Haunted Rayne

9 | Newfound Kinship

That night, Rayne crept through the marbled hallways of Maria J. Westwood just before curfew. A crescent moon hung high in the evening sky, tucked between tufts of gray clouds, casting a spectral glow through the windows. Excitement stirred Rayne's breast. Like an addict, she found herself suddenly craving the sweet rush of being near Cole Bradford. The thrill was in the unknown, the uncertainty of his intentions, and the kinship of rebellion. 

On her left-hand side, the hallway branched into a "T," and two stocky guards stood at the end, their figures distorted by the dim light. They seemed enrapt in conversation as Rayne peeked around the corner, so she darted through the open hall when their backs were turned. One of them angled his head toward the passageway, his senses seemingly pricked by the pitter-patter of her shoes, but he must have brushed off the sound. Neither of them pursued her.

Avoiding the cameras, just as Cole had taught her, Rayne quickly hid herself away inside the custodial closet. She was thankful not to have had any strange encounters with shadows in darkness along the way. Her heart pounded as she traveled through the tunnel, up the ladder, and over brushwood. Wearing a black hoodie and bootcut jeans, Rayne galloped faster, tracking mud along the shin of her pant legs. The moon's radiance guided her toward the shack in the distance, which seemed aglow as candlelight seeped through the cracks in the doorframe. 

The boys were already waiting for her inside. Four white candles flickered in each corner, a dazzling display of shadows dancing along the wall. Rayne tried to avoid them. As long as she steered clear of eye contact, she would never have to find out if they were normal shadows or lively ones. Taking a seat next to Cole on a weathered, green-plaid loveseat, Rayne felt a small measure of comfort sink into her shoulders, but the shadows still seemed to buzz with an almost whisper-like quality. 

"Oh, come on, Rayne," Pierce insisted, displaying a tightly-wrapped joint between his fingers. She studied his pointed chin, spiky hair, and black goatee. Paint him red, she thought, and he'd look like the Devil himself. Pierce smiled. "Do you know how hard it was to get this stuff in here? Just one hit."

Rayne waved away the smoke, certain she'd inhaled enough second-hand already. "No thanks. Not really my scene."

"Seriously?" Cole snorted and held out a hand. "Give it here, man."

Rayne surveyed the room. Pierce and David lazed in a pile of blankets on the floor, high as kites and giddy as schoolgirls. Lucas, meanwhile, sat on a pillow in the corner, his posture relaxed yet vigilant. When Cole tried to throw a bottle his way, Lucas caught it effortlessly and rolled it right back. Rayne could feel Cole's chest roll with laughter behind her. "You and Lucas are the world's greatest buzz kills," he murmured in her ear, and she wriggled farther from his embrace, glancing back at Lucas. 

The blonde rubbed his neck. "Sorry, man. Maybe next time."

"Maybe next time," Cole mocked. "Says that every time." He bashed the cap off a new bottle and took a swig. It was his third. Since Pierce and David only had one each, Rayne was beginning to think Cole might finish the whole pack by himself. "Come on, babe"—he tilted the bottle toward her—"at least have a drink."

She shook her head. "Can't."

"Come on. Yes, you can." He nudged her with the tip of the bottle. "Just one sip."

"No, I mean I can't," she snapped. "I'm dead-serious, so don't pull that peer-pressure B.S. on me."

He inhaled softly, the realization striking him. "You're a pill popper."

Giggling, Pierce sat up. "Really?" he asked, eyes wide. "What's wrong with you? Are you, like, schizophrenic or some shit?"

"What's wrong with you?" she shot back. "Are you, like, stupid or some shit?"