"You should've let me read your cup," Malik's mother said over the phone.
His mother excelled at reading Turkish coffee cups. Unlike tea leaves, coffee readings demanded the drinker finish the drink then flip the small cup on its saucer. The person doing the reading would infer the future from the pattern created by the grounds. They were often accurate to a terrifying degree, whether the readings were good or bad. Malik had sworn off what was once a fun childhood ritual. He didn't enjoy looking over his shoulder for a crow with white wings because of what resided in his cup.
"I'm okay, Mama," Malik said.
"Do you have food in the fridge? You can't go without breakfast."
There were some energy bars and coffee. He'd shop later. "Yeah. I'm alright."
His mother then rattled off all the dangers he should avoid tomorrow, along with orders of dos and don'ts. He should set his alarm. Take his clothes to the laundromat, and he needed to unpack. Boxes flanked the door.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah, but I gotta go. Cool?"
She sighed. "I love you."
"Same."
If she could see the apartment, Malik doubted he would've been able to get her off the phone this easily. And he prayed she didn't intend to call every day.
Malik could smell the grease wafting from the fish and chips shop on the ground floor. The man who owned it was delighted to know Malik was not of the opinion that the store was as foul as the other tenants claimed. He even offered a discount on Malik's first order.
Malik reached for one of the top boxes marked "Channel". The labels were his mother's idea. He took out the tripod wrapped in brown paper and duct tape, the twin poles of lighting units, and the Canon camera.
The camera burst into life at the press of the right top button. The battery registered as full, and the settings were in order. Malik took it on a mock tour of the place. He started with the living room, sweeping over the TV, the coffee table, and the lone couch smothering the black and ruby red carpet.
"It makes farting noises whenever you sit, too," Malik said to the camera.
The bedroom wasn't too bad, but the bed creaked whenever Malik tossed and turned. The bathroom was compact, with a narrow sink and a small tub that Malik never found comfortable enough to lounge in. The open kitchen, where no one cooked, was the last on the tour.
On the table sat a set of faux china plates, various sleek black mugs, and some gleaming pots and pans. They were probably courtesy of his parents— or rather his mother. He couldn't see his father going through the trouble.
Ha. His father.
Malik stopped the video. He would make up his mind later if he'd edit and share it. The snarky voiceover comments had been Mena's thing.
Malik's phone buzzed in his pocket. He set the camera on the coffee table next to the laptop. For a second, his chest swelled then sank as Liz's name brightened the screen. For a brief moment, he'd hoped it would be an unknown number. He wanted Jude to have been the person calling.
He jumped in the shower. The water from the showerhead pelted against his back, drowning out the ringing of his phone. His body hardened at the thought of Jude, how his slim body had struggled against his. The power he exuded as he struggled beneath Malik...
Malik turned the water to cold. It was wrong on so many levels. When he'd remembered the sight of Jude's body writhing, his chest tightened, and his heartbeat did curious skips. He thought he'd chat him up and leave it at that. Then things got out of hand.
He towel-dried, slipping into a pair of boxer shorts while his mind tried to push back images of the enigmatic Jude. He looked like a soft boy, but his long, elegant limbs and powerful body were a surprise. Malik had a type; tough boys. The kind he met at the gym. But most of them were straight, in denial, or a snooze fest. Jude was slimmer than what he liked, but his features were an intoxicating blend of sharp masculinity and inviting dulcet lips. Malik wondered what they would taste like.
It was unnerving to be attracted to someone right off the bat. The fact that Malik didn't know his sexual orientation or his involvement in Mena's death seemed to have skipped town.
His phone was blinking a dot of red, signaling a new message.
It was from Liz.
Hey. There is a party tonight, and it might be fun or super boring. In?
Malik smiled. It had been less than a week since classes started, and there were already a dozen parties gearing up. He could use a distraction.
Yeah. Location?
***
The house party was tame by the time Malik arrived. Liz waved at him, and Malik weaved through the freshman attendees, some of them familiar from the classes they shared.
Liz had gone through a makeover since church. She wore a tank top with shiny straps crisscrossing the small of her back, and her hair was piled high in a glossy ponytail. Her freckles she'd left uncovered as they complimented her cherry lips.
"Hey, you," she said.
He gave her a peck on the cheek. "Hey."
"Malik, this is Jennifer"—Liz pointed to a curvy blonde—"Jenni, Kyla, and Ginger."
The girls smiled and said hello. Ginger, who had black hair streaked with red, was resolute on winning a staring contest with a plastic cup.
If Malik had thought his high school had been packed, Victoria City's homebody was limitless. It came with its pros. College had its cliques, same as high school. However, they were more relaxed because college had more options. In high school, once you missed your chance getting in with the cool kids, be it the jocks and cheerleaders, or whiz nerds who knew the easter eggs scattered in the Marvel movies, you'd be left to fend for yourself until graduation. Here, Malik weaved between different cliques, or rather groups, undecided about where he fitted in.
It was a fun ride.
"Drink?" Malik said.
Liz nodded, her ponytail bobbing." And snacks."
The kitchen was chaotic. There were paper cups safe in their cellophane. The rest of them and some of the snacks were swimming in a small pool of peach punch. Near the counter, David was busy feeling up a tiny Asian girl who stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
A skinhead Malik never met before approached him. "Hey, man."
There were bits of chips swimming in a bowl of punch. "Hey."
"How much for a roll?"
Malik had been trying to quit. "I don't have a pack on me."
"You got coke?"
Malik rolled his eyes, certain he wasn't talking about the soda variety. "I don't deal."
The skinhead scratched his cheek. "Know who does?"
Malik looked around. The party was predominately white. It was disappointing to see he had been singled out as a drug dealer. At the first concert he attended, he was frisked quite often for the same reasons.
"I got a date," Malik said, and the dude took the cue to vanish.
Considering the snacks a lost cause, Malik grabbed a beer. The house was filling up by the second. The music, too, had gotten louder. It was some techno jumble that was synonymous with swaying and getting drunk.
Liz was giddy as ever when he put the beer in her manicured hand. They talked crap about their professors and how they were out to get them. Some of their classmates, who had already shown up tipsy, chimed in.
Malik drank, with each sip forgetting why the hell had he asked Liz out. It was a dick move. She was nice. Bland. But nice. She didn't deserve to be the subject of his flimsy experiment at worst or a pointless distraction at best.
"Another drink?" Malik shouted over pop beats.
"Yeah." A classmate standing next to Liz shouted back. Liz was jumping around in circles and banging into people.
Malik shook his head. Maybe Liz wasn't dumb after all. She seemed more interested in having fun than him. Malik's mind was even less interested in the party as it kept returning to wide blue eyes. When it didn't, he kept glancing at some of the faces he knew were somehow involved in the cult—the cult he had yet to prove existed.
He didn't get lucky unraveling mysteries or digging up leads. The trip to the makeshift bar was messier. There were traces of vomit on the floor, and the host had to shout so people wouldn't slip on the wet floor.
"Holy hell."
Malik turned to the guy cursing under his too-loud breath. Jet black eyes, hostile, and a buzz cut met Malik's nonchalant amber orbs. The guy, Aaron, glared at him.
Shit.
"Nice to see you too, Aaron," Malik said.
Aaron's jaw clenched. "Is it?"
Malik sighed. "Are you angry?"
A wounded look crossed Aaron's face. "How could you? Do you have any idea what it was like for me? Did you think of me at all?"
"Look..."
Aaron shook his head and turned, motioning for Malik to follow.
A jolt of panic went through Malik. What if Aaron was too butthurt? What if he was going to run that motormouth of his?
Malik followed, staring at Aaron's striped t-shirt. Aaron checked if the master bathroom was empty then waved Malik in. Malik rolled closed the door behind them.
"I missed you," Aaron whispered. Without warning, he pushed Malik against the wall, crushing his lips on Malik's. Malik's mouth suddenly filled with stale beer and the tar of a million cigarettes. It was like being licked by an ashtray.
Malik pushed Aaron off, resisting the urge to spit in the nearby sink.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Aaron said.
Malik snickered. "Taking the lord's name in vain? You grew balls away from home?'
Aaron's fists clenched. Malik wished he'd drunk more. Or had drunk a stronger drink.
"You dumped me over a text."
"I told you I don't do steady."
"Why did you kiss me back now, huh?"
Malik snorted. "Dude. Really?'
Aaron's fingers unclenched from their fists. "I thought we had something."
"We did. Casual sex."
"Fuck you."
Aaron had been a youth group leader. If his church could see him now.
"Wow. We should be recording those curses." Malik pushed past him and opened the door. A whoosh of slurred voices and furious beats came flooding back in as he made his way back to the party.
"You're sick," Aaron said to his back. "Just because your brother died doesn't mean you can go around fucking up other people's lives."
Malik saw red. The fury sent his blood roaring and made Aaron its target. He saw Aaron's chin tremble. Aaron yelped when his shoulder connected with Liz, showering her top with wine.
Liz gaped at them while holding her empty glass.
An image of Jude with a knife at his throat flashed through Malik's mind. Was this who he was? A brute who triggered suicidal tendencies and roughened up former hookups? What would've happened if Liz hadn't been in the way? Would Malik have beaten the crap out of Aaron?
Maybe those cops had been right. Maybe his people had violence in their blood.
"Oh my god," Liz looked at her ruined shirt. Aaron was out of sight.
Malik ushered her to the same notorious bathroom. The napkins soaked some of the wine, turning pink.
"I look awful," she said.
He forced a smile at Liz. "Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight?"
"I do?"
"Yup."
Liz wrapped her arms around his waist, her ruined top forgotten. "All for you."
To get rid of Aaron's taste, he kissed her. He felt as if he were kissing a static board. It wasn't repulsive, only...
It will work. He needed time to make it work with a girl and make his family proud.