Wicked Ones {bxb}

{Chapter 2: Another Dawn} 

Vincent sat up in a start. Sweat pilled down his neck, leaving trails of tender, chill bumps behind. He raked a hand through his damp hair, chest heaving for fresh breath. He felt relieved and anxious and nothing in between.

Three years. Three years had passed since the incident, and still he awoke to nightmares. He could practically feel the blades of smoke rattle about in his chest, slicing him open angry and demanding. Three years and he still saw the face of the woman who'd passed in the fire; he watched her flex her brittle jaw and stare with empty eye sockets. Angelica was her name. She'd have been twenty-four by now. Four years older than himself.

Over the elapse of years, everyone seemed to forget about the fire. To him, it still loomed like an angry ghost.

Intoxicated with sleep, he found that fine silk sheets covered his legs. His vision was fogged, his head aching with the same pinch that stiffened his neck. He gave it a subtle crack, and the discomfort faded.

Adjusting to the darkness, Vincent found himself lost in the walls of a foreign room. He couldn't make out much, apart from a puddle of silken brown hair beside him; tangled and tousled from a long night of drunken sex.

He'd done it again. Made off with some unfortunate floozy, not even acknowledging that the poor girl had a name. What was it again? Vinny was never good with names. More so, he wanted nothing more out of this girl than the one night stand that had just met its expiration. The sweaty, no-strings-attached sex he never sought after, but accepted when it was offered. And it was offered often.

He hoisted himself from the bed, careful not to wake Beth, or Betty, or whatever her damned name was. As the cool night air met his clammy sweat, it made him shudder again. He'd have that dream every so often, his mind ruthlessly dragging him back to the night that he had discovered he was a Wicked. It left him trembling, and even once composed, shakes took possession of his fingers, and he found it difficult to complete the small task of buttoning his shirt. He left it open instead and made off to the dark city streets in his bare-chested ensemble.

He hadn't the slightest where he was, but he'd find his way back home. He had a way with directions, and he found himself utilizing his talent quite often.

As he walked, he reached into his jean pocket and fished out his last remaining cigarette. They were his vice of choice—a steady ground when he had nothing else to hold on to. But it was not the most convenient of habits. As it turned out, lighting a cigarette was a bit difficult when you were absolutely terrified of fire.

Trembling fingers lifted his lighter, and after much self-preparation, he ran his thumb forcefully against the flint wheel.

Nothing.

He tried again, and again, the tension growing on his tired face. His vexation was only making his nicotine craving stronger, and he nearly considered sporting a flame from his fingertips. Last time he had done that though, he managed to set a rose bush on fire. He tossed his head back, letting a frustrated growl linger as a gurgle in his throat. He'd have to wait until he got back to his dorm room to retrieve his other lighter. Luckily, he could just barely see the hands clicking by on the old brick clock tower. It sat a distance away in all of its glory, taunting him with the 6 AM display.

It was unusual for him to stay the night with anyone, but eight hours ago, Vincent was most definitely not himself. It was the first time he blessed his tongue with even a drop of alcohol in three years. Not once since the fire did he have so much as a sip of wine. Not until last night.

He could only remember the first drink. Everything after that was an unforgiving fog. All he had to go by were the vivid flashes of misbehaved sorority girls and the sound of his name tossed about from one ear to the other. He had blacked out for the most of it, but he was sure he'd had a good time. College life was kind to him, and though money always brought unwanted guests, Vinny never minded them. He was sociable, popular, and tastefully conspicuous. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and most found it endearing. But no matter how many people surrounded him, none knew of his secret.