Free Fury by Elizabeth Miles Page A

sitting on a bench outside: Meg with her wavy, wheat-colored hair, tiny features, and signature scarlet ribbon tied oddly around her neck; Ali with her striking blond hair and Scarlett Johansson body. They were both in tiny dresses, as though they were having an impromptu summer picnic. Maybe they were from Alaska or something, and the Maine winter seemed warm. They slid into the station wagon, greeting Chase as if they were old friends. Chase hoped that meant Ty had been talking about him.
    In the backseat, Ali shoved aside a pile of Chase’s school books and papers to make room for her giant purse. An English paper fell out of the stack, and Ali picked it up.
    “Ooooh, e. e. cummings . . . he’s one of your favorites, right, Ty?”
    Ty turned halfway around, so that Chase and Ali could both see her face. She seemed electrified by the mention of the poet, who, truth be told, Chase had thought was kind of lame. Why didn’t he have to use correct grammar and punctuation like everyone else? If Chase turned in an English paper with no capital letters, he’d get a failing grade.
    “I love him. ‘Nobody, not even the rain, has such smallhands,’” she recited. “I would die to have a poem written about me.”
    “That guy from
Bowdoin
gave you a book of his poetry, right?” Meg said in a teasing voice. Chase grimaced. Some other dude was giving Ty poetry.
    Ty nodded and shrugged. At least she didn’t seem that into this guy, whoever he was.
    “That was so romantic,” Ali and Meg said, practically in unison. Ty nodded again, but didn’t add anything else to the conversation. Chase made a mental note:
Ty loves poetry.
    “So, where are we going, ladies?” Chase silently thanked his mom for having filled up the gas tank.
    “Benson’s Bar,” Ty said as her cousins in the backseat giggled and hooted.
    “That place out on Route Twenty-Three?” Chase couldn’t believe that a shitty biker bar was where they wanted to spend their evening, but they seemed set on it. Maybe it was the only bar that would be open on Christmas.
    “Benson’s is our little secret,” Ty said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. Chase felt chills up and down his spine.
    When they arrived the parking lot was full of Harleys and Suzukis. Chase braced himself to be harassed by the tough bikers. He was practically begging for a fight, a preppy boy walking around with three hot girls. But weirdly, instead of going in the front door, Ty, Ali, and Meg marched around to theback of the bar, where dim lights barely illuminated the snowy back-lot gravel. Chase looked around, but saw no one. The girls, meanwhile, sauntered up to a chalky black door, one that looked rusted shut but that sailed open at the slightest touch of Ty’s fingers. A reddish glow fell onto them.
    “We’re going . . . in there?” Chase hoped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.
    “You’re going to love it,” Ty said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward a pale-faced bouncer. This place had a bouncer? Chase could swear this club had never existed before. But the guy waved them by, and then Chase and Ty, with Ali and Meg behind them, were descending down velvet-covered stairs. The carpet felt mossy and spongy under Chase’s feet, like he was about to be sucked into it. The last two steps turned around a corner, revealing a dark underground club full of bumping music, flashing lights, and jaw-droppingly beautiful people.
    The air smelled sweet and thick, full of a red haze; Chase had the distinct impression of having entered another world. It was hot. Chase didn’t know where to look—at that couple who seemed to be performing a circus act in the middle of the dance floor, or at the bare-chested bartender, covered in dark tattoos of snakes and ravens and feathered things. Where had these people come from? And on Christmas! They were definitely
not
from Ascension. He felt completely out of his element, in a good way. Chase wondered briefly if he hadwandered into some