One

It was the second night in the semester where I stayed in my dingy dorm instead of going out with my friends. They were having a good time, I was sure, because there had never been a bad time when we were out together except for that one time when Sera puked her guts out on Drew's backseat. But even then we'd wake up the next morning and laugher over the event.

They were great companies. But they didn't understand the allure of high fantasy books and 80s vintage romances like Response, or An Unbroken Marriage. They didn't do Buffy re-watch or LOTR marathons. No. It was all about what's cool this month or this season or this year. It was never what's cool last decade or last two decades or half a century ago.

Indie had laughed in my face when I told them. "You're ditching us on Friday night for some 'me-time'?" Her tone was filled with disbelief, as if she couldn't imagine anyone giving away a hundred million of fortune to marry a fishermen on the seaside of Greek islands. Or at least that was how it registered in my mind.

"Just this once," I said lightly, not wanting to admit that I was tired of them. It had been three years. It was cool on freshmen year, nice when I was a sophomore, and convenient on junior year. But I was a senior now and the wild weekends had become a bore somewhat. All I wanted was to work on my thesis and read some romances.

"Is this because of AJ?"

My expression froze then, because I didn't want Indie to know what really happened with him. As far as they knew, we dated for a few days and broke up. That happened to friends who tried dating friends all the time. Except that it wasn't exactly what happened with us. "What?" I said, adopting a carefully practiced surprised look. There was a reason why I was so good with socializing for the past three years. "What about him? You know I'm not the sentimental type, Indie."

Because she didn't know about my romance stash under the bed, she accepted that and moved along.

So that was how my Saturday night went, too. No dressing up, no drinking, no putting up with people's bullshit or fending off guys who were just looking to get laid. I didn't know about peace­—not the spiritual crap that I'd never really understood—but at least I wasn't tiring myself with things that I no longer wanted to do, people I didn't really wanted to be around.

Tonight it was a copy of Shadow Lover with my legs up on the wall, a piece of chiffon cake on my bedside, and earl grey on the other side. My roommate graduated last semester and they still hadn't assigned anyone new, so for the time being I had all the room to myself. I'd replayed A Perfect Indian by Sinead O'Connor on the speakers for hours, something I couldn't have done if my roommate was still here. She was a night owl, she'd claimed, and the last thing she needed was songs that would lull her to sleep.

At around eight, I got hungry and ordered a pizza. Extra cheese, extra pepperoni, no veggies. The dorm was closed to visitors, so I had to go down and fetch the delivery. The warm scent of cheese flooded my senses, and I decided to munch on a slice right after I paid the guy. No one was around to see me anyway—Indie and the girls never approved of my eating habits. I ate like a guy—the volume, the manners, the appetite. It was the secret behind my rack size, I always told them.

Midway through the stairs, on my second slice, a heavy weight slammed me to the wall and sent my pizza flying down the stairs. Everything happened so fast, I barely had time to process the situation in my head. It was dark. There were strong arms wrestling my body, turning me around until I was pressed against the hard body. A strong peppermint scent behind my neck. A kiss of glinting silver blade on my neck. But above all those details, it seemed that my brain decided to pick up only one important thing: my pizza, all the rest six slices of them, had been hurled down the stairs, spoiled.

"Don't come any closer!" the peppermint-scented breath shouted in my ear. The scent made me feel sick. And then the pain registered. The bastard nicked my neck! I couldn't look down, but I was sure the moisture I felt running down my collarbone was not sweat.

There was a shadow of a figure standing at the end of the stairs, looking down at us. He was the one this bastard was taunting and I was the one who got into the collateral because I was picking up my damned pizza. Can't a girl eat? And what are these guys doing in all-girls dorm? Even Sizzy, my nymphomaniac neighbor, couldn't sneak a guy unless it was past midnight. Mrs. Ross was one scary matron.

"We can settle this easy and simple, Brad," the guy at the end of the stairs said. His voice didn't match his words. It was tense, hard, and anything but calm. "No need to add mess to this clusterfuck."

"Wire the money," the guy holding me at knifepoint hissed. Some of his spit sprayed on my cheek. I was tempted inch away and gag even if it meant cutting off my throat with his knife. "Do it!"

"It's not your money to take."

"It's mine! She left it for me!"

"She'd never leave a waste of space like you a penny!"

I couldn't believe this. The other guy obviously cared more about his money than saving the damsel—hey, losing my pizza counts as a distressful event!—and this Brad guy obviously wouldn't let me go without getting the money. They said that the moment you realized you were going to die, you'd see your life flash before your eyes. All I saw, though, was blinding red.

Maybe it was the pizza. Maybe it was the sheer unfairness of the situation. Whatever it was, a deep rage built inside me and I jabbed my elbow hard into the guy's abs, sending a jarring pain to my left arm for a few seconds, but I didn't stop. I kicked his shin and clawed at his arms with my nails. He was big and strong, but I was pissed and hungry. The knife caught me on the shoulder and then on my forearm, but they were just grazes.

And then I delivered the good right hook my brother taught me. Brad went spiraling down the stairs after my spoiled pizza and the knife clattered on the floor.

An hour later sirens arrived on the university dorm. Some girls came out to nose around for latest gossips but most of them were still out, anyway, and some of them just slept through everything. The cops took my statement and the paramedics hauled Brad away, since he was the one suffering from the most damage. Broken ribs, broken nose, stabbed thigh—he kind of fell on his own knife on the way down the stairs. My cuts were shallow, so they just bandaged me up and sent me to talk to the cops. From their expressions, I might as well have been the one who threatened Brad's life instead of the other way round.

First they asked me about what I heard, how I came to be there, who I was, and what Brad did, in that order. And then they asked me about my association with the guy. "I don't know him," I answered honestly.

The cop peered at me suspiciously. "Not an old boyfriend? A troubled breakup?"

"No," I said, getting irritated. "I told you, there was this other guy and he was demanding money from him."

"Do you know him?"

"I couldn't even really see his face, it was so dark. He left right after I kicked Brad's ass."

That didn't earn me points from the authorities. "His injuries are extensive. Can you describe how you did it?"

It occurred to me then that I might actually be the one who got arrested for assaulting the guy instead of the other way round. I replayed my story to the cops and tried to make sound less kickass, without the furnishings I did the first time—I might have exaggerated about the part where I kicked him. "He fell on his own after I punched him, so the broken bones weren't my fault, you know?"

One of the younger officers, the one who was still rookie enough that I had seen him checking out my boobs instead of putting on his cop face, asked me, "Where did you learn how to punch like that?"

The adrenaline sapped my energy. I was suddenly drained. Even if I lied, he'd know about this in the morning anyway, if he hadn't already. "My brother. He was a detective. Homicide."

They exchanged looks. One of them checked their own notes. "Did you say your last name was—"

"McKenna."

"You're David McKenna's little sister?" The older officer who questioned me suddenly burst into a grin that contrasted against his earlier disapproving expression. "You're Milly! Don't you remember me? You used to climb over my desk and steal my donuts. My god, have you grown!"

No one called me Milly anymore, except for my brother, sometimes. Camille McKenna sounded much better to an (aspiring) sexy college girl.

There was a huge age gap between me and my brother. I wasn't a surprise kid. I came into conception because my dad decided to be the stereotype loaded middle-aged man and remarried with a woman half his age who became my mother. I popped out into existence. Three months later, they died in a plane crash. With no other relative to turn to, I was sent to my half-brother to raise. He had been in his mid-twenties then, a single man who definitely had no place in his life for a kid, much less a baby. Fortunately, he decided to try anyway—

And here I was. Twenty, grown up, and healthy. I guess he did an okay job.

He arrived half an hour later, dressed in his casual clothes. I must have interrupted a date night with his fiancée, Kelly. I liked Kelly. She made mean cookies. Since it wasn't his department, the call mustn't have made it to him until later.

He talked to the cops while I leaned my head against the door. My cuts stung. My head hurt. My stomach demanded to be fed. The little girl in me wanted to crawl in bed and believe everything was alright now that my brother had come, but I couldn't let out that little girl because she also wanted to shake and cry, and that would certainly shock Dave. I never cried. I hadn't done that since I was a toddler. I didn't do it on breakups, funerals, or even sad movie scenes or books. Not in front of people, not when I was alone.

The only thing capable of making me cry was probably hot chili, but I never ate spicy foods, so that wasn't a problem either.

Dave came over me and squeezed my shoulder to let me know he was relieved that I was okay. We didn't do hugs anymore after I entered puberty and grew boobs. In many ways, he was like the typical awkward dads. "I saw the guy," he said. "You did good."

"I know."

"We checked him. He's been charged with possession a few times. The guy you saw was most likely his brother. He's a student here. Their mother died last week and left them a couple thousand bucks. The brother took initiative to collect the money, including Brad's share. Brad wanted another fix and couldn't do it without the money, so he went after his brother, catching him with a girl in this dorm. You're just unlucky."

I nodded, agreeing. "I was just hungry."

He ruffled my head, and for once I didn't mind. "What are you doing Saturday night inside the dorm? Are you sick?" He felt for my forehead, the way he did when I was a kid, and I swatted his hand away.

"I'm fine. Just not feeling up to it." I stood on wobbly legs. "I'm going to bed."

"If you want to stay with us—"

"What am I, a baby?" I stalked away and ran up to my room, afraid that he was going to confirm that.

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