VIOLET GRENADE Sneak Peek

Chapter 4: Spray Paint Savant

I lift my legs off the ground and the guy holding me falters. His grip loosens, and I drop to the floor in a ball. I shoot under his legs and scramble backward, nearly losing my wig. Springing to my feet, I blast across the dance floor like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. 

I spot Dizzy near the bar, raising an amber-colored bottle to his lips. Shoving people from my path as best I can, I get to Dizzy. Only then do I turn back to ensure Manhandler isn't following me. 

He isn't. 

But I'm still here, Wilson says. And I can help. 

Shut up, shut up! I press into my temples as I lurch forward. 

Dizzy notices my face. "Follow me," he orders. 

I nod. I know this plan. We've done it a hundred times before when the going stops going, when a store clerk catches me lifting a Snickers bar, or when a fellow street rat harasses us, or when Wilson threatens to surface. Dizzy may not know about Wilson, but he knows I have demons, and he's always ready when they come crawling. 

Fight or flight, that's what they say. 

Dizzy and I fly. Always fly. 

He tips his chin toward the front door, and we swim through the crowd like eels. Behind us, Black Beauty calls for Dizzy to come back. But he won't. We don't ever stand too close to each other. We don't ever ask personal questions. But when it's time to go, Dizzy and I are in the same flight formation. 

He pushes through the heavy double doors and together we head toward the house. I walk fast and don't mind the ache my high heels cause my feet. I want the pain. I want that and more. Anything that will make me forget about what almost happened with the guy. But more importantly, anything that will make Wilson go back to sleep. 

Why would you want me to go to sleep? You need me for this. If you'd just go back, we could really— 

Go away! 

We're almost home, fifteen minutes of treading across Detroit with my hands sweating, my heart racing, when Dizzy pulls me into yet another alley. 

"I want to show you something," he says. "I was gonna save it until I could get a few more colors..." 

Dizzy doesn't have to continue the thought. He sees the fear on my face, notes the tension in my shoulders. He knows I need a distraction. 

"This way, my lady." He sweeps an arm in front of his body and bows like royalty, but the look in his eyes is one of worry. 

I walk past him, my fingers itching to close around something I know will push Wilson down. I get to the end of the alley and see that it turns right and left. The butt of a gray wall spreads in front of me, its arms open in an embrace. 

My eyes travel the ground and I spot them, five cans of spray paint. 

Graffiti art? Wilson asks. Listen. Let's go back to the club. I'll handle everything. 

I don't think, I just rush toward the cans, pick one up in my shaking hands, and open it. The pop of the cap raises goosebumps on my arms, and quiets Wilson. I hear him shifting inside me, but it's like he's far away. 

Dizzy knows I like to dress up old forgotten walls. It started a few weeks after I left home. Exploring the streets of Detroit one night, I saw a kid—couldn't have been older than fourteen—tagging a wall. He was so enchanting doing it, graceful as a ballerina. I watched him from my place in the dark until he'd finished. Before he left, he pulled off a pair of blue surgical gloves and ditched them, along with two cans of spray paint, in a city trashcan.