Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Control

Chapter 17

My fingers tremble against plastic, trying to keep grip on my phone, as Pete's ringer sings into my ear. Six times I call him, and six times I'm sent directly to voicemail.

"Dammit, Pete! Call me back!" I toss my phone onto the passenger seat of my car and then groan as it bounces to the floorboard.

Where is Pete?

My eyes latch to the vice grip I have on my steering wheel. Even with the closed fist, I can see dark residue—like black powder—saturating the inside of my fingers. The powder tingles on my skin the way peroxide burns an open cut. I have to force myself not to wipe off the black filtrate—the only real proof that I didn't hallucinate blasting the trucker with a ball of fire from my palm.

I take a sharp right off the Cape and proceed down the snow-coated drive to Beauchamp's. Originally, I intended to head over to The Fox Glove and somehow convince Olivian to help me--without resorting to begging, bargaining, or threatening--but then her voice came creeping into my mind with the aggravating reminder that she refuses to help anyone other than Beck. So, instead of listening to my impulsive side, I've let my intuition guide me around the lake, passed that creepy motel until my tires hit the snow-plowed gravel.

Beauchamp's parking lot is packed compared to the last time I came desperately searching for Beck. Most of the vehicles are Jeeps and Subarus, with the occasional crew-cab truck with tires ten times too large for its frame.

I luck out and find a parking spot between two snow-coated Chevys, and force myself out of the car before I convince myself to go home, crawl into bed, and never again see the light of day. There's this odd knot growing in the pit of my stomach, twisting and pulling at the doubt lingering in the back of my mind.

Maybe I am dangerous? Maybe this—the uncontrollable surge of power I felt before the fire materialized in my palm—is what my parents have been hiding from me this entire time.

My heart is pounding as I climb the porch steps, and it only heightens when I enter the bar. I immediately recognize Val, the female bouncer from my last visit, by the Michelangelo tattoo sleeve fully revealed from her dark gray tank top.

Even before she shoots me an annoyed scowl, I already know I'm unwelcome. I feel the uncomfortable tension from the twenty pairs of eyes fixed on me from all directions. The bar is packed tonight, full of hairy, lumberjack-type men that I bet smell as dirty as they look.

A couple boys, probably no older than twenty-five, stop playing their game of pool and fix their silver eyes on me.

Something subconsciously tells me to be guarded, so instinctually, I shove my fists into my jacket pockets, hiding the dark powder as best I can.

"Where's Beck?"

"Why are you here?" The corner of Val's heavily-lined eye twitches. "I thought we went over the rules already?"

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and force myself to play on my confidence in theatre—even though deep down I'm a shivering chicken.

"I don't have time for your rules right now. I need to know where Beck is."

Val scoffs, her red lips gapped at my blunt attitude. I'd like to pretend I feel a little guilty for acting like a jerk to her, but after her obnoxious attitude towards me, I sort of revel in flinging it right back at her.

"He's not here," she grumbles bitterly. I almost accept this answer, but then she flicks her eyes toward the kitchen as if to make sure he's not rounding the corner.

Annoyed, I step forward and lower my voice so only she can hear. "Look, Val. This is important. Like, life or death shit. Now, you can either help me, or I'll make a scene. I doubt you want the latter considering—"