Hi, everyone! This chapter is rated for gritty, edgy content (which you were probably expecting because of Chessie's naivete). Anyway, thanks for the reviews.
Chapter Three:
When the wave washed me ashore, I gazed down at my naked legs, only to have my smile vanish. Damn, no fins. Not so much as a scale. What does a girl have to do to turn into a mermaid? I sighed and checked my waterproof watch. It was the right time—midnight—and the moon was full, even if it was drowning in an ocean of rain clouds. This should have worked.
I sighed again, this time harder, trying to breathe some warmth into my lungs. It never gets frigid on the coast, but skinny-dipping in March isn’t exactly tropical either. Shivering, I ran across the sand to my backpack and pulled on sweats and a T-shirt. My hair dried stiffly in the salt breeze.
On nights like this, it was easy to doubt my humanity. I could practically feel the butterfly wings unfurl from my shoulders. The body is a shell—impenetrable, annoying, and petty. My fellow peers believe in the magic of plastic surgery and high-speed internet…nothing more.
A crushing weight fell unexpectedly on my chest. It was after midnight. It was Avery’s sixteenth birthday.
I moaned. It would be nothing short of magical to have him with me, reading the auras of fish and seals as we splashed around. But if so much as doing dishes gives him a panic attack, how could I expect him to brave the Pacific? His debilitating hydrophobia gets in the way of everything. Especially the ocean. “Don’t go to the beach, alone, Chessie,” I mocked.
Since his house was just a few blocks away, I figured I could sneak inside, wake him up, and then we’d binge on vegan donuts till sunrise.
My fantasies were cut short when I saw the devil.
In the Rider-Waite Tarot deck, he’s a gross, greasy goat-man with inflamed skin and a beer belly. Like a bloated trucker in a nightclub, he looms over a battered couple, both of which are chained to his pedestal. He’s the epitome of perversion. And if he hadn’t been devilishly handsome, I would have mistaken my fellow beachcomber as God.
That is, if God checks his Yahoo account on a Mac.
He sprawled on the sand, his face illuminated by the electric glow of the screen. His fingers flew like soft rain over the keyboard. I followed the slope of his forehead to his leonine mane, which was pulled in a molten gold ponytail that shimmered on his black shirt. The computer’s light gave him a halo.
He typed away, either oblivious to my presence or ignoring it. In either case, I was suddenly hot. Burning.
I realized how close I was to him. He blended in so nicely with the beach, black on black. If I had kept daydreaming, I would have walked right over him.
How much seawater had I swallowed? That was the only logical explanation for the magical—I stopped in mid thought. Yes, magical. It had to be. Maybe these midnight excursions weren’t in vain after all. Maybe I really could be a mermaid tomorrow, or at least something with pointy ears and wings. And maybe he wasn’t the devil. Maybe he didn’t drink cheap, foamy beer in nightclubs and rest his hooves on a woman’s back. He was a fairy prince.
See? I was sick. Desperately sick, but not contagious. This lovesick virus was right at home in my brain, rolling out dough for biscuits. It locked the door from inside.
When the devil glanced my way, the unlit stick of dynamite in my heart went boom. Completely consumed in the inferno, I ran into his arms, most likely muttering gushy garbage. He welcomed me coldly and distantly, like I was a relative he was bored of. I nestled deeper into him, trying to evoke a response. There was a calloused hand stroking my hair. Another hand tracing the curve of my waist.
Frustrated now. What the hell is wrong with you? Give me passion! I tried a new approach, pulling away to make myself more desirable. My parents would murder me if they saw this. But they wouldn’t understand that this was a chance encounter from the Fairy Realm, not a blooming career as a child prostitute.
I squirmed so much that he had to pin my arms to my sides. Looking up in wonder, I waited for his teeth—would they be pointy?—to sink tenderly into my upper lip. And then, presto, I’d be a glamorous fairy maiden, free of the chains of reality. No more biology class. No more forgotten locker combination. No more cafeteria lunches.
Suddenly my shirt was off.
My hot blood congealed into ice. I could feel it splintering my veins. Jesus Christ, no. Reality dealt me a physical blow, crumpling me in half. This wasn’t the Fairy Realm; this was a beach where oil and used diapers lapped at the shore. The greasy lights of a nearby fish house rippled on the sand.
The devil pulled me closer with the corded muscles in his arms. I couldn’t read his face. His expression had poor reception, flickering between intoxication, anger, and satisfaction. He leaned close and purred in my ear, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but at this point, does it really matter?”
