The air was warm, smothering hot actually, but Kaya was used to this stifling heat. So, it was warm to her. But she tossed aside her blanket just in case it caused her any harm. No one could afford to get sent to the hospital, especially those with no health care and those who were on the run.
The morning sunrays lit the warehouse she camped in, highlighting the dust motes that danced in the light. Upturned barrels were used as tables and nightstands. One held a busted clock that skipped every four minutes, another was filled with cool water in case a fire broke out. Kaya was used to taking such precautions and would never stop. Those steps have saved her quite a bit since she ran four years today.
With the switch flicked on the rusted coffee maker that leaned against the wall, she set about washing up and getting dressed. Her day job was a-calling, and she couldn't afford to lose this one.
In the back of the warehouse was a hazmat shower, and with some finagling on her part, and a few thefts, it ran smooth and hot—most days. The water warmed her aches in the shoulders and lower back, traveling over the intricate net of scars and tattoos. A bead of water caught in a nasty scar that traversed her spine and over the left butt cheek. The little bead magnified a pale blue iris that swam in a murky white, all of which sat deep in a beautiful white wolf tattoo that took up most of Kaya's back. Along her arms were two sleeve tattoos, each of which meant something different and something profound. One was in honor of the life she was rudely unallowed, that would be the left. Her right was in honor of someone she had betrayed; someone she had lost.
The beep of the coffee machine had Kaya turning off the hazmat shower, where she stood until the last drops of water could be felt. Shaking herself, and releasing the tension in her shoulders momentarily, the native women stepped out and wrapped herself in a tattered baby blue towel lifted from the rundown motel across the rarely packed intersection.
A shot of coffee down her gullet and the uneasiness returned. Four years, she hummed tunelessly at the thought. Four years. A sigh heaved through her dry-cracked lips before she realized. Shaking her head, Kaya dressed in some holed-up black jeans that hugged her high hips and proclaimed her ass to its almighty girth. No tattoo was worth the pain of an ass tat, Kaya thought ruefully as the back of her hand scraped along the scar felt through her lacy underwear. No matter the scar.
As the strangely cut shirt, ripped at the sides and tethered in a crisscross pattern up to the armpit, was forced onto Kaya's head, her braided hair got caught beneath a foot, causing a loud bang to echo as she fell.
She lifted her hair, glaring at the split-ends. Not once had she cut her hair beyond a trim. That meant her hair, in all of its black and dark brown beauty, thick as rope, curled around her body like a protective snake until it brushed the ground. Every week, she undid the fine length, washed the tangling mess, combed it out, and re-braided. Friday night, to say the least, was one Kaya hated and loved.
The walk to the shop she manned the front desk for was uneventful. The beanie hat she unceremoniously stuffed her too long hair in was dark in color, but the color no one could quite describe. It's odd lumps and bulges brought amused glances, but the glowering expression on its owner had the on-lookers turning away.
It's all how it should be, she thought to herself, staring at a set of twin girls that giggled and held hands as they skipped besides their dad. They were across the street as she walked the last block to work. Each twin were freckled, each had dark skin and bright grey eyes; they looked like their father. Their rambunctious laughter caused a small smile to curb Kaya's perpetual glare. It was still on her lips, along with a distant haze in her hazel eyes, as she neared work.
"What's got you so chipper, girl?" Her boss asked when she walked in from the back. The Chicana had dark black hair that was parted on the right and braided in a fishtail and wore her face in a perpetual design of piercings. The haze in Kaya's eyes died and the smile fell.
"Yo, wassup Chica?" Was her reply. Her boss rolled chocolate eyes and shook her head before going in the back, ignoring the beaded feature.
"Appointment, yea?" Kaya yelled, to which was replied with "In ten!"
Nodding, she set her backpack on the ground behind the counter and sat on the stool. In ten, someone was coming in for a tattoo consult. Probably a wannabee white girl with a silver spoon digging in her ass, prompting her to rebel. Typical Fridays.
Flipping through an outdated mag, Kaya stifled a yawn and pulled her hair over her shoulder so she wouldn't sit on it again. The bell jingled, alerting to a customer. A man, with slicked back hair, grease on his elbows and fingernails, and a playful smirk on his tanned face, walked in and leaned against the counter. Kaya rolled her eyes in greeting. The smirk grew.
"Hola, chica. How's my babymama doin'?" His accented voice dribbled spit on the counter. The offensive comment didn't even phase the girl. She whipped out a dusty rag and cleaned the spittle before replying.
"Shove off, Ramone."
"Ah baby," he wheezed, "Don't be like that. My heart can only take so much, dollface." The little flash of annoyance in Kaya's green eyes went unnoticed by Ramone, who tapped his tapered fingers on the glass. "Is Jazzy in, sexy?"
Rolling her eyes, Kaya leaned backwards on the stool and rotated left and right for a moment, staring at her friend. He joked like this often, hitting on her every chance he got, but everyone knew his attentions were best spent on another with a different preference. Preferably among the y-chromosome.
Hefting her body up from the stool, she looked back at the offbeat guy before sticking her tongue out. He chuckled, rolling his shoulder and rubbing the grease stain on his left elbow. "Lemme see." She said, then leaned forward, over the glass, right near his face. Her nose almost brushed the stubble on his cheek. "Yo, Chica!"
Ramone flew backwards, crashing into a post card stand. "Jesus, woman. What was that for?" He said, clutching at his ears. Sensitive hearing, check. Kaya grimaced before chuckling.
"Whadya want girl?!" Jazzy, the boss, hollered before slamming through the beaded doorway and pausing as her eyes took in the scene. "Cuz, stop messin' with my employee." The cousin of Kaya's boss pouted as he stood up and righted the stand, ignoring the cards that fell on the concrete ground. Jazzy's eyes flicked to them then up to her cousin. "Ya better be picking 'em up, Ray."
He held his hands up in defense. The store fell quiet. Ramone hurried with the cards then shot in the back. Whispers that Kaya could have ease-dropped on (if she weren't subjecting her spirit to a forced silence) followed after.
How else was she to explain the sensation? She silenced the part of her that could be tracked, forced the extra abilities to wither away and her smell to remain human. It took her half a year to master the ability, and she'd been enacting it for just over a year. It was a side effect of being on the run from crazy, do-gooders who thought she was an abominable creation worth destruction.
The four-year mark of her run, the four-year mark that was today—her birthday—made it all the more difficult. Her birthday, the day everything had changed for her seven years prior, and the day everything changed three years more, was not something she celebrated. She stayed away from her birthdays. For it was these days that her forced subjugation of her spirit was the hardest. And the link she hadn't felt for so long slowly crept up on her.
The dying music did nothing to calm her soul.
As the sun lit the block in the midday haze of the famous lunch hour, Kaya brushed her braid behind her and went for her bag that had lain propped against the front counter for the entirety of the morning. As her own tapered fingers, a sign of who she really was, wrapped around the strap, the bell tingled for the seventh time that day and brought with it a delicious scent that sent her hormones in overdrive and her mind in a flurry.
It couldn't be. She closed her yellow eyes. It shouldn't be.
Jazzy walked in, smelling what had Kaya in a frightened freeze. She pushed back the beads from the tattooing room and stepped into the front with a flourish. "Ian!" The sound of her boss's voice broke the spell the scent had over her. The bag came up with Kaya, and she placed it over her head and on her left shoulder. The sleeve of her jacket rode up a bit, allowing the newcomer, the one she hadn't looked at yet, a peak at the native words that swirled in between the thicket tats. Kaya didn't know that Ian could read this particular native language. It wasn't a normal thing for an average person to be able to do.
The language was dead, and no one, not even the blood natives on the reservations, could speak it. With a flick of her wrist, the long braid of her hair flung from beneath the backpack's strap and into the air. The swoosh of air brought the two–talking on friendly terms–eyes to Kaya.
Jazzy chuckled. "You gotta cut your hair, chica."
The stiffness in the native's shoulders returned, but she masked it with a shake of her body and a roll of her eyes. "Don't be jealous, Jaz." Kaya laughed, unease present. Her hazel eyes met Ian's dark brown.
The spark that only those with two spirits could feel sent the air in a crackling fury before subsiding. Kaya noticed Jazzy's eyes widening before turning to Ian. His disheveled hair shifted as he nodded in response. But . . . but . . . Kaya didn't share their smell. She was human, honest and true. At least, that was what she forced herself to be. For the sake of everyone's sanity, she needed to be only human.
"Ian, this is Kaya, my front gal." Jazzy started, bumping into Ian, gauging Kaya's reaction. The slight appearance of annoyance in the girl's green orbs egged Jaz on. She felt it, but didn't know what it was, Jazzy mused. "Kaya, this is my favoritest boy-friend, Ian."
It took all of Kaya's willpower she developed since she ran the final time to not lunge at the little Chicana boss of hers. Calm, Betsy. The beast inside Kaya whirred into awareness, even though the full moon had yet to make an appearance. Calm. Jazzy was the closest thing to a friend that Kaya had, and even if fate wanted Kaya to be paired with this man, with this Ian, she was not prepared to ruin said friendship.
Ian rolled his eyes and put his hand on his sisters' shoulder. "Don't let my sister tell you any different." One relaxed and the other just grinned. "I might be her favorite guy friend, only because I don't let her have any others."
Kaya raised her eyebrow, before disconnecting her eyes from his and looking into her boss's. "It's lunchtime, chica. I'll be back in twenty." Jazzy just waved her hand before grabbing her brother's and pulling him along.
"Take your time, girl. Not busy today, ya know?" Ian looked about ready to protest, but a jab from his sisters' elbow and a shushing look compelled him to not. Kaya piled her hair into her beanie, grazed the glass countertops with her fingertips before walking around and by the man who was destined to be hers, forever. If only she wasn't on the run.
As the doorbell jingled her departure, and the silent close of the swinging door alerted two siblings, Kaya stopped just at the end of the windows, extending the last of her withering ability of hearing. "You are in for a handful, brother, with this mate of yours." Kaya sighed and walked away. Why did everything always go wrong on her birthdays?