Lila Shortcuts (2 page)

Suddenly I’m engulfed in thundering noise and rancid sweat smells and auras bursting bright as solar flares at the edge of my vision. My head starts to throb and I close my eyes and try to breathe through it.

This is one of the reasons (other than men in leather with rodent beards and torture music) why I don’t like coming here, or anywhere where crowds of people gather (unless the gathering crowds are meditating Buddhist monks). Because I don’t just see auras. That I could live with. That’s what the sunglasses are for. It’s the emotions that do it, bouncing off people like infra-red rays. That’s the real killer.

In small groups I can tune out the rays. And the one or two people I choose to hang out with (OK, make that one . . . Nancy) only give off happy rays.

In this room however, filled with sweating, loud, mosh-pit loving people – most of whom are amped on some form of mood-enhancing drug – I feel like I’m being squashed inside a microwave and zapped on high.

Someone nearby is ecstatic – that would be Nancy. She bumps against me and I feel her happiness spark a surge of dopamine straight to my brain. I let out a whoop that makes Nancy shoot me a bemused look. But the joy is short-lived as from the other side jealousy spears me like an icepick. I squint through the strobe lighting. Some tall skinny guy watching his girlfriend go fan-girl crazy over the drummer on stage is responsible. I edge away from him. And get a hammer fist flare of red slamming down on my skull. This one’s more surprising as it’s coming from a small girl just behind me who looks like butter wouldn’t melt, and whose foot I’ve accidentally stood on in the crush.

It’s too much.

I shout in Nancy’s ear that I’m going outside for some air and then I try to push my way towards the nearest exit – weaving past the biker crew – flashes of red, pulsating waves of yellow – like swimming against a tide of pus. My head’s pounding up a storm. I only just make it to the door.

But Santa’s ugly fatter brother is suddenly in front of it, blocking the way.

‘Hello, little lady,’ he says to me, easing his hands over his pregnant belly and rocking back on his heels.

BO. Stale beer. Mingling with something altogether more vile and stinking. He isn’t touching me but I can feel him – feel his thoughts – reptilian smooth and snaking around my limbs. I jolt back, unable to hide my revulsion, and catch the flare of anger in his eyes in response. Crimson bursts off him like arterial spray.

I glance over my shoulder, looking for help – but we’re practically behind the stage here, submerged in a well of shadow. Just a wall of leather behind me, and beyond, the bouncing, ecstatic heads of those in the mosh pit. The music is so loud I can’t even hear my own voice when I ask the guy to let me pass. He acts like he hasn’t heard.

A cold rush of adrenaline floods my system.

I’m used to brushing paths with darkness – it’s around us far more than you’d think. You walk past someone on the street who from the outside looks like he might teach Sunday School – all Colgate smile, button-down shirt and side parting – and get the shock of your life when you glance up and see a dirty writhing swampfest of an aura, and realise that in all likelihood the Sunday School teacher is in fact a serial killer. Normally I cross the street, because going to the police and explaining your suspicions only gets you a raised eyebrow and delivery home to your mum in the back of a patrol car. At least that’s how it worked for me.

The guy now standing in front of me smiles, though the smile doesn’t make it to his eyes.

‘Why don’t you stay and hang out with me?’ he asks.

‘I just need some air,’ I tell him, shouting to be heard over the feedback from the mic.

‘I just want to talk,’ he says, manoeuvring his substantial bulk fully in front of the door.

Liar. His aura is as brown as sewage. Like he’s been swimming in a septic tank.

I force a smile – act like I am actually considering his proposal, but really I’m gathering myself, trying to fight the nausea and to clamp my mental focus into place.

My grandma spent a lot of my childhood preparing me for
the gift,
as she called it. And one of the things she taught me as a necessity is how to protect myself
from all the creeps in the world.
And I’m not talking pepper spray and knees to sensitive groin areas. She taught me instead how to manipulate moods. That’s not to say I can turn a serial killer psychopath into a law-abiding lover of all humanity, nor that I could start my own cult by inducing joyous rapture in an unsuspecting crowd, but if I focus on one person, or even a group of people, I can change the colour in their aura and hence, their mood. It’s not easy, which is why I hardly ever do it, and the effects are short-lived, but at times like these I thank the Gods my grandma taught me how.

It’s a bit like pouring paint thinner over an oil painting – I can dissipate jealousy, douse lust and destroy anger. I can generate feelings of love, inspire happiness, confusion, sadness . . . you name it. If I focus hard enough I can make a grown man cry.

So I do. I narrow my eyes and stare at the man’s forehead just above his monobrow and I send a spear of greyish mauve light his way. The snaking thoughts recoil instantly. He drops my hand and staggers backwards, his face crumpling and his lip starting to quiver. Tears well behind his eyes. He doesn’t know why. He frowns – confused – and blinks at me. The tears start to roll down his jowly cheeks. I keep focused. If I let it slip, sadness can become embarrassment, which can become rage, which isn’t what I want.

His aura now swirls, mustard yellow flattening to grey. Sadness and despair muting out his other impulses. Enough that I can slide past him and out of the door, leaving him blubbing like a baby into his hands behind me.

Chapter Three

Outside, the cool air hits me like a sigh. I draw it in deep, leaning against the wall of the alley, and wait for my head to clear and my heart to stop pounding.

Away from all the people everything stills and a wave of exhaustion hits me that’s so deep it makes my knees buckle.

When the door slams open I barely manage to jump out of the way before it smacks into the wall right where I’d been standing, leaving a dent in the cement.

I’m already backing away down the alley, towards the street, my legs poised for flight (my brain having dismissed the idea of fighting – I’m fully spent on that front) when I register that it isn’t Santa’s fat ugly brother coming to find me, it’s the boy with the fishing hook smile. And the shiny aura.

‘You’re OK,’ he says, relief flying across his face. ‘I saw that guy hassling you from across the club but I couldn’t get to you in time.’

He was coming to rescue me?

He kicks the door shut with his heel, muting the noise from inside. ‘What did you say to that guy anyway?’ he asks, jerking his head towards the door.

‘What guy?’ I stammer.

‘The guy who looks like he eats teenage girls for breakfast and who’s now bawling his eyes out. What did you do? Tell him his Harley got repossessed? Diss his tattoos?’

My breathing is suddenly all over the place. ‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything to him.’

He narrows his eyes at me, not buying it for a second, then he cocks his head to one side, and a slow and easy smile spreads across his face.

‘If I talk to you are you going to make
me
cry too?’ he asks, taking a step nearer.

I consider him. My throat is so dry that when I answer it sounds like sandpaper rasping against brick. ‘Depends,’ I tell him.

‘OK,’ he answers, nodding, weighing it up. ‘I’ll take the risk.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Ryder,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

I draw in a deep breath. I hate this part. I don’t do touching and I’m already feeling battered blue by all the aura whacking I’ve just endured. But the alternative is looking rude. So I clear my throat. ‘Amber,’ I say. And then, I reach out, bracing myself, and take his hand.

People talk about sparks flying, about electricity jolting and I know better than most that those things are true. When two auras collide, in good ways and bad, sparks can fly. But this is different. There are no sparks flying when Ryder and I shake hands. There are no electricity jolts. Instead, the feeling is akin to diving into an ice-cold river. Instantly I’m swept up in a rushing eddy, and then whipped away on a wild current. It’s total surrender. No fight. Just pure adrenaline thrill ride.

When Ryder lets go of my hand I gasp like I’ve just surfaced into blinding sunlight. I blink at him. He stares back at me with a queer expression on his face.

‘You OK?’ he asks.

‘I . . . err . . . yeah, I’m fine.’ Clearly, he didn’t feel anything quite so dramatic as half-drowning in arctic river rapids when he shook
my
hand. What
was
that?

‘You sure?’ he asks. ‘You look a bit . . . breathless.’

‘Yeah, I just . . .’ I frown at him then smile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘So you like The Gnarly Surs then?’ he asks me now, his eyes glinting in amusement.

‘As much as I like hairy biker guys sporting Aryan Nation tattoos.’

As though on cue the door bangs open and said hairy biker guy sporting racist tattoos comes bursting out. His eyes – bloodshot and red-rimmed – light on me and he snarls. But Ryder steps calmly between us, smiling at the man as though he’s his long-lost brother. I take a breath, wondering if I’ve got enough energy to try and blast him again – but before I can try, I watch Ryder lay his hand on the guy’s bicep. My eyes pop and my voice gets stuck in my throat.
What are you doing?
I want to yell.
Are you insane?

‘Hey pal, you looking for something?’ Ryder asks.

The guy switches his attention to Ryder and for a split second looks like he’s about to rip his face off with his bare teeth, but then, as I watch, the sneer vanishes, replaced with the kind of blank expression you might see on someone who’s taken one too many Valium. He blinks at Ryder, frowns, then shakes his head, befuddled.

‘No,’ the guy says, scanning the alley, his eyes glancing over me before coming to rest back on Ryder. ‘I just . . .’ He shakes his head one more time, clearly bewildered.

Ryder drops his hand from the guy’s arm and the guy turns around and shuffles back inside. The door bangs shut behind him, but I can’t tear my eyes off Ryder. What the hell just happened?

Ryder turns back to face me, smiling innocently.‘This is a really classy establishment. You hang out here often?’

That’s when I remember Nancy. ‘Oh god, my friend!’ I gasp. ‘I’ve got to go. She’ll be worrying.’

Ryder moves fast, blocking my path to the door. ‘You’re not going back in there. I’ll find her for you.’

I hesitate, scanning him, immediately suspicious. But he’s clean. His aura’s pristine. No lies. I’m so surprised that I wonder if Nancy was right about me being a cynic. But I’d rather be a cynic, I tell myself, than be found lying dead in an alley having succumbed to southern charm and a smile. Serial killers come in many forms after all.

‘OK,’ I finally tell him, and then I describe Nancy to him.

‘Oh yeah, I remember seeing her – dressed like Nikita in the episode she escapes from the Russian gulag?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ I say, smiling.

‘Wait right here. I’ll be back in a minute,’ he says. ‘And if any of those biker guys show up while I’m gone, run. Don’t start tossing insults.’

Before I can say anything else he vanishes back inside. I stand in the alley, wrapping my arms around myself and stare after him – or more precisely I stare in wonder at the trail of light he’s left floating in his wake.

Chapter Four

‘There you are!’ Nancy comes flying at me across the alley, the
boom boom
of music acting as rocket fuel to her feet. She hurls herself at me. ‘What happened to you? I was dancing and then I looked around and you were gone and there was a hysterically crying biker sitting on the ground.’

‘I just went to get some air.’

‘Some air, huh?’ she asks, cutting her eyes, oh-so subtly, in Ryder’s direction. He stands amused a few feet away, his gaze fixed on me.

‘I came to her rescue,’ he says.

‘I didn’t need rescuing,’ I shoot back.

He shrugs, his eyes so lazy-lidded he looks like he just woke up. Nancy stares between us – little pink stars blossoming all around her.

An inclination of the head. ‘So, we going, then?’ Ryder asks me.

I frown at him. ‘Where to?’

‘You agreed to come on a date with me if I went and found your friend.’

I open my mouth to protest that I did no such thing but the look of hope on his face and the way he’s holding my gaze with such intensity makes me close it again. There’s also the small but freaky matter of the chandelier aura and needing to figure out what it might mean. And what the hell he just did to that biker.

‘So shall we go?’ he asks.

Nancy has been observing this with utter glee and now hugs me, whispering in my ear, ‘Go, go, go. And tell me
all
about it in the morning.’

‘I’m not leaving you here,’ I protest.

‘I’m going home anyway. The Gnarly Surs finished their set and the next band sucks.’ She grins. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at work, OK?’

We walk Nancy to her car and watch her drive off, then I turn to Ryder – awkwardly. He’s smiling at me – a cat that got the cream smile – and though I try to ignore it and I’m not even touching him, I feel the current snapping at me, urging me to jump right in.

Chapter Five

‘In-N-Out burger?’ I say, glancing across at Ryder. ‘This is where you’re taking me on our first date?’

He pulls on the handbrake and stares at me. He has hazel-coloured eyes. Did I mention this? ‘Our first date?’ he says, smirking. ‘That would suggest there are going to be more to come.’

I blush. But thankfully he doesn’t see. He’s already out of the car, walking around the tennis-court sized bonnet to my side and opening the door for me.

The ancient Chevy stands out among the newer Fords and Toyotas in the lot. It was his grandfather’s and inside it smells of wet dog and surfboard wax. On account of the fact he inherited his grandfather’s dog along with the car and that he likes to surf, as I discovered on the way over here.