least we’ll have a hot mechanic.”

“Please shut up.” Viv’s jaw was starting to hurt from gritting her teeth, biting her tongue. Sometimes she just wanted to have it out with Regina, but she knew she’d get the worst of it. She’d get emotional, and if she let Regina make her cry, she’d have nothing, not even her attitude to hide behind.

Regina laughed. “You’re so sensitive. Why do you care if I think your boyfriend is hot? Or is it ex-boyfriend now?”

Viv ignored her. She paced up the road, keeping her eyes on the woods. A deer peered at her from the trees, but didn’t come closer. It must have sensed that she was agitated.

Finally, Henley’s truck pulled into view. He parked behind Regina’s car, switched on his hazard lights, and got out. Viv was always surprised by how big he was, even after all these years. Part of her still remembered him as a ten-year-old, with a mini scowl and that dirty Saints cap he always wore, but he’d grown up. He had an intimidating silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, muscular—and a walk like an executioner’s. You could put an ax in his hand and it wouldn’t look out of place.

Sometimes he
did
have an ax in his hand. He was the one his Jackass-the-Giant-Killer friends called to chop down the beanstalk whenever they had a Stalking party. Henley was the only one who could be trusted to chop the stalk down before the giant got to the bottom and killed everyone.

Henley had come straight from the game. He was wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt. His dark brown hair was wet, like he’d dumped a bottle of water over his head to cool off, and his T-shirt had damp streaks running down the front where the water had dripped from his hair.

“Our hero,” Regina said. She twirled her keys around her finger and went to open the trunk, making it look like a burlesque routine.

Henley mouthed,
You okay?
Viv nodded, and he stepped closer to the car. “Did you call your husband?” he asked Regina.

“No,” Regina said with a sigh. “My husband wouldn’t leave his party for this. He’s not dependable—unlike some people. Anyway, I’m sure you’re better with your hands.”

“Wow,” Viv said. “That would be so much less creepy if he was eighteen.”

Henley coughed and looked away.

“Ignore her, Henley, she has a dirty mind.” Then Regina bent over and half-crawled into the trunk, the fabric of her dress straining against her ass as she felt around for the panel that hid the spare, or tried to get a rise out of Henley, or whatever she was doing. After a minute or two of searching, Regina announced that there was no spare tire. Maybe she’d known that from the start—but she acted like she was frustrated. She took out her phone to call for a tow truck, complaining that it was going to take forever, they were already late, she’d gotten all dressed up and now she was sweating and
Viv
probably wasn’t sweating at all.…

“I can drive you guys to Seven Oaks,” Henley said. “Then come back and wait for the tow.”

“Would you really?” Regina said. “You’re amazing.” She blew him a kiss and turned her attention back to the phone.

Henley slammed the trunk shut, and left his hand resting on top of it. He had nice hands: big, powerful—reassuring or dangerous, depending on the situation. They were a warm, light brown color, alive-looking next to the dead-white pallor
of Viv’s. He was looking at her, his head cocked to the side, like now that they were sort of alone they could talk. It had been a few days since they’d seen each other. They’d been fighting then. As usual.

There was always that time, when they met again after being apart—when their irritation was exhausted, and their last argument seemed far away—when seeing each other felt like relief. Like whatever they’d thought they’d lost was still there somewhere, if they could just find it and hold on to it.

Viv reached for his hand. “Thanks,” she said. “Did you get a lot of shit for leaving?”

He shrugged. That was a
yes
. She knew his friends harassed him about her. It was their way of looking out for him. None of Henley’s friends had been in a relationship that had lasted longer than three months. To them, it was simple: if he wasn’t happy, he should cut her out of his life. They didn’t understand why Henley put up with her. They didn’t understand how hard it was to separate yourself from someone who was a part of you.

“Sorry if I ruined your game. I just panicked, and …” Her eyes turned toward the woods, still searching.

“I know.”

“It seems stupid now.”

“Whatever, Viv. It’s fine.”

“I wish she wasn’t here.”

“Don’t you always wish that?” His half smile was cute. It made her wish, even more, that it was just the two of them on this road, with the whole night stretching out, unfinished.

“Maybe if I whistle, a friendly hungry bear will come out and maul her. As a favor to me.”

“I’d probably get mauled first.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” She grinned; he treated her to that smile again.

“Yeah, I bet.”

The darkness, now that he was here—smiling, not mad, not hurt by something she’d done—seemed full of promise. They could drive to the city—or better yet, drive to a town where no one knew them. Find an all-night diner, order burgers and Cokes and some monstrous, dead-looking cake from the display case. And then later, they’d park somewhere deserted, spread a blanket across the grass, and stargaze and talk until a predawn chill crept into the air. He’d pull her closer and whisper,
Why do we fight so much? What the hell is wrong with us?
And she’d say,
We’re not fighting now
. And they’d kiss, perfectly in tune with each another, the bad days so distant they seemed imaginary.

She was on the verge of asking him if he wanted to go—leave Regina to wait for the tow truck, screw the party—when she noticed a red heart drawn on the back of his hand in felt-tipped marker. A flirty, bubbly heart.

She wanted to smack his hand off.

“That’s manly,” she said.

“What?” His dark eyes narrowed. They were almost the same shade of brown as hers.

She flicked the heart. “If you need a new girlfriend, do you have to pick a stupid one?”

“Somebody drew something on my hand. Who cares?”

I care
, she thought, feeling paranoid, and possessive.

“Hey.” He lowered his voice. “Who did I come out here to get? You. What are you freaking out about?”

She hugged her arms around her waist. Turned her back on him.

“Ready to go?” Regina called. She sounded perky, like they were a group of friends about to embark on a road trip. Viv started toward the truck and Regina climbed in before she got there, sliding to the middle of the bench seat like she’d scored some kind of coup.

Whatever
, Viv thought.
Knock yourself out
.

The three of them squeezed in, bodies too close for comfort. Just the feel of Regina’s arm against hers made Viv feel violated. She didn’t want to be anywhere near her stepmother. Didn’t want to choke on Regina’s perfume, or have to brush strands of Regina’s hair away from her face whenever Regina whipped her head around to flirt with Henley.

“So what were you up to tonight?” Regina asked him. “Before you showed up to rescue us.”

Henley reached to shift gears and his hand brushed Regina’s thigh. “Just hanging out. Playing basketball at Fitcher Park.”

“Were you shirts or skins?”

Viv rolled her eyes. Now would be a good time to fall into an enchanted coma, so she wouldn’t have to listen to this.

When Henley said, “Skins,” Regina said, “I’m surprised the girls let you leave,” and laughed like she wasn’t thirty-five years old. Her knee-length black dress had ridden up to midthigh, and every time Henley reached over to switch gears, Regina’s leg nudged his hand and her dress wriggled higher. Regina had a gorgeous body—the mirror never questioned that. The mirror judged beauty—and Viv was beautiful, supposedly—but Regina was sexy. Viv felt like a stunted little girl in comparison.

The wind was rushing in through the open windows, ruffling Viv’s messy hair.

Henley was watching the road, not talking much, but not talking to Viv at all.

And Regina was laughing like she was auditioning for the role of
Sexy stepmom who steals her stepdaughter’s boyfriend
.

Viv put on her headphones and dialed up the volume until it felt like the bass and the drumming were living in her head. She needed to be pumped full of an emotion she couldn’t muster right now—rage, maybe, instead of the panic she felt when she was stuck next to Regina. She closed her eyes and tried to let the music take her away, but there was no real escape.

There never was.

CHAPTER FOUR

SEVEN OAKS WAS A COUNTRY CLUB that mainly admitted Royals—the cursed elite. It was set on a two-hundred-acre golf course, and had a pool, a gym, a restaurant, and banquet rooms for parties. Viv’s dad liked Japanese gardens and Louis XIV France, so the landscape was a blend of Kyoto and Versailles. The grounds around the clubhouse were decorated with cherry trees, a topiary garden, five fountains depicting fairy-tale scenes, and the seven large oak trees that gave the club its name.

When Henley’s truck pulled up to the entrance, a valet came forward. Henley told him that he was just dropping off. Viv scrambled out as soon as the wheels stopped turning, but Regina stayed in the truck.

“Henley, you have to come to the party!” Regina said. “After all you’ve done for us tonight, I insist.”

Viv tried to give him a
kick her out right now
glare through the windshield, but she didn’t think he saw her.

“I have to go back for your car,” Henley said.

“Oh, someone else can do that. And you don’t have to hang out with Viv if you don’t want to. You can be
my
guest.”

Viv didn’t hear Henley’s response, but she didn’t see him boot Regina out of the truck, either. She walked as quickly as she could up the pathway to the clubhouse.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Angry tears rolled onto her fingers and she wiped them away. If he couldn’t say no to little things, what proof was there that he would say no to the most crucial part of the curse?

Viv burst into the party. The atmosphere—jazzy French pop music, preppy waiters, and guests in country club attire—was such a contrast to the stifling vibe in the truck that it was almost surreal.

She’d been there less than a minute when she was intercepted by her dad.

Stephen Deneuve wore an off-white suit and a vibrant green shirt with mint-green pinstripes. His silvery hair looked freshly trimmed. He’d probably gone for a manicure and a facial, too, but he was spoiling the effect by scowling at her.

“It looks like a cat died on your dress,” he said.

“It’s rabbit fur.” Viv plucked a strand and let it fall to the floor.

“Well, whatever it is—don’t you own a clean dress? You’re my daughter. People notice you.” He took a cloth napkin and tried to brush the fur off, then stopped, probably realizing how it looked. He couldn’t stand to be publicly embarrassed, to be talked about in anything less than glowing terms, which made their family drama—and the gossip that surrounded the curse—a source of constant irritation to him.

When Regina and Viv presented the pretty picture of lovely wife and fairest princess, he wanted them around. Tonight they were supposed to be on their best behavior and make him look good. Then, after the party, he would vanish from their lives until he had a use for them again. He needed them sometimes, but he didn’t like to be needed. He didn’t want the stress of trying to keep the peace. He liked easy successes. He liked games he could win.

Viv’s father abandoned the napkin. “Where’s Regina?”

“I don’t know. She’s the one who’s obsessed with me.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it before:
you’re such a victim
. Please. I can name twenty girls who would love to have your curse. And don’t take it out on Regina. Your mother wished this on you. Regina didn’t ask for this, and neither did I.”

In the middle of the lecture, one of the club members came over, and Stephen’s irritated expression disappeared, replaced by the jovial everyone’s-best-friend pose he put on for society people. “Ted!” he said, clapping the man’s arm. “Glad you could make it!”

Ted Grant was a former Beast. He was about sixty. He’d regained his human appearance, but you could still see traces of the curse if you looked. He reminded Viv of the Cowardly Lion from
The Wizard of Oz
, only without the whiskers and the yellow paint.

“What a beauty,” Ted said, ogling her. “The cursed beauties—they’re so lovely at this age. Lovely,” he repeated, like Viv was a canapé he was snapping up. “May I?” He bowed a little, and gestured for her hand.

No
, Viv wanted to say.

She gave him her hand.

Ted brought it to his lips and kissed it, his mouth pushing against her skin like a warm, wet slug. He smelled like old age and expensive scotch, and it took every ounce of restraint not to rip her hand away.