Lighthouse Nights

4

sick.chick.emma: i can’t do it :’( he’ll never stop

gothic_butterfly1: that shouldn’t happen to anyone... ever.

sick.chick.emma: people have gone 2 jail 4 less

gothic_butterfly1: did you threaten him? 

sick.chick.emma: with what, killing myself? 

gothic_butterfly1: yes, like we talked about. 

sick.chick.emma: no. he’d like it... he’d molest my dead rotting body

another hotel, the fifth in three months. new york this time.

in addition to her usual makeup, jules wore blue tights under a pair of trevor’s black boxers and his favorite bra with the purple trim. she laid face-up across the foot of the king-sized bed. her laptop sat on her chest and illuminated her face with a violet glow. bars of pink text ran the length of the screen; “gothic_butterfly1” was her pseudonym.

“’my dead rotting body.’ i love it!” trevor wore green boxers, a wife-beater, a valet cap, and a plastic name-tag that read “stanley” in capital letters. he sat on the floor, used the bed as a backrest, and watched the conversation unfold on his own computer. when his head moved, his hair tickled jules’ waist.

a new message from emma:

sick.chick.emma: i want 2 kill mark...

“we’re so close,” jules said. “say something awful.”

“sure thing, boss,” trevor replied with a tip of his hat and typed in the chat room under the screen name, “00sexboy00.”

00sexboy00: yourself. kill YOURSELF. stupid bitch got what u deserve.

jules typed her next message:

gothic_butterfly1: leave her alone, sexboy. she’ll do it when she’s ready.

trevor groaned. “it’s been three nights of this shit.”

“two minutes, baby,” jules said. “two minutes and i’ll have her addy.”

sick.chick.emma: i cant do it alone

gothic_butterfly1: nobody wants to do it alone, emma. have you thought more about the idea of a pact?

sick.chick.emma: i dont know. r u still thinking about it 2?

gothic_butterfly1: it’s all i ever think about. your step-dad... my boyfriend... we can’t let them treat us like shit anymore. this is our only way out.

trevor asked, “what’s wrong with your boyfriend?” he twisted his neck to face jules with a pout and emerald puppy eyes.

she tilted her head and kissed him. “you taste like butter.”

“it’s the lobster.”

“you know that thing used to be alive?”

“fish don’t feel pain, dork.”

“lobsters aren’t fish.”

trevor slurped more butter from his thumb. “but you gotta love room service!” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a snickers bar.

“seriously?” jules said. “that’s disgusting.”

he noshed half the bar in one bite, then tipped his hat, smiled with chocolate-stained teeth, and turned back to his computer. for a twenty-seven-year-old, trev could be such a child.