Veronica Bane grew up in San Diego, California and spent her days writing in local coffee shops and at the beach. Her writing was and has always been fed a healthy diet of chai tea lattes and film scores. She studied Creative Writing at Chapman University and now lives in Los Angeles.
Author Website: www.veronicabane.com
Mara on Amazon: http://amzn.com/0615846130
Chris moved away, urging his sore leg to move faster. But the boy had recovered, and he slammed his fist into Chris’s face and sent him tumbling to the ground. His face smacked against the concrete building. He choked on his own blood, on the cigarette smoke, on the humiliation.
A couple passed by, eyes flitting to Chris. He met the man’s amber eyes, he opened his mouth to plead, but the couple doubled their steps and disappeared down the sidewalk without glancing back.
“What do you say I take his pants off?”
“Ew,” said the girl, rolling her eyes. “That’s just nasty, Wilson.”
“Not going to do anything,” said the boy. “We could take his clothes so he has to walk home naked. Better yet, we could light them on fire.”
The girl rolled her eyes and gave a flick of her wrist. “Do what you want, Wilson.”
The boy grinned and reached for the top of Chris’s pants. Chris kicked back and then groaned as the pain in his leg seared.
“Don’t make this take longer than it needs to, Native,” snapped Wilson, slapping Chris hard. “I could always light them on fire with you still wearing them, you know.”
At once, cracks appeared in the building behind them, the sound slithering through the night. The girl lifted her head, eyes narrowing as she traced a crack erupting in the faint light.
Wilson stopped trying to force Chris’s pants off and turned his head up to where she indicated. The building gave an unnatural moan, and then with a hiss, a pipe exploded into the night. It sent bits of concrete and dust raining over the three, and then the pipe itself ripped open. Torrents of water screamed down around them, careening into the boy and the girl and pelting them hard on their backs and shoulders. The girl screeched and dropped her cigarette, running while flailing her pale arms. The boy followed, and the water pursued them, leaving angry purple welts on their exposed skin as it chased them into the night.
On the floor, Chris heaved, covering the back of his head with arms, but he only received a soft pattering. In the summer heat, it was a welcome rain on his bloodied skin.