When I wake up, I am handcuffed to a stranger.

                This is, by far, the most creative place I have ever passed out. Around me, the remnants of the Halloween party are scattered around the house: glass is shattered, cups are spilled, and the floor is a tangle of half-dressed bodies.

                 The white marble countertop is sticky beneath me. I must have fallen asleep on top of it, sprawled out over the kitchen island―with her only two feet away.

                 Handcuffed to me.

                 Sober, she's even more beautiful than I remember. Her oil-black lashes flutter against her cheekbones, and her full lips are parted in sleep. She sleeps with her head buried in her arms, sitting on the high stool.

                  It must be close to seven in the morning. Nobody is awake.

                  Veah―she introduced herself as Veah.

                  Snatches of the night come back to me, flickering like static. Dancing on this very countertop―diving into the pool―playing golf with swords―drinking enough to kill a horse―

                 Jesus. Maybe parties can be fun.

                  The one part I can't remember, though―how I ended up handcuffed to her.

                  Secured with black steel cuffs that leave no room around my wrist, the chain is only about a forearm's distance away from Veah's hand.

                  I want to shake myself. Why did I agree to this? 

                  A key. We need a key.

                  As attractive as she is, I don't think being attached to someone is the best way to flirt with them. 

                  The moment I lift my arm, Veah's eyes snap open like a flash of lightning. Her uptilted eyes are dark―instantly alert. And I see it―the faintest motion of her other hand, touching something on her body. Something in her belt.

                  What was there yesterday? 

                  Her gun.

                  But it's a toy. It's plastic. It's . . . I shake myself. That's not the problem here―the handcuffs are.

                  Veah's eyes flick down to our joined hands, and her laugh is a whisper through the air. "A little bit freaky for a first date, yeah?"

                  Without meaning to, I blush. Is she calling me kinky? 

                  "I don't even remember―"

                  She tugs a little on the handcuff, and I suddenly realize my wrist is raw, chafed from a night of . . . well, whatever it is we did. I wince, and she notices.

                  "These look a little realistic for a Halloween prop," she remarks, biting her lip. My eyes slip down to her mouth, which looks pink and lush. Kissable.

                  I try to remember last night. Did we . . . 

                  As though she knows what I'm thinking, Veah laughs. "We didn't have time to," she says, and the way she says it―dark, full of meaning. "Between diving into the pool and mourning your dead goldfish, we were . . . occupied."

                   Diving into the pool? That explains the faint scent of water, clinging to the damp strands of my hair. 

                    And my dead goldfish . . . 

                    My right hand is instantly against my forehead. "No," I moan. "I didn't tell you about . . ."

                    "Rest in peace, Rusty," she says solemnly.

                    With the tattoos that climb up the back of her neck, the swords on her back, and the dark leather that fits her from head to toe, she seems more like a goddess of war than a person. So when the smirk dances on her luscious mouth, it makes me grin.

                     "Do you want to . . . get coffee from my place?" I ask. Surprising even myself.

                     For a moment, I think she'll say no. But then she nods once, and her hands are suddenly on my waist. I gasp. With a strong, effortless gesture, she lifts me off the countertop; the warmth of her palms on my hips spreads beneath my skin. Heat blooms in my blood.

                     "I could have done that myself," I protest. I don't know why I'm arguing―there's heat in my cheeks that I know she can see, and her eyes linger on the bare length of my legs.

                     "I know," she says simply. "But what's the fun in that?"

                      I bite my lip. As she weaves through the kitchen, stepping over sticky puddles of fruit punch and beer, deftly avoiding hands and faces and limbs, I follow close behind.

                      When I stop, she stops.

                     She searches my eyes as I hesitate, saying, "A key for the handcuffs . . ."

                      A single eyebrow. "Trust me, Kaya. We won't be finding any key in this." Nodding to the blanket of college students, unraveled in a sprawl of what I hope is unconsciousness.

                     I want to ask her if she remembers how we ended up handcuffed, but then I see Lindsay.

                     Her mouth is open, snoring, and she is nestled in the arms of the frat boy from earlier―Brad or Chad or Braden―with her head on his lap. They are tucked into the inside of a piano, with Brad getting the more uncomfortable end of the deal. But if he slept like that through the night, he must really like her.

                     For a second, I wonder if I'm seeing a glimpse of the future. Maybe Lindsay's finally found a boy she'll want to keep. A boy who won't stomp all over her.

                     "Ready?" Veah asks, and she opens the door.

                     The October air is colder than I remembered, sharp against my bare skin. Regret swells up in me―stupid slutty pumpkin costume. It is freezing. 

                     This early in the morning, Santa Monica is the pale blue-gray of an hour after dawn. There are no birds on the street full of mansions. Expensive cars line up and down the street, and I suddenly remember I don't have the keys to Lindsay's Toyota.

                     Quiet―the neighbourhood is too quiet.

                     As though it's holding its breath. As though it's waiting.

                     "I don't―" I begin, but Veah leads me to a silver Porsche.

                     My mouth falls open.

                     Across the street, I see a flicker of movement. A silhouette, watching us from the backseat of a car. 

                     "Is this yours?" I breathe. There is no way she could afford this as a student―unless she has family money. But she didn't strike me as the elitist, rich brand of old wealth.

                     At the end of a block, I see an Asian mother pushing along a stroller. She is on the phone, but as she passes us, she pauses ever so briefly.

                     Imagining―I must be imagining things.

                    "Not even close," Veah says, and with a smooth click, the door opens. I don't have it in me to care about the morals and ethics of car theft―I just climb in through the driver's seat and into the passenger side. 

                    It doesn't occur to me to ask her if she can drive until she starts the car.

                    The engine revvs, loud enough to startle the birds out of the streets.

                    "Hey . . ." I start, but with a surge of power, the car squeals forward.

                    This time, it is unmistakable. As I look back through the mirror, I see a man sitting on a bench look directly at us. He is wearing sunglasses in October, and he looks over them. 

                    I know he can't possibly see me, and yet . . . 

                    There is no time to worry about it. Veah's sharp jaw flexes in determination, her arms straight as she speeds the car forward down the street. I am yanked back against the leather seat.

                  "Maybe, could you please . . ." She veers the car to the side, gunning the engine again, right onto open road. ". . . slow down?" 

                  "For sure," she says with a wicked grin, and she accelerates the pedal.

                  The road ahead of us is long and winding, an empty stretch of grayed concrete. On the side, I see the California beaches with the twisting murky water.

                   It's beautiful enough to make me forget that we're driving fast enough to challenge the speed of light.

                   "Back there on the street, did you see . . ." Did you see the people watching us? Have I been watching too many movies lately? Too much about organized crime?

                   Veah looks at me. Her dark eyes are piercing―the colour of a brewing storm. I didn't notice that, yesterday. The way her irises swirl like molten thunder.

                  For a moment, I forget to breathe.

                  I open my mouth to speak, but my eyes flicker to the road. Towards the truck that is hurtling straight toward us. The headlights are blinding in the early morning. The sound of tires screeching is loud, jarring. 

                  Burning rubber and hot concrete―the scent sears the air.

                  I don't have time to scream before we collide.

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What do you think will happen next? Anything unusual you noticed?

From the moon and back,
Sarai