Black Sunshine Read online

  I pause, coming to a standstill, and listen.

  I’m a couple of blocks away from the speakeasy, in the residential area close to Haight Street, which is busy on a Friday night, and yet everything seems eerily calm. Hushed. Like the houses around me are holding their breath.

  Slowly I turn around and stare back down the street.

  There’s a lone streetlamp on the corner, showcasing the mist rushing past it.

  A shadowy figure, a man, suddenly appears out of the gray, stopping right beside the streetlamp.

  Staring right at me.

  Into me.

  And it’s like all the air is knocked from my lungs.

  I’m literally gasping, my body stiffens, going ice cold.

  And then the streetlamp goes out.

  Plunging the man into darkness.

  Oh fuck this.

  Feeling strength returning to my limbs, I take in a sharp breath and spin on my feet, running like hell up the street. I’ve always been athletic and fast, despite what some extra pounds might say, and I run like I’ve never run before, not stopping, narrowly colliding with a couple as I sprint down Frederick until I hit Ashbury.

  Only then do I stop, taking stock of the situation as I look around.

  Everything seems blissfully normal here. Some people walking about, the sound of traffic filling the air. The street is brightly lit, showcasing the colorful Victorian homes on either side of the road. The entrance to The Cloister, one of my favorite bars, has only a few people in line, nowhere near as busy as it will be later. For a somewhat underground speakeasy, it’s awfully popular, probably because word has gotten out that they don’t scrutinize IDs.

  I wonder if my mystery stalker was a cop. I turn twenty-one in two weeks, so I’m almost legal to drink, but I’ve been using the same fake ID for years now. Carol Ann Black, from Edmonton, Alberta instead of Lenore Warwick from San Francisco, California. The picture looks nothing like me either, but every person I’ve given the ID to has just accepted it at face value. My friend Elle jokes that every bouncer just happens to want to sleep with me, so they let it go, but either way it works.

  But maybe my time is up. Perhaps the cop will show up at the bar, a total shakedown, arrest everyone. I’ll have to keep my wits about me if I see the guy again.

  Not that I really saw what he looked like. He was just a hazy silhouette. Tall, at least six feet, broad-shouldered, wearing a long coat. Could be anyone, really.

  I try to shake the unsettled feeling from my limbs.

  It was just a cop, I tell myself as I rifle through my black studded handbag, getting out my wallet. He didn’t even do anything, just stared at me. If he wasn’t a cop, then it was probably just someone else out and about, nothing more than a stranger, and the light just happened to blow out above him. I’m making something out of nothing.

  Cuz you’re paranoid, the voice inside my head pipes up.

  I shake that away, too.

  I stride up to the behemoth of a bouncer and hand him my ID, doing that thing where you’re trying to look bored and put-out by having to give your ID, like you do this all the time, like there’s no way you could get in trouble because of course that’s really you in the photo.

  The bouncer scrutinizes the photo, then looks at me.

  Looks at the photo.

  Then back at me.

  “Carol Ann Black?” he asks.

  “That’s me,” I say, flashing him a smile as I stare deep into his eyes. No one with a fake ID would dare be this confident.

  “Okay. Have fun,” he says, handing it back to me, staring off down the street like I don’t exist.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, and squeeze past him through the gate at the side of the building, my nerves fluttering with adrenaline. I’m so looking forward to finally being legal so I don’t have to get so worked up every time I want to go out and have fun.

  Not that I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. With my final final exam next week, I’ve been doing nothing but studying. I’m doing my BA of Arts with a major in Ancient Egyptian and Near Eastern Art and Archeology, hoping to one day get my PhD and perhaps become a museum curator. I’m supposed to go to Egypt in August for two weeks as an internship (unpaid, of course, but at least they take care of the flight), on a dig, so there’s a chance that my dream of working for a museum might change to becoming a hands-on archeologist. Only time will tell.

  The Cloister is actually in the basement of an old church, so it’s not just a clever name. Though the bouncer is stationed out front, you have to go through a side gate between the church and a blue Victorian house, then round the back and down the outside stairs to the basement. Tonight of all nights I’m still a little spooked out, and the path is extremely dark.

  I stop suddenly, just before I round the corner to the stairs.

  The space at the back of the church is an overgrown garden, though in the night it’s just an ominous black mess. Once, I stayed at the bar until the sun was coming up and only then was I able to actually get a good look at the concrete cracked with weeds, a rotting bench overtaken by ivy, a crumbling fountain slippery with mildew.

  Right now, I swear there’s someone standing right in front of me, between me and the back wall of the garden. I sense them, but I don’t see them—it’s just black space, looking somehow denser than normal, like it doesn’t stop, like it goes on and on forever, a black hole.

  I suppress a shiver running through me, my scalp prickling at the thought of standing on the edge of infinity with no escape, only darkness.

  “Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding small and stupid.

  A sharp inhale of breath comes from in front of me.

  Then the door to the basement opens, illuminating the space.

  I swear for a split second I see a moving shadow, red eyes, and then there’s nothing at all except the fountain, the angels looking particularly warped with moss splashed across them like green blood.

  A guy and a girl come stumbling out of the bar, giggling, lighting up cigarettes, hands tangled with each other. They don’t really seem to notice me, disappearing into the dark of the garden, only the lit ends of their cigarettes giving them away.

  The moment clears the cobwebs from my head, making me realize I need a fucking drink, and I quickly walk down the stairs, opening the heavy door into the club.

  Once inside, I let out a breath of relief, Billie Eilish’s “All the Good Girls Go to Hell” playing over the speakers, and start looking for Elle.

  The Cloister is a cavernous space that manages to feel small, really leaning into the whole church thing. The carpet is red, the walls are dark wood, there are makeshift altars all over the place with crosses and skulls and rosaries, and the space has been divided up into seating areas by having a bunch of iron four-poster bed frames scattered around, tables and booths in the middle, surrounded by retractable red velvet curtains. Even though it’s haphazardly put together, it’s a little Twin Peaks, a lot of goth, and very, very cool. Plus, the drinks are amazing, even if they’ll suck a student’s budget back quickly.

  I walk around, looking for Elle, and spot her at a booth in the corner. It’s our favorite spot because it looks out onto the whole bar, which means the both of us get to rate every guy that walks in through the door.

  I give her a quick smile and slip past the curtain, taking a seat on the hard bench across from her, a former pew chopped into sections.

  “You got here fast,” she says to me, sliding my drink over to me. We always have an agreement, whoever gets here first has to order the other person a drink, and the other person has to drink it, no matter what. Tonight it looks like some kind of fruity martini which is fine with me.

  “I was in a hurry to get drunk,” I tell her, grasping the thin stem of the glass. “Cheers.”

  We both raise our glasses, delicately clinking the rims without spilling.

  “Well then, here’s to getting drunk,” she says. “And to our last exams.”

  I take
a sip of the drink, cranberry and something, strong enough to make me cough. “Yeah,” I say, trying to clear my throat. “Perhaps we should have waited to come here until after we’re officially done.”

  “Oh whatever,” she says, waving me away and downing the rest of her drink in one go. The girl could drink turpentine and not flinch. “You’re going to pass with flying colors like you always do. You could show up to your exams drunk if you wanted and you’d still ace it.”

  “Right, well, I’m not about to experiment and find out.”

  Elle and I met the first day during our Elementary Akkadian class when she asked who my tattoo artist was, and after that we were fast friends, liking the same music, going to the same concerts, and sometimes going after the same guys (I always yield to her because it’s not worth the fight…she can be a little headstrong). I never had a lot of close friends growing up. There was always something that kept me at a distance from everyone else, whether it was something on their behalf or mine, but I’m as close to Elle as I’ll ever be with anyone, aside from my parents.

  She brushes her short, bleached blonde hair behind her ears, the rows of earrings catching the dim light, and gives me a funny look. “You okay?”

  I give her a brief smile. “Yeah. Why? My lipstick smudged?”

  She shakes her head. “No. You seem a little out of breath and shaky.”

  She reaches out and places her fingers along the tattoo on my right forearm, the words dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. I know it’s cliché to have an Edgar Allen Poe quote as a tattoo, but when your name is Lenore, well, I’m like this place. I lean into what was given to me.

  “You’re cold,” she says to me, snatching her hand back.

  “I’m always cold,” I remind her, even though right now I feel kind of flushed on the inside, like my heart is too hot. “And I’m fine. I just had a scare earlier.”

  “What scare?” she says loudly, her eyes going wide with excitement. Elle gets so worked up over everything.

  “You’re going to say I’m paranoid again.”

  “So let me be the judge of that. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” I tell her, tugging down the sleeve of my yellow plaid shirt so that it covers my arms. “I thought I was being followed.”

  “You probably were.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know why you insist on walking everywhere,” she says. “Just take an Uber.”

  “Elle, I walked all the way up Haight.” Pretty much. “It was busy as anything. I was safe. Besides, Ubers are expensive.”

  She rolls her eyes, her green shimmering eyeshadow sparkling. “As if you can’t afford it. Your parents have told you time and time again, they’ll pay for your Ubers until you get a car.”

  “Doesn’t mean I feel good about it.”

  “Fine. You’re getting the next round.” She taps her black nails against the table, giving me an expectant look. “Since you saved some money by walking.”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Fine.”

  “Better do it before Matt shows up.”

  Matt is a friend of ours. If you want to get more specific, he’s my ex-boyfriend. I dated him for a few weeks last summer, totally casual. The sex was okay, and to be honest, the only reason I dated him is because he’s the drummer in a White Zombie cover band, and I thought he was sexy as hell.

  But, as is often the case with me, even though I’m attracted to a guy, the sexual experience ended up being lackluster. There was just no…spark. No physical connection. I know I’m probably asking for too much—Elle tells me that as long as I’m getting off I should be satisfied, but it is what it is. For a while there I thought maybe I was a lesbian, but Elle, who’s bisexual, put that to rest pretty quickly. Turns out I exclusively want dick, I’m just picky about said dick, expecting my world to be blown wide open, for the earth to quake every time I have an orgasm.

  I blame the monster erotica on my Kindle.

  But despite the somewhat awkward hook-ups, it turned out Matt was okay with just being friends and we’re so much more compatible this way. Sometimes I think it’s a shame that we didn’t have the chemistry I needed, but the fact that I got a good friend out of it makes it worthwhile.

  “I hope he isn’t bringing his girlfriend,” Elle adds under her breath.

  Okay, so maybe there’s a teeny tiny bit of jealousy on my behalf when it comes to his new girlfriend, Beth. I know I’m the one who broke up with him, but I don’t make the rules. She seems nice enough and I definitely don’t want him back, but I guess deep down, the closer he gets to her, the more he might pull away as a friend. See, she doesn’t like me very much. She acts like she’s afraid of me for some reason, and because of that, Elle doesn’t like her either, which makes our hang-outs a lot less fun.

  As if on cue, Matt walks in through the door.

  Thankfully alone.

  I stick my hand out of the curtain and wave him over to us.

  “Now you have to buy three drinks,” Elle reminds me. “Should have moved faster.”

  Matt stops in front of our table, grinning at us both. “Okay, what are you having?”

  I give Elle a triumphant smile. Matt almost always takes care of the bill when he’s here. Though he’s a musician on the side, he’s got a start-up going in Palo Alto with him and some of his friends, an app that tells you what TV show you should stream tonight. It’s only in beta mode at the moment, but he’s rolling in investor money.

  “I’ll have a Paloma,” I tell him, looking him up and down. He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, but his black leather high-tops catch my eye. “New shoes? They look expensive.”

  A flush appears across his tanned face. “Yeah,” he says, running his hand through his brown hair. “New Jordans.”

  “Jesus, Matt,” Elle says. “Your band know your shoes cost half a grand?”

  He laughs, giving her a look like she has no idea. “What do you want to drink, Elle?”

  “Surprise me,” she says, flashing him a smile and wiggling in her seat. “I’m feeling risky tonight. Frisky, too.”

  Matt looks to me, brows raised, in a way that says are we sure we should be getting her drunk?

  I shrug. There’s no stopping Elle when she’s in a mood.

  He walks off to the bar, a line already forming, the place getting busier, half the people in here looking like they’re underage. I have to wonder how long this place has until it gets shut down.

  “Hey, I was thinking maybe the guy following me was a cop,” I tell Elle.

  “Oh yeah? A hot cop?”

  I make a face. “Ew. No. I never saw his face.”

  “Then how do you know he’s not a hot cop?” She pops the cherry from her drink in her mouth, wagging her brows at me. “Hey, want to see me tie a knot with my tongue?”

  I watch her struggle with it in her mouth, waiting to be wowed. Elle is gorgeous in this tiny little pixie way, but the kind of pixie that will bite you. Just like Tinkerbell, fueled by spite.

  She pulls out the stem, perfectly tied, smiling at me triumphantly.

  “How do you not have a girlfriend right now?” I ask her.

  “I’d say the same to you,” she says. “You know it’s been a while since you went out with Matt. Maybe it’s about time you put yourself back out there.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I tell her.

  “I know. As have I. But after this exam, you’re free.”

  “Let’s just stick to rating the guys that walk in the door.”

  She gives me a wry look. “You need to take chances, Lenore. I mean, look at you. You’re going to waste.”

  I laugh. “I am not. If you’re trying to make me feel old, it’s not working.”

  “You’re not old, you’re hot as fuck, in the middle of your degree, at Berkeley of all places. You should be using this time to your advantage. You should be getting laid every weekend if you’re not looking for a relationship.”

  I’
m about to tell her that I’m fine, when movement by the door steals my attention.

  A couple walks in, a girl and a guy, maybe the ones who were smoking cigarettes earlier, but my focus goes straight to the man standing behind them.

  The man staring right at me, gaze burning deep into mine, even from across the room.

  That feeling of breathlessness returns.

  My skin feels too tight, too hot.

  The blood pounds dangerously hard in my veins.

  But instead of feeling fear, I feel complete fascination.

  This is the most gorgeous human being I’ve ever seen.

  Creature, the voice in my head pipes up. Gorgeous creature.

  Yeah, somehow that seems more fitting, because there’s something definitely otherworldly about this guy.

  He’s tall, broad-shouldered, big. Naturally built like a truck.

  But his face is pure masculine elegance.

  Square jaw, full lips, straight nose, facial hair that’s artfully groomed yet scruffy. Arched low-set black brows that keep his penetrating blue eyes in the shadows. His hair is black, wavy and long, almost to his chin. He’s like if Aragon from Lord of the Rings just walked in here wearing a three-piece black suit and red tie. His clothes scream money.

  “Wow, I’d definitely rate her a ten,” I hear Elle say.

  This can’t be the man who was following me, can it?

  “Her?” I repeat absently, unable to look away from the man’s gaze. I’m completely captive in it.

  I want him to know my name.

  “Yeah,” she says. “What are you staring at?”

  It takes all my effort to blink and look at Elle, and the moment I do, my blood runs cold, the connection severed.

  “You don’t see that man?” I whisper, finding it hard to talk.

  I look back to the door, but he’s gone.

  “Who, the scrawny dude who just walked in with the inexplicably hot girlfriend?” she asks.

  I get to my feet and step out of the booth, looking around. Where the hell did he go? “There was a guy here. By himself. I was…we were looking at each other.”