Copyright © 2025 by Elle Mitchell

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Elle Mitchell.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Suzi Antoinette Designs

Proofreading by Melissa Smith Editing

Contents

Content & Trigger Warnings

Dedication

1. Dirty Little Secrets

2. Particularly Cruel

3. I Fell in Love With a Narcissist, and All I Got Was This Lousy Psychosis

4. Smells Like Teen Massacre

5. The "Lying Bitch" Special

6. You Can Jump, But You Can't Hide

7. You Have Two Hands for a Reason

8. It's a Texture Thing

9. Hair Dye and Cigarette Guy

10. Hey There, Lilah. What's it Like in Winter Falls?

11. Phantom Limbs and Other Ghosts

12. If You're in Trouble and You Know It, Make It Worse!

13. Sex, Drugs, and Manslaughter (not necessarily in that order)

14. A Little Extra Seasoning

15. Guns n' Proses

16. Waking Up is Hard to Do

17. The Walking Almost-Dead Girl

18. I Like the Ones Where the Bad Guys Get Away

19. The Girl in the Gas Station Bathroom (Again)

20. Dead Eyes and Sad Goodbyes

21. Final Girl

22. Loved like a Threat

23. Not All Heroes Wield Shovels

24. Out of the Woods

25. Runaways

26. 'No Chips on my Shoulder' Blue

27. Peace

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Elle

Content & Trigger Warnings

Runaways is a dark why choose horror romance meant for a mature audience, and its content may be triggering or inappropriate for some readers.

This book contains copious amounts of profanity and graphic sex, including group scenes, dp, dubcon, sexual coercion, breath play, public play, cum play, degradation, marking, and spanking. The main characters in this book are violent and/or deranged to some degree, and you can expect graphic on-page violence including gun violence, knife violence, sexual assault, domestic violence, ante and postmortem dismemberment, electrocution, forced cannibalism, murder, and manslaughter. 

The MMCs in this book are manipulative and, at times, abusive and unhinged. Gaslighting, coercion, bullying, and other forms of psychological abuse are prevalent in this story.

The FMC suffers from severe PTSD following a traumatic event, and her symptoms and experiences are recounted on-page. This includes anxiety, depression, and disordered eating as a PTSD response.

Characters also use words like 'psychopath' and 'psychotic' to describe themselves and others. If you are sensitive to this kind of language, I do not recommend proceeding with this book.

Additional content warnings include underage (US) drinking, drug and alcohol use/abuse, drug overdose, self-harm, suicide, revenge porn (not MMCs), birth control tampering (no pregnancies), slut shaming, death of a parent, cancer, death of an animal, parental abuse/neglect, sexual harassment, and the US healthcare system.

As always, please note that this book is a work of fiction meant solely for entertainment. The characters are not great people, the relationships and coping mechanisms are unhealthy, and this should not be considered an endorsement of these things or used as a guidebook on how to move through the world in any way.

If you're good with all that, turn the page. It ends with HEA.

Dedication

For those to whom the world has been a little too cruel, a little too lonely, and whose chosen coping mechanism is escapism.

I hate it here, too.

one

Dirty Little Secrets

Noah

This was a mistake. I'm going to die tonight.

"You better hold on tighter than that, Noah."

"Why?" Rain-soaked blonde hair sticks to my face and mouth. "What are you going to—ahh! Shit!"

I scream as Silas hits the gas, the tires of the motorcycle squealing against the wet pavement. Digging my fingernails into his chest, I squeeze my eyes shut while he takes the turn onto the next street a little tighter than I'd like, especially with the rain still coming down—a light mist in the thick, summer night air, but enough that my heart stops each time he turns a corner. After all, it's my first time on a motorcycle; it might be Silas's first time, too.

I decided I was better off not knowing.

I release the breath I've been holding when he slows at a stop sign and then quickly suck it back in, gritting my teeth when he takes off without ever stopping the bike.

"Silas!" I shout over the muffler. "Please, slow down! We're not wearing helmets."

"No," he replies succinctly. "Not smart on a stolen bike, Noah. Better to just get this over with."

I breathe out the word, "Okay." I know he can't hear me; I know it doesn't matter, anyway. As usual, I'm not the one in control here.

I tighten my grip around his body, taking my left wrist in my right hand and burying my face against his back. It'll be over shortly—one way or another.

And he's warm right here, a stark contrast to the chill on my wet skin. Goose bumps erupt over my bare arms and legs as we continue moving down the dark mountain roads far too quickly.

"Keep your head down, Noah," he says, finally slowing the bike as we approach our destination—a dark alley on a side of town that's known for seedy activity. And that's saying something…since the good side of town is known for seedy activity, too.

Silas parks the bike in the alley, and I hop off first. My legs don't cooperate and almost give out beneath me when I land on the pavement, and he laughs.

It's like getting off of a rollercoaster, but worse.

"You good?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

"Let's go," he says, adjusting his hat and stuffing his hands into his pockets. At 5'8", I'm not short, but he still has at least half of a foot on me, and I struggle to keep up with his long, purposeful strides on shaky legs. It defies fucking logic that he can move this much faster than I can while appearing calm, collected. I cross my arms in front of my body, attempting to fight the chill, and follow just at his heels, nothing about my strides appearing natural.

He glances over his shoulder before we reach the end of the alley, eyes roaming up and down my body as he takes in my disheveled appearance and almost smiles.

"You had fun," he says.

My first instinct is to lie, and I'm not sure why. It's just…me. But I don't this time—I bite back a smile and nod. "Yeah," I admit. "It was fun."

Silas reaches for me, hooking a finger into my belt loop and using it to pull me into his body. He grips the nape of my neck with the other hand, leans down, and kisses me, pulling my bottom lip through his teeth before breaking away and inclining his head toward the street.

"Let's go," he says, winking before turning away.

I silently lecture myself for my unhinged visceral reaction when my stomach flip-flops. Butterflies—that's what people call it. Until recently, I didn't know the feeling or how accurate the description was. I had no idea, but I do now.

That is not what this is, Noah. Don't be stupid.

This is getting to be too much for me. I need to stop. I can and will stop.

We turn the corner, spotting the old red Toyota with its lights off just a block away, and I follow Silas into the backseat. My icy hands prickle almost painfully as I'm met with the warmth inside the vehicle.

"How was it?" Tate asks as he pulls the car onto the dark, empty street. It's Silas who answers—he's the one he's talking to, even though his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

"Fine," Silas says. "No issues. Well, except for Noah."

"What do you mean?" Mia asks from the passenger seat. "What did you do?"

"I…didn't do anything, Mia," I tell her. "I don't know what he's talking about."

"You sure?" Silas asks. "Look at this."

He lifts his shirt, revealing his toned chest and abdomen. I suck in a breath as Mia points the flashlight on her phone directly at his chest, illuminating the eight tiny blood-soaked crescent moons against his dark skin—four on each side of his chest from my fingernails.

"Oh, my god! You did that? He's bleeding!"

I shake my head. "He was going too fast."

"Was he?" Tate asks, smiling as his eyes meet mine again. "Going too fast for you? You couldn't take it?"

He bites down on his lip rings, and I look away, grateful for the darkness as my cheeks burn red.

"It's raining," I say.

"It's Oregon," Tate says. And I'd roll my eyes if I wasn't determined not to meet his again.

"Levi is calling me," Mia says, holding up her phone. "Should I answer it?"

"No!" I say.

"Fuck no," Tate says, hitting ignore on the call. "That's a good way to let him know we were close to where his bike is. Whatever happens to it now is fate."

Levi and Mia broke up two weeks ago after one of his friends showed her texts he was sending everyone about some girl he hooked up with while he and his family were on vacation, bragging about how much better looking she was than Mia—how good it was and how funny it is that she'd never find out.

And then she did find out, and he cried in the hallway of our apartment building so loudly that someone called the police—so loudly that both Silas and I came out of our units to watch. He's lucky Tate wasn't home; I was so convinced he would come barreling out of the apartment and throw Levi over the balcony that I could barely swallow until the police made him leave. But Tate was out being Tate, and his twin sister was home alone, so he got off easy.

For days, I fought the urge to ask him where he was. Tate doesn't have to tell me where he goes or what he's doing. And I shouldn't want to puke when I don't know the answer.

But anyway, that's why we took the bike. Because none of us have had great lives, and we stopped believing in karma a while ago. Or…well…we decided it was only right that, when necessary, we give it the little push it needs.

Maybe tomorrow, Levi will get a call that his bike is parked somewhere it shouldn't be, and he needs to come pick it up—no harm done. Or maybe someone will find it with the keys in it, and he'll never see it again.

Or someone else will get caught with the bike eventually, and he'll get it back, and that person will pay. That won't be our fault, either. We didn't make them steal the bike.

By the time we pull into our apartment complex, the rain has stopped. We exit the vehicle, closing each of our respective doors, but before I follow the others around the back of the building, my eyes settle on the moving truck parked next to the dumpsters.

September came far too quickly.

Ten years. The four of us have lived in this building for ten years. We've spent ten summers inseparable; a decade's worth of school years knowing that we weren't alone. And it's all about to change.

Well, for me, anyway. They'll still be together, and I get to spend my last year of high school somewhere else—alone.

But if I'm being honest, it changed a couple of months ago. And that's mostly my fault.

"Hey…are you okay?" Silas asks.

"Maybe we should have just kept driving," I whisper. "Just kept going until it ran out of gas and stayed wherever we landed."

He shakes his head. "Don't tempt me. I'd tie you to my bedposts if I could. I'm not happy about this."

"Yeah…me either."

My jean shorts and black tank top are still soaked as I follow them around the corner and into the wooded area behind our building. I sit next to Mia on the fallen tree in our usual spot. A faint squealing sound coming from nearby makes my skin crawl as Tate and Silas grab a few logs from under a tarp and start a fire.

"Did you hear that?" Mia asks.

"Yeah," I tell my best friend, assuming she's referring to the same sound. "I think so."

"No," Tate says, pointing to his sister before taking the joint from behind his ear and bringing it to his lips. "Don't tell me you're starting that Bigfoot shit again. What have you two been watching?"

"I'm serious, Tate," Mia says. "Listen."

"Nuh uh. We're not doing this again." He brushes shaggy blue hair away from his face and then pulls a lighter from his pocket, and I watch his mouth a little too intently while he inhales, his full lips forming a tight circle when he blows smoke in my direction.

Like his twin sister, he's beautiful, and he knows it.

He's only a couple inches taller than I am, but the way he wears his hair—the longer hair on top dyed blue and slicked back—might put him closer to six feet.

Once he finally gets the fire lit, we hear the sound again, and this time, even Tate looks up.

He looks back at us, raising his eyebrows while biting down on his lip rings. "Hmm," he says. "Well, that's interesting."

Silas pulls out his pocketknife and flips it open before quietly moving in that direction.

"Wait! What are you doing?" I ask.

When he doesn't answer and Tate follows, Mia pulls me to my feet. Hand in hand, we follow them further into the woods.

We don't walk for long before the guys stop.

"Found it," Silas says.

"What?" Mia asks. "What is it?"

"It's a fox," Tate says. "But it's been shot."

"So, what do we do?" I ask, stepping to Silas's side. I can see it—the bullet wound in the animal's hind leg. It lies on its side, its chest rising and falling with slow, uneven breaths. "Call animal control? Or someone from the forest service? You can't shoot foxes, can you?"

Silas kneels in the mud and grabs the fox by its throat, forcing its chin upward.

"Oh, fuck no," Mia says, turning her back to us. "I'm not watching this; let's go."

"Watching what?" I ask as she retreats. But I find out what she means when I turn back toward the animal. And I do watch…gasping as Silas digs the knife into the animal's skin and slides it across its throat.

Blood pours from the wound. The sound stops, and so does all other movement.

I swallow hard, tears stinging my eyes. "Silas…you can't just…"

To his left, Tate smiles, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"It was already dead, Noah," Silas says. "I put it out of its misery. There was nothing else we could do."

"Yeah, but—"

"But what?" Tate asks. "Did you want us to leave it out here screaming all night until coyotes or wolves got a hold of it?"

"No, I just…" I just don't like that they can do it; I couldn't do it. "I'm going back, too."

Tate laughs as I storm off, but they aren't far behind me. Shortly after I sit beside Mia, the two of them come into view, Tate holding the animal by its back legs. As Silas sits at my other side, Tate drops it onto the fire.

"Hope you girls are hungry," he says, and the two of them laugh.

"Tate, what the fuck?!" Mia shouts, punching him in the arm before he sits down.

"What?" he asks. "You want me to leave it out there so the coyotes end up in our backyard again? Do you like Mittens, Mia? Because that's a good way to ensure he ends up a fucking snack."

Silas cackles until he sees the look on my face, and then he stops, quietly slipping his hand inside the back of my still-wet shirt, lightly running his fingers up and down my spine in a way that's both comforting and terrifying.

I fight the urge to sink into his side and hold my breath, hoping Mia won't notice what he's doing.

"Even if I remembered what it was like to laugh, that wouldn't be fucking funny, Tate," Mia says. The anger in her voice has dissipated and in its place is the sad, detached tone we're all too used to at this point.

It's hard, and I hate it. I almost wish I could go back in time and note the fact that it was gone—if only for a minute, and even if it was replaced by disgust. I'd thank the fox; it's better than this. I see it on Tate's face, too.

"Aw, come on, sis." He passes her the joint. "Tonight was fun. And you know Levi is going to cry like a little bitch when he finds out his motorcycle is gone."

Mia inhales, holding the smoke in her mouth while she passes it to me, and I do the same.

"And his dad is going to spank him," Silas adds.

This time, even I laugh with the guys, despite my best effort not to.

"It wasn't fun," Mia says, wiping a tear away from under her eye. "This fucking sucks. I'm fucking sad, okay? I'm so fucking sad I can feel it in my bones, and it's not funny. And now you're leaving me," she directs at me. "Who is going to help me hide from all of his friends when school starts next week? They're going to laugh at me."

"I can't do anything about that," I tell her. "Do you really think I want to leave?"

"I miss him," she says. "When Mom was sick, he was good. He sat with me at the hospital all day when she had chemo and—"

"He's a fucking asshole," Tate says.

"Tate," Mia says, shaking her head. "So are you. You are the same person. You treat people the same way." Tate scoffs before Mia looks at me and adds, "You hear that, Noah?"

Silas's hand stills. "What do you mean?" I ask, my heart in my throat.

She shrugs, leaning forward as if she needs to warm her hands over the fox carcass, but the rain stopped and it's plenty warm now. "I'm just making sure you know that."

"Maybe I've changed," Tate tells her. "Maybe I'm just really picky about who I can trust."

"Really? You're going to play it like that? You're just a sensitive guy who can't commit because he has trust issues?"

Tate shrugs. "Yeah, that sounds pretty good, actually."

Mia shakes her head as Silas snorts. "Whatever, Tate," she says.

It's quiet for a few seconds—in an awkward, uncomfortable way I hope she doesn't notice—aside from the crackling of the fire. "Maybe we should—" I start before I'm interrupted by shouting coming from the building behind us.

"That your new daddy?" Silas asks.

"Don't call him that," I say. "But yeah, probably."

Definitely.

"It's not fucking normal," Tate says.

I shrug. "Moving is stressful."

"That's not what I mean, Noah," he says. "Well, yeah—that, too, but…they just met. Who wants to move a strange woman and her teenage daughter into their house after a month and a half?"

"I don't know. They're old. Maybe they just don't want to waste time. Maybe he's lonely."

"So, you like the guy?" Tate asks, his tone hostile.

"No, I don't fucking like the guy; I don't even know the guy. But I guess that doesn't really matter. I told you guys about this weeks ago. Why are you doing this right now?"

Tate purses his lips. "I guess I didn't really think either of them would go through with something so stupid."

"What? You didn't think someone smart with money would actually want my mom? And me?"

"Noah, Tate's right," Silas says. "Normal people don't do shit like that."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he wants to control her," Silas says. "They just met, Noah. He knows she has nothing and no family, and he wants her to quit her job and move to another city with him. And he's already yelling at her like that. You know I know what I'm talking about."

"It is weird, Noah," Mia adds.

"Well…I don't know what any of you expect me to do about it."

"He's going to hit her," Silas says. "Or you. Or worse. And when he does, you better fucking tell me. I'll cut his damn hands off."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Okay."

"I'm serious. It'd be pretty hard to overpower someone without any fucking hands."

"That's actually a pretty good idea," Tate says. "I bet the jail time for cutting someone's hands off is nothing compared to murder. I'm sure the public would support your mission, and with that pretty face, you'd be America's fucking sweetheart."

"And then we can eat them. Like that sweet little bedtime story your grandma used to tell you, Noah," Silas says.

"Oh god, don't remind me," I tell him. "I'll have nightmares tonight, too."

"What story?" Tate asks.

"Um, just something stupid my grandma used to tell me to keep me out of the woods when I was little that should never—under any circumstances—be told to a child."

"The one with the cannibal kids," Mia says.

"Cannibal kids? What? How am I the only person who hasn't heard this story? That's very rude, Noah."

"Sorry for not sharing more of my childhood traumas with you."

"You should be," Tate says. "I thought this meant something to you. Go on, tell me your cannibal bedtime story."

I sigh and roll my eyes. "When I lived with my grandma, she told me there used to be a small settlement in the forest where all the parents went out looking for food one day and never came back. And so, the kids ended up raising themselves in the wild, and when they ran out of food, they'd put on masks and go to the nearest town and play pranks on the people who lived there. They'd pick a couple of people or households to target at a time, hoping to goad them into coming into the forest to get revenge on them."

"And then they'd eat them," Mia finishes.

"Pretty much. They wanted them to come to them, and they'd be waiting with weapons and traps, and they'd kill them and eat them. Winter is long, and it's hard to outsmart an animal in their own habitat. It's easier if you can get one to brazenly come to you."

"That's my personal preference as well—get my prey to come to me," Tate says. "Not exactly great for a bedtime story, but it makes sense that it was yours."

"Yep, until I was about six." That's when my mom got out of jail and moved in with us. A couple of years later, my grandmother passed, and we ended up here. "It was a local legend in her town—they even had these fucked up plays and reenactments. They acted like this community of runaways still existed, and I believed it, so…I guess it worked. It kept me out of the woods."

"Shit, that is fucked up," Tate says, laughing.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"I'm going inside," Mia says, pushing off from the log. "The fox stinks."

"Good night," Tate says over his shoulder.

Mia pauses. "Noah, aren't you coming with me?"

"Um…yeah." Reluctantly, I stand, brushing off the back of my shorts before following her.

"Bye, Noah," Tate says in a mocking, singsong tone. "See you soon."

"Are you okay?" I ask as we ascend the staircase, even though I already know the answer.

"No, I'm not fucking okay," she says. "Why would you ask me something so stupid?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be stupid. I just want to help you, but I don't know how."

"You could stop thirsting after my brother. That would help."

"I'm no—" I start, but I'm cut off when my mom steps out of our unit.

"Oh, hi, Noah," she says. "Paul ordered Chinese food. Are you hungry?"

It's clear she's been crying; her face is flushed and her eyes swollen.

"We ate already. And I'm going to stay at Mia's since everything in my room is packed, okay?"

"Okay," she says. "Paul wants to leave by nine tomorrow, though. So, please set an alarm and don't be late. He's really busy."

But she doesn't say please like she means to be polite—she says it like she's afraid of what will happen if I don't wake up on time.

"Uh, yeah. I'll set an alarm. Good night."

"Hey," she says, calling my attention back as I continue down the corridor. "This is going to be great for us—you'll see. We deserve this; we can finally be happy."

I shrug. "I was happy, Mom."

She tries. I think she tries; we both do. But the truth is she missed the early years of my life when I really needed an adult to take care of me, and because of that, there's something missing between us—something neither of us would know how to fix even if we tried.

"Ow—shit!" Paul calls out from inside. "God damn it! I can't wait to never have to come back to this shithole. Kathy!"

"Coming!" she shouts back.

She forces a smile in my direction before disappearing back inside our apartment. With Mia no longer at my side, I walk to the larger unit at the end of the hall, letting myself in. It's dark, the lights off as I pass through the living area toward the dining room that Mia's parents converted into a small bedroom so there would be space for the four of them.

When I push the curtain aside, I find Mia in bed and under the blankets, facing the back wall. I don't ask before getting into her dresser and picking out some dry clothes for myself to sleep in; we've shared everything for the better part of our lives. We wear the same size, but she's a little shorter and bustier than I am. I pull on a pair of tiny cotton shorts and a cropped t-shirt before crawling under the covers beside her and hooking my arm around her waist.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I'll never have a friendship like this one again. I wonder how that will feel.

"Portland is only forty minutes away," I tell her. "And Paul said I could drive one of his cars. I could come and see you every weekend. Or you could come there and hide with me, and you won't have to deal with any of them. You won't be alone."

I am, though—I'm going to be alone. I almost want to scream it, but I haven't been allowed to be sad about it because Mia is hurting right now. And Mia has a history of not handling sad very well.

"I miss him," she says, sobbing softly. "You don't know what this is like; you've never been in love."

Her words cut like a knife. "You're right. I don't."

"Tate doesn't like you," she says. "And I don't even understand how you could look at him like that. I mean, I look at Silas like a brother. Don't you think of them like bro—well, but I guess you don't have siblings, either. Pro-tip from someone who does: You shouldn't want to fuck them."

"Mia, I don't think I'm looking at him like anything."

"Good, because he's only flirting with you because you're leaving, and he's wondering if he can fuck you before you go. He doesn't like you."

"You said that already, and—"

"And you're not pretty enough for him. I'm sorry, but you're not."

I pull my arm away and roll onto my back. "I already know I'm ugly, Mia."

"Well, that's step one," she says.

She isn't normally mean like this—it isn't her. She's hurting, and I know that.

But it doesn't make it fair. It doesn't mean she's wrong, either.

"If you fuck him, you're dead to me; you know that, right? You'll ruin everything. You'll ruin all of us."

"I got it."

I lie there, staring at her ceiling, feeling smaller and even more ridiculous as memories from the past couple of months flash through my mind like a movie.

A really fucked up movie about a really, really stupid girl.

I manage not to cry until after I hear Mia snoring softly beside me, and then I run to the bathroom, closing the door behind me just as the first sob escapes my throat.

Gripping the sides of the sink in my hands, I sob for minutes—for everything.

The way I feel, the things Mia said, my mom, the move. All of it hurts.

After a few minutes, I make the mistake of looking up and meeting my reflection under the florescent lights. My face is already flushed, my blonde hair that hits just at my shoulders and refuses to grow any longer is frizzy and matted to my face from the weather and my tears. Mascara stains the skin around my eyes, and it occurs to me that I've looked like this all night—in front of them. And then there are the freckles I try to hide under makeup and the small gap between my front teeth, which makes me reluctant to show my smile.

Mia is right—I am too ugly. It's not the first time I've heard it; she's always been the pretty one—with her long, thick, dark hair, a complexion that tans instead of freckles and burns in the summer like mine, full lips and hazel eyes that match her twin brother's.

But it is the first time I've heard it from her.

I splash water on my face and dry it with a towel, but it smells like him. And that makes it worse.

"Fuck," I cry, throwing the towel into the sink. I slide down the wall onto the ground, sobbing with my head in my hands.

"Noah?" Tate calls from the other side of the door. "Are you crying?"

I take a deep breath, attempting to gather myself before answering. "No. I'm fine."

"You need to come out."

"Just a minute."

"I'm going to pick the lock. Be right back."

Shit.

The doors inside all our units can be unlocked from the outside with a penny, and we've all been doing it for years, so it isn't an empty threat. As soon as I hear him step away from the bathroom door, I unlock it and dart into the hallway, hoping to make it back to Mia's room before he sees me.

It doesn't work.

Tate grabs me by my arm from behind, stopping me. "Hey," he says in a low tone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Look at me," he says.

I shake my head, and he steps in front of me. He places his hands on my cheeks and tilts my head upward until our eyes meet in the darkened hallway. "Tell me why you're crying. Is it the move?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," he says, resting his forehead against mine. "You know that, right?"

I shake my head and choke on a sob. "No. Not really."

I try to step around him, but instead, crash into his chest. He holds me tight against him, and this time, I let myself cry into his shoulder.

"Mia called me ugly."

"Mia's just hurting—she doesn't mean it. She's in a lot of pain, and she needs a safe place for it to go. Unfortunately, that place is you because she knows you love her, and you'll always forgive her. And that's a good thing."

My chest tightens…because he didn't tell me I'm pretty.

"Yeah, okay. Good talk," I say, pushing him away.

"Noah, wait…"

I step back into Mia's room and crawl into bed next to her, but Tate follows only seconds later, kneeling next to my side of the bed. "What are you doing?" he whispers. "What'd I do? Huh?"

"You can't be in here," I whisper back. "She told me to stay away from you, or I'm dead to her. And I need her…and she needs me, so…go."

He rolls his eyes. "She doesn't mean that, either. Come on, Noah." He trails a finger down my cheek, then to my neck and down my chest until he reaches the hard point of my nipple, toying with it through the thin cotton material of my t-shirt.

"I can't," I tell him, my eyes filling with tears again. "I don't want to."

Tate frowns. He rests his hand against the exposed skin of my lower abdomen. "Then why do you look so sad when you say it?"

"It's weird…what we've been doing."

"No, it's not."

"It's not…" I start. It's not love. "…normal."

"You don't like it?" he asks.

"No. I mean…I do, but—"

"Noah, you're hurting my feelings…"

My lower lip quivers, and I blink back tears. "I'm starting to get really confused."

"What are you confused about? What do you think this is?"

"I don't know," I say. "A game? Boredom? A joke, and I'm the ugly fucking punchline."

"Noah…" His brow furrows, hurt apparent on his face.

"What is it to you?"

"A relationship. Love."

That word from his lips knocks the air from my lungs. I part my own as my expression twists with confusion, but no sound comes out.

"There's no rule about what love has to look like, Noah. This is what it looks like to me, and I think this is what it looks like for you, too. Maybe it's weird, but that's okay. You're worried about Mia, and you're moving, and I know you're stressed out—I get it. But…there's nothing to be confused about. We've been there for you through everything…from the very beginning, haven't we?"

I roll onto my side to face him, holding my breath as Mia stirs next to me. "Yeah, but—"

"You won't find anyone who knows you like this—who loves you like this. I know the ugly parts—the ones that will always be a secret, the parts you'll never be able to say out loud because I was there. You know mine, too. And you know what I'm capable of, and you're always going to love me, anyway."

"That sounds like a threat."

"Who wouldn't want to be loved like a threat?"

I laugh just a little, careful to keep quiet.

"Come with me," he says. "Let me hold you; I hate that you're hurting like this."

I want to, but Mia's words still echo through my brain. He's saying these things because I'm leaving, and that's convenient. I wouldn't be the first person he's lied to like this, but given our history and the out I'd offered him, it would be particularly cruel.

But I know he's more than capable of being particularly cruel, too.

I pull my knees into my chest. "I can't," I say, looking somewhere over his shoulder.

"Fine," Tate says, pulling himself to his feet. He leans over me, planting one hand on the edge of the bed and pushing my hair away from my face with the other. "Doesn't change anything, though. And you're really fucking beautiful, Noah. I'm sorry the world has been so ugly to you that it's made it impossible for you to believe it."

He presses his lips to mine and then turns, leaving the room.

"I'm sorry, too," I whisper once he's gone. I squeeze my eyes closed, sending weighty tears rolling down each of my cheeks. I don't know how long I lie there staring at the ceiling before I give up and slip out of bed, glancing back at Mia once before leaving the room.

I walk across the hall, pushing open the door and slowly closing it behind me before crawling up the bed on all fours.

"Noah," Tate says, pulling the covers back and gesturing for me to lie down next to him. I don't know if he's been lying here awake, too, or if I woke him. "Come here, baby."

I crawl under the covers and into his arms, resting my head against his bare chest. "I just want to sleep with you for a little while. Wake me up in two hours, okay?"

"Okay," he says, reaching for his phone on the side table and setting the alarm.

"Are you mad at me, Tate?"

"Of course not."

"I missed you today," I whisper, because I still can't bring myself to say the other thing.

Tate rolls onto his side and kisses me slowly, slipping his tongue into my mouth. "Mmm," he moans against my lips before pulling away. "It's been three days. And I missed you, too. The only good thing about Mia dating that piece of shit Levi was that she wasn't here breathing down our fucking necks all the time."

Yeah. I guess that's kind of how all of this started.

"I hate lying to her."

"Is that Noah?" Silas asks from the other side of the bed, moving until his body is at my back. I feel the hard ridge of his cock against my backside when he hooks a leg around both of us. "What's wrong, baby?"

He presses his lips to my neck while slipping his hand inside in the front of my shirt.

"Nothing," I lie. "Mia just…hurt my feelings. I don't want to talk about it; I just want to sleep."

"You're so fucking pretty, Noah," Silas says. I guess Tate already told him. He buries his face in my hair and inhales. "Don't listen to Mia. She's just jealous because her boyfriend is a piece of shit, and you smell like rain and taste like peaches."

This. This is why I get confused.

"You just think you have to say that."

"Cut the shit, Noah," Tate says. "You think you'd be dripping with our cum every day if we didn't think you were pretty?" He presses his erection between my legs. "I'm happy to show you how pretty I think you are, but Mia's going to hear you scream. And I don't think you want that, so go to sleep."

"I can keep you quiet for him if you do want that," Silas says. "Just say the word."

What the fuck is wrong with me? I want to know how he plans to keep me quiet—with his hand or with his dick? I'd like either one.

How did it get this far? Nothing about this is normal.

"If you're going to say no, you better do it now," Tate says. "Because your eyes and the way you're biting your lip right now say yes."

"No," I tell them.

Tate shrugs. "Okay," he says, kissing my forehead. "Good night, baby."

"Good night."

I close my eyes and drape my arm across Tate's chest, and he rubs small circles in that place right behind my ear with his thumb until I fall asleep.

two

Particularly Cruel

Noah

Warm sunlight against my cheek wakes me. I force my eyes open as I lace my fingers with Silas's, oblivious in my exhaustion that there's anything wrong with this picture.

Until I'm not.

My heart stops as I look toward the clock on the wall: 8:45 AM.

I'm supposed to leave in fifteen minutes.

"Shit! Shit—get off me. I have to go!"

"What?" Tate groans, stretching his arms overhead before propping himself onto his elbows. "Why are you yelling?"

"You were supposed to set an alarm. You were supposed to wake me up; Mia's going to kill me."

He grabs his phone from the side table. "Ah, fuck. Sorry—my phone died."

Sensing my panic, he runs a hand through his tousled hair before resting it on my shoulder and giving me a reassuring look. "Hey, it's okay. She's probably still asleep; she's barely gotten out of bed the last couple of weeks as it is."

He's right—he's probably right. If she were awake, she'd be looking for me. And most days, she has been too depressed to get out of bed.

"Will you check?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'll go check."

I lie back against Silas just before the bedroom door flings open hard enough that it bounces off the wall and hits Mia's body as she steps into the room.

"What…the fuck?!" she shouts. "What the fuck is this? What is wrong with you?"

Too shocked to answer, I can only stare back at her.

I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me.

"Mia…get out," Tate says.

"You're disgusting. Here," she directs at me before throwing my phone at my face. My nose crunches when it hits, and I cover it with my hands as blood pours over my mouth and down my chin. "Your alarm went off."

"Oh, shit. Are you okay?" Silas asks as Mia storms off. "Let me see it."

"No!" I shrug him off, tears stinging my eyes. "Don't touch me!"

As the only one fully dressed, I jump out of bed and race after her.

"Mia, stop! I'm sorry!" I shout, chasing her down the hall and into the living room.

"You're fucking sick. I mean…I knew you liked Tate; I suspected, but this is just pathetic."

"Mia, please don't be like this!" I cry. I grab her arm with one of my bloody hands, and she quickly shoves me off and into a bookshelf, knocking a few of them loose. I cover my head with my arms as they rain down on me.

I don't know if she meant to do it, but she looks satisfied with the result—enough so that she pulls her fist back and drives it into my left eye.

Tate steps between us before she can do it again, forcing her backward while I crumple onto the ground. "Mia, you're acting fucking ridiculous—stop."

Silas kneels beside me, helping me to my feet as she yells, "Get out! Get out of my house! And stay away from my brother. I never want to see you again! And you, Tate…." She shoves him hard with both hands against his chest. "Noah? Really?"

"Nothing happened, Mia," Tate tells her. "I never fucking touched her. I would never touch her. You really think I'd be fucking around with Noah? I didn't even know she was in there until you walked in; there's nothing going on between us."

And there it is. Particularly cruel.

My heart drops into my stomach. His words hurt more than my face, more than the things Mia said last night.

But they stop Mia in her tracks. She looks at me over his shoulder, waiting for me to corroborate the story, hoping I'll tell her, Yes, Mia. It's just me, so obsessed with your brother that I crawled into his bed without his consent and slept with him all night. He didn't want it.

I shake my head. Tears roll down my face as I rush out the front door and down the hall to my apartment unit. It's dark and empty when I step inside; the blinds are drawn and most of our furniture has been thrown out as it would have clashed with Paul's more lavishly decorated home.

"You're late!" my mom shouts over her shoulder. "We need to—what the hell happened to your face? Why are you crying?"

"Mia hit me," I tell her.

She sighs. "Jesus. Well, go clean up and get some clothes on. We don't have time for this; he's waiting in the truck."

And that's it. That's all I get before she goes back to packing her makeup in her suitcase.

I go to my bedroom and grab the backpack I left out for myself with a change of clothes and a few essentials. Cautiously, I wash my bloodied face, hands, and neck in the sink before dressing.

It hurts. But my nose doesn't look broken. There's a minor cut just under my eye, and the entire side of my face is already swollen and bruising. It could be worse—it could look like my insides right now. I press on it with my fingertips, wincing in pain while I watch the skin turn from white back to deep purple.

But in a weird way, it makes me feel better; it soothes that other hurt, so I do it again, pressing harder this time.

As I examine the bruise's color shifts, the bathroom door opens. I take a step backward when I see Silas in the doorframe. "Leave me alone."

He steps toward me anyway, resting his hand on my right cheek. He places something cold on my injured left side, and I realize it's a bag of frozen peas. It takes my breath away for a second before I adjust to the feeling.

"I didn't do anything to you," he says. "Don't take it out on me."

As much as I want to shrug him off and run out of the room, I don't. Because the cold does help, and it's more than my mom did.

I sigh. "That feels nice."

"I brought you your phone," he says, setting it on the counter.

Text notifications from Tate line the lock screen. I turn it off before stuffing it in my pocket.

"Are you okay?"

I shake my head. "No. But maybe I needed this, though. I didn't want to leave, and now I won't want to come back."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth."

"He didn't do it to hurt you."

But he did, didn't he? It doesn't really matter why. He didn't care enough not to do it.

"I need to get in the car. My mom is already pissed."

I lean down, grabbing my backpack, and then move around him into the empty main room, but he's at my side again when I step into the hallway.

I've thought about this moment all week—about how hard it would be to walk out of the place I've called home for the last ten years and close the door behind me. I've thought about how it would feel almost every day since I found out, and every time, I've ended up in tears.

Now, it happens unceremoniously; it barely registers. I even forget to pull up on the handle so the door latches. When it slowly creaks open again, I don't bother correcting my mistake.

Silas throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him, kissing the top of my head. "It's going to be okay, Noah."

I laugh a little as we descend the staircase. "Silas, this is so not okay. If I'm being honest, it was never fucking okay."

"Noah…"

I hear shouting and turn toward the direction of the voices. My mom is standing in front of the building, fighting with Mia and Tate's mom.

"Fuck…" I tear open the door of my mom's old green Saturn and throw my bag in the back before slamming it shut. "That's just…awesome. I wonder what they're talking about. Nothing humiliating, I'm sure."

"Don't worry about my feelings or anything."

I lean back against the vehicle with my arms crossed in front of me.

"You were happy," Silas says. "You had fun."

"Well, I'm not having any fucking fun right now. And he—" I bite my lip. He said we were in love. No one made him do that. I can't get the words out, so instead, I say, "He tricked me."

Silas shakes his head. "He loves you."

I scoff. "You can stop now—whatever you're doing. I'm not playing anymore."

He closes the space between us, tilting my chin until I meet his eyes. "Well, I love you. What about that?"

Before I can reply, Paul jumps out of the moving truck, muttering profanities as he storms across the parking lot toward my mom. Silas wraps an arm around me, his posture shifting from comforting to protective as we both watch him over my shoulder.

"Hey!" he shouts when he gets to my mother. He grabs her by her arm and jerks her backward, stepping between the two women as she stumbles. Mia's mom turns and heads back up the staircase as Paul lectures my mom, his face twisted with anger. I can't make out what they're saying, but he's pointing to our car, inches away from her face.

"Hey, Noah?" I look back at Silas. "You remember what I said about him?" he asks, his jaw clenched tightly.

"Yes, but that didn't really look like—"

"The first time he hits her—the first time he touches you—you better fucking tell me."

"And you'll cut his hands off?" I ask, attempting a laugh.

Silas's expression remains tight, unamused. "Yes."

I think of how easily he'd slit the animal's throat last night—of how carelessly Tate threw its corpse onto our fire. Maybe he does mean it; maybe I should be worried.

"Okay," I whisper as Paul stomps back to the moving truck, and my mom heads for the vehicle, her gaze lowered.

"Text me your address when you can. I can come and get you tomorrow."

"With your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

Tears sting my eyes. "No, thanks."

"You'll feel better if you just talk to him."

"No," I say more forcefully. "I don't want to do that."

"We're a part of each other—always have been. You don't get to just leave and forget about that. It won't work."

"Let's go," my mom says as she rips open the car door. Her lip turns up as she takes in Silas's body wrapped around mine; it makes me wonder what Mia's mom said to her. "Now. We're already behind schedule because of you."

She climbs into the vehicle, and I turn to open the passenger side door. "Bye, Silas."

He stops me with a hand on the back of my neck, his lips finding mine. He kisses me hard for anyone to see for the very first time.

And, likely, for the last time.

I break away when my mom lays on the horn. "Let's go! Now!"

"I love you, Noah," he says. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Yeah," I lie. "Okay."

I climb into the car, and he closes the door gently behind me and walks toward the building. I reach for my seatbelt, meeting my mom's eyes after I fasten it.

She looks me up and down with that same grimace as before.

"What?"

"What she said…it's true, isn't it?"

"I don't know what she said, so I'm not sure."

"She said you were in bed with both of them."

I don't answer.

"Well, you earned that black eye, didn't you? I thought you were more responsible than this."

"I'm eighteen. I'm an adult now—I don't feel like I owe you an explanation, but no, I don't think I earned my black eye."

"Being an adult only means you have to be more careful, Noah; surely you realize that." She pauses, shaking her head. "This is what you do when I'm working and you're supposed to be looking for a job? You're a whore?"

"No…"

"People who care about you don't treat you like that. You know that, right?"

I shrug. Apparently, I don't. Like I said, it was all very confusing. I knew it had to be wrong to some extent, but it didn't feel bad.

But it does now. She's probably right.

"God, you're lucky I'm getting you out of here now." She shakes her head as she puts the vehicle in reverse. After backing out, we sit there for a moment, waiting for Paul to get the moving truck turned around. "You have a chance to be someone different—to actually be someone. I suggest you take it very seriously."

Here we go again. More warnings.

People say we look a lot alike—my mother and I—and I can see it. The same green eyes, the same freckles. But her hair is dark and streaked with grey that started early, a face that's maybe aged a little beyond her years due to questionable lifestyle choices which led to a drug addiction and a handful of felonies.

And aside from those eyes and freckles, I don't know what we have in common. I don't know much about the woman next to me; I don't know what made her. I just know that, whatever it was, made it impossible for her to be more than this to me—more than a warning.

You'll end up alone. You'll end up broke. You'll end up homeless or in prison. Trust me; listen to me. You'll end up on drugs. I know what I'm talking about.

You'll end up like me.

She puts the car in drive and begins following the moving truck out of the parking lot before suddenly screeching to a halt. My head slams back against the headrest, and when I look up, Tate stands in front of the car. I blink, sending tears rolling down my face, salt stinging the cut under my left eye.

I fix my gaze forward as he walks to my side of the vehicle and pounds his fist against the window. "Noah! Hey! Wait!"

He tries the door handle a few times, but it's locked. My mom honks the horn.

"I just want to talk to her for a minute! Noah, please?"

"Just go. He'll move." I lean forward and turn the volume dial on the dash to drown him out, and my mom slowly pulls forward until Tate steps aside. Then she turns the car onto the highway.

I stare out the window, wondering what I'm going to say to any of them—if they even call.

Maybe Tate will apologize, tell Mia the truth, and she'll have to get over it.

Yeah, right. I scoff at the thought.

I run through a few alternative scenarios in my head during the short drive. I could go along with Tate's lie; Mia would probably forgive me for being desperate. She might even like it, thinking I got what I deserved—humiliated. I could shelf what's left of my self-esteem and keep being their part-time secret behind her back. I was happy…for the most part.

But I can't do that, either.

What if this is it?

As we pull into the driveway at Paul's trendy tudor style home, a part of me knows there's only one of these scenarios that will play out.

I'm never going to see them again.

three

I Fell in Love With a Narcissist, and All I Got Was This Lousy Psychosis

Noah

It's too red.

That's what I'm thinking when I look in the mirror at the color on my lips. It's too red—but Mia gave it to me and insisted it's the right color for my pale, freckled complexion, and she knows a lot more about this than I do. If it looks bad, she'll tell me, right?

I add some mascara and eyeliner, pull on a black pleated denim skirt with a cropped tank, slip on my sneakers, and leave the apartment.

It's hotter than usual, the air thick with humidity from the inevitable early summer rain. Wet hair sticks to the back of my neck by the time I reach the end of the hall.

After trying the knob and finding it locked, I knock on the door.

"What's up?"

Tate stands shirtless in front of me, the band from his boxer briefs sticking out over the top of the sweatpants hanging low on his hips. And that's where my eyes go.

My cheeks flush, and I quickly correct my mistake, meeting his gaze, but it's obvious he saw it, too.

"I'm just here for Mia."

"Mia's not here."

"What? Are you sure?" I ask, confused.

He flings the door open and steps back into the apartment. Silas sits on the couch with a beer in his hand. "If you don't believe me, you can look for yourself, but she's not here. She left with Levi like an hour ago," Tate says.

"Un-fucking-believable," I scoff, plopping down onto the sofa. I grab my phone from my pocket and send her a text. It's been weeks since we've hung out and she promised we'd go to this party together. She even picked out my outfit and this lipstick.

And I know it's too red.

Tate stands at the other side of the room with his arms crossed in front of him, staring at me with his brow furrowed, toying with his lip ring between his teeth.

I know that look. He's thinking—or plotting, more likely. Whatever it is, it probably isn't good.

"What?" I ask, tossing my phone onto the couch. "Just say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever it is you really want to say."

"I'm not sure you'll like it."

"That's never stopped you before."

"True." He pauses and then holds up one finger. "Do you want a beer, Noah?"

I shrug. "I guess."

As he walks into the kitchen, I swing my legs onto the sofa and lean back, kicking Silas in the leg. "What is he doing?" I ask.

"Honestly, Noah, I have no fucking idea."

Tate sits in a chair across from us, unscrews the cap from the beer bottle, and slides it across the coffee table toward me. As I grab it and take a swig, he says, "You look pretty. Where were you and Mia supposed to go tonight?"

"Calvin Schaffer's party," I say.

He and Silas exchange a look; I notice Silas suppressing a laugh before burying it into his beer bottle.

"What?" I ask him. "Why is that funny?"

"It's not funny," Silas says.

"Then why are you smiling like that?"

"I'm just smiling because I'm happy."

"Yeah, right."

"Don't you get tired of it, Noah?" Tate asks.

I sigh. "Tired of what?"

"Being Mia's sidekick."

I didn't. Not before, anyway. But…now that she spends all of her time with Levi, and I spend all of my time waiting for her to have time for me, yeah. I'm tired of it.

Not to mention that no one ever pays any attention to me when I'm standing next to Mia.

"I'm not her sidekick," I tell him.

"Don't you have any other friends?"

"Yeah. Silas is my friend."

My phone buzzes beside me, and I grab it, reading Mia's text.

MIA OMG, Noah! I totally forgot. I'm in Portland. Levi got us concert tickets! I promise, next weekend, we'll hang out.

"Aren't you tired of it?" Tate asks again.

I shake my head, visibly annoyed. "What do you suggest I do?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe you could be my sidekick."

"Silas is your sidekick…or you're his or whatever."

"There's no rule that says you can only have one sidekick. I think a person should be able to have as many sidekicks as they want, as long as everyone involved is happy with the situation."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Tate?"

"We'll take you to Calvin's party."

"Why would you do that?" I ask. "You hate Calvin."

"I want to play a game."

"What kind of game?"

"It's called 'Obey.' You have to do whatever I tell you for the entire night without hesitating or asking why."

"And what if I don't?" I ask, taking a swig of my beer.

"I'll spank you," he says.

I choke on my drink. Heat rushes to my face…and between my legs. It isn't the first time he's said something like that to me, but he isn't laughing, and his gaze is far too intense for me to believe he's joking this time.

"Okay," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Okay? So, you agree?"

"I don't know. What's in it for me?"

"If you're a good girl, we'll let you play again."

"Yeah, no, thanks."

"I'll give you the tip," he says, causing Silas to burst into laughter.

"I'm leaving."

"No, I'm serious. If our mission is successful, I'll give you an actual money tip. Come on, Noah. You always like our games. Trust me, you'll like this one, too. I think you'll like it a lot."

I consider it for a minute, tapping the side of my beer bottle with my finger. He isn't wrong—I do usually like their games. Though sometimes dangerous and usually illegal, they're exciting. And that's better than nothing.

Like last summer when we stayed in someone's empty rental cabin for four days before the housekeeper showed up and caught us. Or when we hid inside the movie theatre until after it closed and stayed there all night, getting drunk and eating candy until we threw up.

Or when we found out Silas's mom's ex was an abusive drunk, and when a piece of paper wouldn't keep him away, and the police didn't seem to care very much, we filled his trunk with stolen catalytic converters and called in an anonymous tip.

They cared about that.

But there's one big difference between all of those other times and now—Mia was there, too. Mia hasn't been around in a while, and without her, something within our dynamic has shifted. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, but it makes me nervous.

And they've never made me nervous before.

"What else are you going to do tonight, Noah? You wanted to go to a party—we'll take you to a party," Silas says.

"Don't want that slutty skirt to go to waste, do you?" Tate asks.

"It's your sister's slutty skirt."

"Ew. Are we going or not?"

I look at Silas, hoping to get a better read on what's going on. But if there's something more sinister at hand, he doesn't show it.

"Fine," I relent.

Tate clasps his hands together before standing. "Cool," he says. "I'll go get dressed. Maybe you can even make a new friend who isn't Silas. That was rude, by the way."

Silas laughs and shakes his head. "This should be fun."

After Tate changes his clothes, I follow them down the staircase and climb into the backseat of Silas's car.

"Drink up," Tate says from the passenger seat as Silas puts the car in reverse. He extends his arm to me, his fist wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle. I slide to the middle of the bench seat and take it from him.

"Do you have anything to chase it with?"

"No. And I'm going to assume that you didn't know we were playing already, so I won't count it this time, but this is your only warning. Technically, that is both hesitating and questioning me, and the game is called 'Obey.'"

"You're a straight-A student, Noah," Silas says. "You should be a little better at following directions."

"Sorry." I bring the bottle to my lips and take a small sip, wincing as I force the liquid down.

"That was disappointing. Get up here and sit on my lap; bring the bottle," Tate says.

I don't hesitate, but I move slowly, climbing onto the center console before he pulls me into his lap. He takes the bottle from my hand and holds it to my lips. "Open up," he says.

I do as he asks, and he pours the whiskey until it fills the entirety of my mouth. I sputter, pulling away, and he slaps his hand over my lips. "No," he says. "Don't spit it out. Swallow."

Eyes watering, I obey, but it takes three tries to get it all down.

"That's better," he says, taking his hand away. "Now, you do the same thing to Silas."

"He—" I start before Tate raises a pierced eyebrow at me. He's driving, I almost say. But that's breaking the rules, so I don't. And we're only a few blocks away.

"Open up, Silas," I say, leaning over and holding the bottle to his lips. Unlike me with Tate, he doesn't let me fill his entire mouth and then choke and sputter before forcing it down. He takes three big gulps before I pull it away and then meets my eyes as he licks his lips. I'm not used to drinking liquor like this, and it must be affecting me already, because I have to fight the urge to lean down and taste them.

I snap out of it, holding my breath when I feel Tate's hand run casually up the back of my thigh until it's far past the hemline of my skirt, resting against the bare skin just below my ass cheek. I've gotten used to it—him touching me like this because he can when Mia isn't around. At first, it set off this alarm in my head, and my instinct was always to pull back or put space between us in some way. Now, it feels good…in a bad way—like we're just barely not crossing lines we should never cross together, and it makes me feel alive. I pretend to ignore it, but I'm sure he notices I'm letting him get away with it more often, too.

"See? That's how it's done, Noah," Tate says. "Tell Silas what a good boy he is."

"You're a really good boy, Silas," I tell him.

Silas laughs and shakes his head a little. "Thank you, Noah," he says as he parks the car across the street from Calvin's house.

I open the car door and step out onto the sidewalk before Tate pulls it shut behind me. "Have fun," he says through the open window.

"Wait—you're not coming in with me?"

"Fuck no," he says. "If I show my face in there, I'll get my ass beat by half of the football team." The driver's side door opens, and Silas steps out, closing it behind him. "Silas is going with you; they're his friends."

"They're not my fucking friends," he says.

"Whatever," Tate says, visibly annoyed. "Just make sure you're checking your phones. And take another shot." He passes the whiskey bottle through the window. "Make it a good one."

Already feeling the effects of the whiskey and a little more prepared than I was the first couple of times, I fill my mouth and swallow the liquid in one large gulp. I'm not sure if it was a good one, but he looks satisfied when I hand the bottle back.

"Oh, and Noah?"

"Yes?"

"In my absence, you need to obey Silas."

"No problem," I tell him, and turn toward the house.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" I ask Silas as we approach the front porch.

"Calvin took something of Tate's," he says. "Tate wants it back—thinks maybe if he can get into his house tonight while it's full of people, he can find it."

"What did he take?"

"Money," he says before opening the front door. Upon entering, we're met with a cloud of smoke, the scent of marijuana and stale beer heavy in the air. The house is dark, loud, and crowded. Tate probably could have come inside and no one would have noticed. "A couple thousand dollars."

"What? Where did Tate get that kind of money? And how does he know Calvin took it?"

"Because he did take it."

"You didn't answer my first question. Are you guys selling drugs or something?"

"No."

"Well, then, where did the money come from?"

Silas purses his lips, thinking it over before he finally speaks. "We're making fake IDs. Drivers' licenses, passports, selling social security numbers. You can't tell anyone, Noah. Not even Mia."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Are you good at it?"

He scoffs. "What do you think? I'm good at everything."

I roll my eyes, but he isn't wrong. Silas is a genius when it comes to math and technology. Like me, he's a good student, and if we went to a better school district with decent funding, we'd probably both be in some kind of advanced placement program and have scholarships by now. He actually hacked into the district computers in seventh grade when they were considering holding Tate back and changed all of his grades to A's. They hadn't been paying enough attention to Silas to notice he had this particular skill and inclination, so they thought Tate did it himself. They punished him for it, but didn't hold him back, partly because they had sympathy for the school he missed due to his mother's illness and because, being premature, Tate and Mia started school late and were already older than everyone in our class. But mostly, it was because the teachers didn't have any written records of what his grades actually were.

"Hey, Silas!" Wyatt, another guy from the football team, shouts. "What's up, man? I never see you at parties like this."

"Hey, what's up, bro?"

"Calvin's got a keg in the dining room behind the beer pong table," Wyatt says, gesturing behind him. "Who's your friend?"

Are you kidding me? I have two classes with this fucker.

"No one you need to know about," Silas says, draping his arm around my shoulders. "Come on, let's get a drink."

Wyatt laughs. "Okay, I see how it is."

Steering me toward the dining room, Silas leans in and says, "You're fuming. I can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears."

"I've gone to school with that asshole since third grade! There are only two hundred kids in our entire class, and he copies off my goddamn math papers. And he looks at me and says, 'Who's that?' I mean, am I really just that…"

As he fills our cups with keg beer, I trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence. That pathetic? That much of a loser? That invisible?

"Are you really just that what?" he prompts, handing me my cup.

"Unremarkable."

Before he can answer, Calvin Schaffer takes a step backward and stumbles into me, causing me to spill my beer down the front of my shirt.

"Whoa. Sorry about that," he says. "I'm Calvin. Nice tits."

I glare over his shoulder at Silas. "Thanks. Nice to meet you for the very first time ever."

"Nice tits?" his girlfriend says, shoving him. "What the fuck, Calvin?"

"Oh, shit," he says, laughing.

"Come on," Silas says, guiding me out of the room.

"Hey, at least let me clean that up for you!" Calvin shouts at my back. "With my mouth!"

Laughter fills the room as we leave, and Silas steers me toward the staircase.

"Where are we going?" I ask as we make our way up to the second floor.

"I believe you're not supposed to question me," Silas says. "Remember the name of the game?"

"Yes, sir," I mock. "Whatever you say."

He turns to me, looking me up and down, raising one eyebrow. "You be careful with that mouth, Noah," he says. "Or I might have to teach you how to use it."

"What makes you think I don't know how to use it?"

Shit. I said that out loud. I blame the whiskey.

"Do you want me to tell you to prove it?"

I swallow hard, feigning laughter even though I'm pretty sure he isn't joking, and avert my gaze, following him until we reach one of the last bedrooms. Silas immediately goes to the window, unlocking it and throwing it open so Tate can climb inside.

"Ah, thank you very much," Tate says. "How's it going? Is Noah obeying or does she need to be spanked?" He crinkles his nose as he approaches me. "Why do you smell like old beer already?"

I shrug. "Because I'm a fucking house plant."

He purses his lips. "Not sure what that means. Do house plants drink beer?"

"Are you serious, Tate?"

"I don't know. I don't have any fucking house plants."

He steps around me and opens Calvin's closet. "Ah, here you go," he says, pulling his jersey from a hanger. "Take off your clothes and put this on instead."

I open my mouth to protest.

"Please, say no and see what happens," Tate says. "Make my day, Noah."

Sighing, I pull my tank top over my head and then put on the jersey before stepping out of the skirt. It's just long enough that it reaches the back of my thighs, but if I lift my arms over my head, I'm sure anyone who's looking would get a full view of my ass in this pink thong.

But hey, maybe they'd remember my fucking name if they did.

"Much better. We're looking for a small black metal box. We'll have to look high and low," he emphasizes, "so…Noah, you should look low. You have to crawl."

"Perfect."

I drop to the ground, get on all fours, and start crawling around the room, "looking low" for the black metal box. I'm aware my ass is entirely visible, and I feel their eyes on me, but I don't care. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just that I'm so fucking used to going unnoticed, and I'm so fucking tired of it that this actually feels good. But it does…it feels better than good. My clit pulses as I crawl around on the carpet on my hands and knees, squeezing my thighs together to relieve some of the pressure.

I check under the bed and in the nightstands as Silas turns out drawers and Tate tears apart the closet.

"I think I'm out of low places to search, Tate," I say.

"Really? Well, then, I guess you can just crawl over to Silas and rub up against his leg like a cat. For moral support."

Silas laughs. "Jesus Christ."

"What's wrong, Silas?" I joke, crawling in his direction. "You don't want any moral support?"

"No, I want moral support, Noah," he replies.

"That's hot," Tate says as I take my time, rubbing up against Silas's leg before I notice a duffle bag under the desk. It smells like shit when I open it up, and I almost don't even bother looking inside, but I decide to dump it, and a box like the one Tate is looking for falls to the ground in front of me.

"Hey, I think I might have found it!"

"Oh shit, she really did," Silas says.

"Are you fucking serious?" Tate shouts, turning toward the two of us. "Yes!" He pumps his fist in the air and jumps onto the bed. "Fuck yes! Fuck this guy! Fuck Calvin fucking Schaffer; he can kiss my fucking ass!"

He jumps down and scoops up the box, opening it before counting the contents.

"Noah," Tate says, "as an integral part of this mission, you deserve a reward." He lifts the jersey and stuffs a few hundred-dollar bills into the waistband of my thong. "How's that for what's in it for you?"

"Um, fair. Very fair."

"Now, I get to tell you a secret."

Tate brushes my hair away from my ear before leaning in, his cheek against mine and his breath hot on my neck. "I saw that wet spot on your panties when you were crawling around on the floor. It's not hard to figure out what someone's kinks are if you know them, and you know what to look for. I told you that you'd really like this game."

He pulls back, and I sit there, stunned. No smart ass reply or brush off comes to mind before someone pounds on Calvin's bedroom door.

"Calvin?" a female voice calls. "Are you in there? If anyone's in there, I'm giving you five seconds, and then I'm coming in. One…"

"Closet!" Silas says. Tate grabs the box, and we all rush toward the louvered double doors and into the corner of the small space. I watch Calvin's girlfriend, a cheerleader named Hailey, through the wooden slats as she steps into the room.

All the while trying to stay still, pretending not to feel Silas's hard dick against my backside.

"What…the fuck…happened in here?" she mumbles to herself, taking in the room's state of disarray. Then she freezes; something must catch her attention, because she gasps, then leans down and picks up my discarded tank top and miniskirt.

"Nice tits," she mocks before throwing them across the room. "That fucking asshole. I'm going to fucking kill him!"

Then she climbs onto the bed and, standing, pulls her underwear down, kicking them off before hiking her skirt up.

What the hell is she—

But before I can finish the thought, she squats just a little, and we watch her piss on the mattress.

Oh, my god.

I quickly slap my hand over my mouth, stifling a gasp. Behind me and at my side, Silas and Tate are silently laughing their asses off.

And she pees for a long fucking time.

When she's finally done, she dries herself off with his pillow, steps back into her underwear, and leaves the room.

"Oh, my god!" Tate says, still laughing and out of breath. "That was fucking awesome! God, I hate this guy so much. He's going to be pissed."

"Always better to be pissed off than pissed on," Silas says, and we all start laughing again.

"My god, it's like…a lake." My lip turns up as I look at the soiled bedding and mattress. "I can smell it."

"Girl really had to go," Silas says. "What about us? Are we leaving?"

"Not quite yet. Hold this," Tate says, thrusting the metal box into my hands. He crosses the room, picks up Calvin's laptop, brings it over his head, and then slams it against the edge of the desk once, twice, and then three times before casually tossing the destroyed remnants aside.

"Feel better?" Silas asks. He picks up his red solo cup from earlier and takes a drink.

Tate shrugs. "Yeah. Little bit. But I have one more job for Noah. And I'm going to need that cup."

"All right." Silas drains the contents and then hands it to him.

"Great."

Without warning, Tate unzips his jeans, whips out his dick, and starts pissing in the damn cup.

"Jesus, Tate." I quickly turn around, averting my gaze upward while they both laugh.

I hear him zip up a few seconds later. "Okay, Noah," he says. "The glass is half-full."

Silas laughs harder, and I turn around. "That's not funny."

"You're laughing," Tate says. "A little bit. You think it's kind of funny."

It is a little bit funny. But I'm pretty sure he's about to beat my ass, because I don't know what he expects me to do with that fucking cup.

"Relax," he says. "It's not for you. But you and Silas are going to go back downstairs, and I want you to switch this cup with Calvin's beer."

"What if he isn't drinking beer? This is not me questioning you; I'm genuinely looking for recourse."

"If he's not drinking beer, I'll settle for you feeding it to his piece-of-shit friend, Archer. If he's passed out, you may dump it on his crotch. Silas may assist you any way he sees fit."

"So, you want me to go back out there—in his jersey—and feed him your piss?"

He nods. "Correct."

Sighing heavily, I extend my hand, grimacing when I close it around the cup. "Oh, god. It's so warm."

The guys laugh again, and Tate heads for the window. "See you on the other side."

"I kind of hate you right now."

"Come on," Silas says. "Let's get it over with."

I follow him, frowning as we descend the staircase. "It's sloshing when I walk. I can't look at it."

Silas snorts. "Put it in your other hand, then. If you spill that shit on me, I'm screaming."

"Everyone's looking at me," I tell him once we get to the main level.

"Yeah, of course they are—you don't have any fucking pants on. Not so invisible now, are you?"

"Just…do you see him anywhere?"

"That dumb mother fucker," Silas says.

"What? Where is he?"

"Not Calvin," he says. "Tate. Look over by the front door."

I wouldn't have noticed him if Silas didn't point him out, but he's right. Tate is there, wearing Silas's sunglasses and hoodie with the hood pulled tightly over his face.

He couldn't resist watching.

"Calvin's over there," Silas says, nodding toward the far end of the room. I spot him on the couch next to Archer, but there's an empty space at his other side. Both are drinking keg beer from the same cups.

"Okay."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," I tell him. "I've got this."

I cross the room and sit beside Calvin, piss cup in hand.

"Hey," Calvin says. He takes another sip of his beer and then sets it on the coffee table in front of him. "You're Silas's friend without a name, and you're wearing my jersey."

"Yeah, I am," I say, putting on my best flirty tone. "You spilled beer all over me, remember? I had to change."

"Well, it looks sexy as fuck on you," he says.

"You think so?"

"Fuck yes."

"It looks even better from the back," I tease.

"Oh, yeah?" he says. "Let's see it then."

I lean forward, setting the piss cup right next to Calvin's beer before I stand up. I move in front of him, blocking his view of the table. "What do you think?"

"I think you're right. That looks damn good."

"I told you." Before I sit down, I grab Calvin's beer, leaving the piss cup in its place.

"You know what, though?" he asks. "I'm not sure I like that pink thong you're wearing. I think that would look better on my bedroom floor. What do you think?"

"I think we need to finish our drinks first."

"Deal," Calvin says, grabbing the piss cup from the table.

I freeze, hoping he doesn't notice how warm it is.

"Cheers," he says.

My heart pounds as he brings the cup to his lips. He tilts his head back—way back, like you would if you planned to chug the whole thing. I see it in his eyes the moment it hits the back of his throat. He drops the cup into his lap, spilling the rest, and I quickly jump back before it sprays from his mouth, all over the table and his friend.

"Calvin, what the fuck?!" Archer shouts.

"Oh, my god!" Calvin shrieks, dry heaving as he leaps onto his feet and tears his shirt over his head. He tosses it aside and then drops to his knees, vomiting onto the carpet.

I should be getting out of here, but it's like a train wreck I can't look away from.

Silas calls my name, snapping me out of it, and I race toward the door, following him and Tate to the car.

"Getinthebackgetinthebackgetintheback," Silas repeats until we get to the vehicle. "And stay down."

Tires screeching, we pull away from the house just as Calvin runs outside. "Silas, you fucker!" he shouts after the vehicle. "I'm going to kill your friend!"

It's only after we're a few blocks away from the house that it registers that I'm lying on top of Tate in the backseat. He threads his fingers into my hair, his thumb rubbing small circles against the skin right behind my ear.

"Well?" he prompts. "Was I right?"

I swallow a lump in my throat. It's not hard to figure out what someone's kinks are. "Right about what?"

"Did you have fun?"

I smile, relieved. "Yeah. I had fun."

And I did have fun. I'll take any chance to shit on shitty people that I can. I'm glad he drank piss. I wonder if he'll recognize me the next time he sees me.

I awkwardly rest my head against his chest until we pull into the parking lot and then quickly sit up, smoothing down the jersey before exiting the vehicle and heading for the staircase.

"What's your mom going to say when you walk in wearing that?" Tate laughs.

"She's not there," I tell him. "She's been working nights all week."

He and Silas exchange a look.

"Can we come in, then?" Tate asks.

I shrug. "Sure."

We step into the living room. The lights are off in my apartment, but the TV is still on, playing the same Hoarders marathon my mom had been watching before she left for work.

"I fucking hate this show," Silas says. "Sets my OCD on fire."

"You can change it," I say, sinking into the sofa. The second I lie down, my eyes are heavy. "Will you make me one?"

"One what?" Tate asks.

"A fake ID."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Does it matter? I want one."

"Fine," Tate says. "What do you want your name to be?"

"I don't care. Make it something really girly, though. I'm tired of seeing the disappointment on people's faces when I show up for job interviews, and they realize I'm a girl."

Tate scoffs. "That doesn't happen."

"Yeah, it does."

"Okay, what about Delilah from New York City?" Tate suggests.

"Because you look so pretty," Silas adds.

I scoff. "Yeah, right. Delilah is fine, though. I like it," I tell them, letting my eyes close.

"Times Square can't shine as bright as you, baby," Tate says.

"Stop."

I must pass out because their laughter is the last thing I remember, and when I open my eyes again, the television is off. For a second, I think I'm alone, but then I hear a loud groan.

"Fuck, that feels good," Tate rasps softly. "Go faster. I'm so fucking close."

Enough light comes in through the front window for me to see Tate sitting on the other sofa, his legs spread, biting his lower lip while Silas pumps his hard dick in his hand.

I freeze. What do I do now? I don't think they've noticed I'm awake. Should I leave the room? Close my eyes?

I knew this about Tate—I knew he was bisexual; I didn't think Silas was. And even if he was, I wouldn't have thought they'd be together like this. Is it the first time? Does Mia know?

But before I can close my eyes, Tate catches me watching. "It's okay, Noah," Tate groans. "I want you to watch me come."

Silas stops what he's doing for about half a second, his hooded gaze meeting my eyes before he goes back to work, sliding his fist up and down Tate's cock.

I quickly look away before Tate says, "We're still playing the game, Noah. You should obey."

Logically, I know I don't have to. Still, I turn back and watch. Silas picks up his pace, working every inch of his erect cock from base to tip. I squeeze my thighs together tightly, my underwear soaked by the time cum explodes from the tip all over Tate's chest and drips down Silas's fist.

Tate grips the back of the couch in his hands and throws his head back, moaning while Silas pumps it out of him.

Once he finishes, Tate removes his shirt, using it to wipe himself clean before adjusting his pants and walking toward me. He pushes my legs apart before sitting between them.

"We're not playing anymore," he says, sliding his hand up the inside of my thigh. "You can tell me to stop if you want."

Heart pounding, I say nothing, but let my legs fall open wider. He hooks his fingers inside my underwear and pulls them to the side.

"God damn, Noah," he says, running his fingers up and down my wet slit before dipping two inside me. "You're soaked."

"Fuck!" I gasp.

"Such a pretty pussy," he says, slowly moving his fingers in and out of me. "Isn't it, Silas?"

"Mmhmm."

My cheeks flush as my breath comes short. I almost forgot—I look over Tate's shoulder and find Silas laid back, stroking his own dick in his hand while he watches.

Shit. Shit, this is so fucked up.

So, why does it feel so good?

Tate's thumb finds my clit, and my legs shake. The sound that comes out of me…fuck, I'm embarrassed. I wasn't expecting that.

It's too much. I try to snap my legs closed, but Tate's hand stops me.

"Shh, it's okay," he says. His free hand runs over my chest and up my neck, his thumb rubbing circles on that place behind my ear again. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."

I nod and close my eyes while he continues fucking me with his fingers. Then, his mouth is on mine, kissing me.

It's better than all the times I've imagined it in my head. Too desperately, I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around his body when his tongue slides past my lips. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, finally knowing what it feels like to have those lip rings between my teeth; I've thought about it so many times.

And then the realization dawns on me—we're crossing that line. I'm kissing my best friend's twin brother. This is bad.

I bury a moan into his lips when he curls his fingers inside me, and then I can't think. My mind goes blank as the orgasm builds until it rips through me. I dig my nails into Tate's back as my entire body shudders, burying a moan against his lips. His fingers keep working until I'm an overstimulated, wet, shaking mess.

"Good girl," he says. "You did so good tonight." He brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean. "You taste good, too."

My face flushes with embarrassment. "Tate…"

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Let me ask you a question."

"Um…okay," I say, still breathless.

"You told Silas that you know what to do with your mouth."

I stare back at him, confused.

"That's the question, Noah."

I nod slowly.

"I think you should show him," Tate says. "I think he'd appreciate your help."

I glance at Silas, still stroking his cock on the other couch, and swallow hard before answering. "Okay."

Tate sits up so that I can get out from under him.

"Oh, and Noah?" Tate adds. "We like it when you crawl."

I quickly sit up in bed, gasping for air.

It's been a year. An entire year, and I still have to worry that every time I close my eyes, I'll be haunted by memories of that summer until I open them again. If I'd have known they'd ruin me so completely—so deeply that even reminiscing about the hurt feels better than anyone else has made me feel since—I never would have let it happen.

But I didn't know any better. When you don't know better, toxic can feel like passion. At least it's loud. At least it's better than nothing.

After a week of hateful texts, Mia never spoke to me again and blocked me on all social media. She sent me one last message to reiterate what she thought of me and that I was dead to her before going dark.

And I did what she asked. I stayed away. I made sure she never had to see me again, even though I was in crippling pain and really, really fucking needed a friend.

I returned the favor a few days later when I blocked Tate and Silas.

I had to let them all go; I thought if I did, I'd be able to move on. Silas texted me for a while, and it was nice, but he wanted things to go back to normal with the three of us. We'd talk, and he'd tell me how much he wanted to see me and how much Tate missed me.

When Tate messaged me, it wasn't so nice. He'd tell me to get over it, that it wasn't a big deal, and I needed to stop being childish.

And I've been lonely—so lonely since. I've made new friends, I'm no longer a house plant at school and at parties, my classes at Holbridge were challenging and interesting, and still, nothing helps. I feel like I'm walking around with a gaping hole in the center of my chest—a hungry, dark void desperately trying to make itself whole again, but seems to sate it.

I'm surprised no one notices it—the hole, I mean. Granted, some days are far worse than others, but it's always there. No one stops to point it out; no one pulls me aside at school and says, My god, Noah. What is that thing, and why can I see right through you?

And so, I never say, Oh, that? That's the place where all the things that made me me used to go, but I lost them, and I don't know how to put them back.

Because no one really knows me. I can't say he didn't warn me.

And it's been far worse since they buried Mia in July, just two months after their mother died.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow, I ended up just outside it all, an unwilling audience with a front-row seat to the events that led Mia to take her own life.

But I didn't touch it. I didn't realize it until it was already too late. Not that I could have done anything, anyway.

I guess that's a big part of why I'm sleeping past three in the afternoon, my body moving slower and heavier than usual with the weight of all that's burrowed under my skin. It's crushing me now.

According to my mom, Silas and Tate are missing now. Silas's mom called her last week, thinking I might have seen them, and said she'd reported them missing to police. But they packed bags and took Silas's car, so the police ruled them runaways, and adults are allowed to run away if they want to.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and check my messages. There's a drunk text from Leo, a former classmate I hooked up with a couple of weeks ago, one from Brielle asking what time I'll be over today, and a DM from a faceless Instagram account around four in the morning with a username that's only a string of letters.

I know it's from Tate before I open it. It didn't take long after I blocked him for his messages to turn hateful. They never stopped, but they slowed down…until recently.

That's why I don't spend any time worried about what happened to them. If Tate's still sending me hate mail, he's just fine.

I HOPE YOU CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT, YOU EVIL HEARTLESS BITCH.

Eh. I've had worse. And I don't sleep at night—not without seeing him.

Slowly, I force myself to sit up and get out of bed. My new bedroom is bigger than the main living space in my old apartment, with dark hardwood floors and modern furniture decorated in white, yellow, and grey. It's not what I would have picked for myself, of course, but that didn't really matter. This place was only ever meant to be temporary. I've always felt kind of like a visitor, and that's only more true now with most of my things in boxes again. Only this time, I'm leaving for college.

As I cross the room toward my bathroom, Paul's voice roars from downstairs, causing me to jump. Not long after, I hear a crash—maybe glass breaking—and my mom cries.

Well, I'm supposed to leave for college. If I can bring myself to leave her here with him.

Silas was right about Paul, but it took a lot longer for Paul to prove him right than I expected. It was slow—slow enough that I thought it wouldn't happen. He was loud; he liked to yell and complain, and I thought that was all it was. He bought me a car, paid for dental implants to fix my top teeth, and took us to Disneyland in the fall.

Christmas came and went with an engagement announcement. They eloped in Vegas the following month and looked happy in the pictures.

The first bruises and busted lips came after Valentine's Day. They tried to keep it a secret for a while—until Paul hit her in front of me for the first time—and then I guess they just figured, why bother?

She screams, pleading with him to stop, apologizing for whatever he thinks she's done to deserve it this time, and I wipe tears away from my eyes. I turn on my music to drown out the yelling downstairs while I fix my hair and apply makeup, then I tie on a white bikini, pull on a pair of denim shorts, step into my sandals, and cautiously step out of the room, checking to make sure the yelling has stopped before heading downstairs.

My mom is kneeling in the kitchen, sweeping the remnants of a shattered picture frame onto a dustpan.

"Mom?"

She looks up with empty, glazed-over eyes. They've been that way for a while; it's the same look she has in photos I've seen of her in early adulthood—when she was using.

Not that I could blame her if she's doing it again.

"How am I supposed to leave you here?" I whisper, shaking my head. "We should leave…together."

She scoffs. "What are you talking about? Why would I leave? I don't want to leave."

"It's only going to get worse."

"Shut up," she snaps. "You don't know what you're talking about. I love him. You don't know anything about marriage or relationships or how any of this…real-life stuff works, so just stop." Lowering her voice, she adds, "And what if he hears you?"

I think about the day we moved out again—about the car ride and the lecture she gave me about how people who care about you should and shouldn't treat you. I've said the same thing to her several times since, but like me, I don't think she's ever known how love is supposed to look.

But surely, she knows it's not this, either.

"You're only proving my point," I hiss. "I can't go to college."

"You have to go," she says. "He's paying for it. And to be honest, you only make things worse around here with all of your judgment and complaining."

She empties the dustpan into the garbage just as Paul steps out of his office, passing me on his way into the kitchen.

"Can I make you some lunch, honey?" my mom asks him.

"No. I'll just—fuck!" he screams.

We both jump back, a visceral reaction to what normally comes next.

He lifts his right foot, inspecting the bottom and pulls out a bloody shard of glass. "God damn it, Kathy!" he shouts, tossing it in her direction. "I told you to clean this shit up."

He backhands her already-bruised face, sending her into the countertop and then onto the floor. She covers her head with her arms as he pummels her with his fists before kicking her over, and she curls into a ball on the tile. "You're lucky I don't need fucking stitches!"

"Stop!" I yell, stepping between them. "Leave her alone!"

Paul grabs my arm, squeezing hard, digging his fingers into my flesh before pushing me backward; the sharp edge of the marble countertop digs into my ribs, and I scream.

"You're not going to tell me what to do in my own fucking house," he says. "You know what you both are? You're fucking ungrateful. Clean all of this up, and then, yes, you can make me lunch."

My mother pulls herself to her feet as he leaves. "What is wrong with you?" she asks.

"With me? I—"

"Stop!" she yells. "You need to mind your own business and stay out of my marriage."

"He's going to kill you," I hiss through clenched teeth. "And you're going to make me watch it…unless we leave."

She takes a step toward me, then brings her hand back and slaps me hard across my face.

Shocked, all I can do is stare back at her, mouth gaping.

"You're an adult, Noah. Don't make me choose between you and my husband; I don't think you'll like what I decide. Now get the fuck out of my house."

"What? But—"

"Now!"

Tears stinging my eyes, I snatch my keys from the hook by the front door and storm out, slamming it behind me. Then I climb into my white BMW, back out of the driveway, and head for Brielle's lake house. It's kind of a farewell party for the group I fell into this year; we're going to hang out here, swimming and drinking all day, and then head down to the carnival on the lake in the evening—one last party before we all go our separate ways, though Brielle and I are supposed to be roommates next year.

After what happened with Mia, I don't feel so good about that anymore.

I pull into the driveway about forty-five minutes later. There's a gate with a call box and a wrought iron fence around the secluded property. I stop and grab my phone so I can look for the gate code she texted me earlier.

When I do, I have two new messages from Paul.

PAUL Glad you're finally learning how things work around here.

The second is a video, starting with a black screen. "What the fuck…" I mutter to myself before pushing play.

He sent me a video of my mom…giving him a blow job.

"Jesus Christ!"

I drop the phone as soon as I realize what I'm looking at, but the bluetooth connects to my car, and the audio roars through the speakers.

"Look at the camera and say hi to Noah…" Paul's voice says.

With shaky hands, I reach forward and turn the volume all the way down just as my mom's gargled voice says my name. I swallow back bile, and then close my eyes, taking a moment to gather myself after being fucking violated.

I'm not sure how long I stay there like that, but at some point, Leo must have pulled in behind me, because I jump when I hear his voice through the window.

"Hey, Noah!"

"Shit," I mutter. "I mean…hey. Sorry, I'm in the way, huh?"

"No worries," he says. "Brielle sent me the code—I've got you."

He turns and types the numbers into the box, and then it buzzes before the gates swing open.

"Thanks."

"No problem. See you in there."

Leo walks back to his truck, and I put my car in drive, pulling through the gate and up to the house. We park side by side and end up walking in together.

I leave my phone in the car. I can't even bring myself to touch it now, as if it's radioactive.

"Have you been here before?" Leo asks.

Small talk. Cool.

"No, I haven't. You?"

"Oh, yeah," he says. "We do this every year." He opens the front door, ushering me into the house with a hand on the small of my back. "They're probably all out by the pool; I'll show you where it is."

"Cool."

"Sorry about that text last night," he says as we step out into the backyard.

"Oh, yeah. It's no big deal. I was just asleep."

"Yeah, I figured. But I am glad we get to hang out again."

"Noah!" Brielle shouts from the other side of the pool.

"Hey!" I call back, using the opportunity to escape the conversation.

It's not that there's anything wrong with Leo. In some ways, he reminds me of Silas. He's smart, attractive, and a wide receiver on the football team. If I'm being honest, that's probably why I slept with him. And if I'm being even more honest, it's why I'll probably end up sleeping with him again tonight, too.

But in all the ways that matter, he's nothing like Silas. He doesn't get me even when I'm quiet the way Silas did. He doesn't know what I mean when I say harder. And I haven't come close to finding anything that even temporarily fills that void, either.

"Did you guys come here together?" Brielle asks. "Are you like…a couple now?"

"What? No. We just pulled up at the same time."

"Okay, just checking. I don't know why you're so defensive about it. Do you want a drink? We have white wine coolers in here," she says, gesturing to the cooler beside her. "And there's vodka and beer inside. I know you prefer whiskey, but my parents only allow clear drinks in the house."

"It's fine—I'll have a wine cooler. Thanks."

I grab one and sit beside her at the edge of the pool. At my other side, a phone buzzes. My heart skips a beat before I realize it isn't mine, and when I look over, the background lights up with a photo of Kendall and Zach kissing. Kendall is in the water, floating on a raft opposite of Alexis, and Zach is on the other side of the deck, talking to Leo and Josh.

I may not be in those apartments with my old friends anymore, but I never stopped playing games.

After ensuring no one is looking, I use one finger to slide Kendall's phone forward until it falls into the pool. The music outside is loud enough to mask the plopping sound it makes when it hits the water. I sit back, satisfied that no one noticed, and it'll probably sit there for a while and be completely trashed by the time she fishes it out.

Sometimes, I'm their friend, but sometimes, I'm like the abandoned children from my grandmother's creepy bedtime story, playing cruel jokes on them and waiting for someone to get mad enough to notice it's been me the whole time and do something about it.

But I'm not a child, and I don't want to eat them. I just want a little taste of their pain, something to temporarily fill that hole. I want to eat the looks on their faces.

And Kendall deserves so much worse.

"Where's my phone?" she asks when she joins us ten minutes later. "Has anyone seen my phone? I swear it was right here."

I shrug. "No. I haven't seen it."

I bring my drink to my lips to hide my smile.

four

Smells Like Teen Massacre

Tate

"They're both there, for sure," I tell Silas. "Charlie just posted a picture, and they're both in it. You can pull up to the gate now."

"What about Noah?" he asks.

I clench my teeth, biting back the rage boiling to the surface at just the mention of her fucking name. "We talked about this already, and I'm not going to do it again. Noah is a fake fucking bitch, and she means absolutely nothing to us. If she's there, then she'll get what she deserves, too."

"I get that, but—"

"They killed my fucking sister, Silas."

"I know; that's why I'm here. I'm here for Mia, and I'm here for you—"

"No one leaves there alive. If you want to back out, do it now. I've got shit to do."

I crush another pill between my teeth and wash it down with water. It won't help with the way the adrenaline has my leg bouncing, but I'll need the pick-me-up.

But the truth is I've been looking forward to this, foaming at the fucking mouth for it. It's the same feeling I got on Christmas morning when I was a kid…or the first time I slipped my sister's best friend's panties off of her. I think if Silas and I are both honest with ourselves, we've known for a while that we're not only capable of taking a human life, but that we'd end up doing it, eventually.

At least we have a good reason this time. What better motive than revenge?

"Backing out? This was my idea. You won't be able to pull this off and get away with it without me," Silas says.

"Well, I don't care about getting away without you."

"Good. Because you can't. And you won't have to."

I smile, leaning in and placing a hand on the back of his neck before bringing my lips to his.

Breaking away from the kiss, he says, "You know I'd do anything for you. I just don't know if I can kill her."

I sigh. "Maybe she won't even be there. A good person wouldn't be—not after what they did to Mia. And you still think she's good."

Silas shrugs, shakes his head, and looks out the window, but I know it's true. Even though a part of him hates her for breaking his heart, and he's still angry about it, he still thinks Noah is a princess.

Sweet, innocent, and everything else is our fault.

"But if she is there…"

"She hurt you," I interrupt.

"Yeah, but—"

"She abandoned us. You said yourself that it still hurts to think about. If she's gone, you won't have to think about her anymore."

"I'm not so sure it'll work like that."

I place my hands on his cheeks. "That's okay. I'm sure, and I'll show you. I can kill her for us. But…you can't help her. Promise me."

Silas nods slightly. "I promise. I won't help her."

"That's a good boy," I tell him, diving back into his lips. Our kiss turns hard, violent more quickly than usual—maybe because of the rush of what we're about to do.

I picture it in my head—blood splattered across the front of my body, their screams, their tears. God, I hope they cry; few things feel better than watching someone cry.

I hope they fucking beg.

I slide my hand up the inside of Silas's thigh, gripping his thick cock through his jeans. He reacts by biting my lower lip hard—hard enough that I taste blood and see it on his own lips when I pull away.

"Take it out," I demand, giving it another squeeze. "Now."

Silas quickly appeases me, pulling his jeans and boxers down over his hips until his dick springs free. He leans his seat back a little, and I pump it in my fist before leaning down and teasing the tip with my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head and flicking it with my tongue ring.

"Fuck…" he groans. And then he can't take it anymore; he grabs me by my hair, holding me steady as he rolls his hips in the front seat, thrusting in and out of my throat.

I let him use me like that for a few minutes, sliding in and out of my mouth and through my fist. I love it when he loses control like this; I can't wait to watch the flood gates open later when we're tearing through those spoiled fucking Holbridge Academy brats. I bet it'll be days before he fucks that high out of his system. I picture him naked and rock hard, stroking his dick in one bloody hand while the other wraps around my throat, and my own swells painfully against my tight black jeans. He slows just a little, and I hear that sound from somewhere in his chest that means I'm about to get his cum.

I squeeze his balls hard to let him know it's my turn; I want to be back in control.

"Ahhh!" he cries out, releasing his grip on my hair. Instead, he grips the steering wheel with his right hand and the left armrest with the other, still thrusting into me just a little bit because he can't resist as I take him deep into the back of my throat, pumping and sucking, working every inch of him.

"Fuck, I'm so close. Just like that, don't stop," he rasps.

I don't mean to, but I think of Noah. I think about that first night when I made her get on her knees in front of him and how her mouth stretched as far as her lips would allow just to fit him inside. And how I kneeled right beside her with one hand on his thigh and rubbing her back with the other, urging her on.

I moan around his dick, feeling it jump in my fist before hot cum paints the back of my throat, and I swallow down every last bit.

"Feel better?" I ask, wiping my mouth before sitting back in my seat.

"Yeah."

"You ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready," he says. He exhales, still breathless, and pulls his pants back into place. "Did you get the code?"

"Yep. He just sent it."

"We'll have to leave the car at the gate. We should take the plates off, too, in case there's a camera."

"They're stolen plates, and I don't plan on them not knowing it was us," I tell him.

"I know that, but it will make it a little easier for us to get away. I've got tools in the trunk."

After throwing the plates in the car's trunk, we pull up to the gate, parking before entering the code and walking down the winding driveway to the isolated mansion in the woods.

"He said they're all by the pool. You should take care of the cars and then wait for me inside. I'm going to head out back."

"All right," Silas says. "Hey, wait."

"Yeah?"

"You can't just walk out there and fucking lose it. You know that, right?"

"I know. Look at me," I say, gesturing to myself. "I'm calm. See? Don't I look calm?"

"Yeah, you look calm," he says, flipping open his knife and shredding the tires of the truck furthest from the house. "Too calm. That's never a good sign."

"I'm fine. I'll see you in there."

I turn toward the house and enter through the side door. It's an open floor plan with a cabin-style interior—all exposed wood with a stone fireplace. The windows along the backside of the house make it easy to find the pool. I pause at the door, taking a moment to become…well, less myself, before stepping outside.

I scan the space, looking for Charlie, and when I find him, he's standing there…talking to her. My heart drops in my chest.

"Oh, hey! Over here!" Charlie says from the other side of the pool.

She's here. Fuck.

Well, she didn't have to be. She sealed her own fate.

Our eyes meet, and she goes white as a ghost. My body buzzes with electricity. I have to keep my cool, like Silas said; I know that. I head in that direction, forcing a smile, and once I'm in front of Charlie, he pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the cheek. "It's nice to finally meet you in person," he says. Then he turns to Noah and another girl, whom I know from my research is Brielle, and says, "This is the guy I invited. This is Tate."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Brielle; this is my house," Brielle says.

"You, too. Hi, Noah," I say, smiling.

"Oh, you two know each other?" Charlie asks. "How weird."

"What are you doing?" Noah spits out quickly.

"Nothing, I'm just—what was that?" And I shouldn't do it, but I can't help it. I reach out and grab her by her chin.

"Stop!" she shouts, trying to shake me off. "Get your finger out of my mouth!"

"What did you do to your teeth?" I ask after she shoves me away.

"Nothing!"

"Why did you do that?"

"I didn't do anything!"

"What the hell, dude? Are you okay, Noah?" Brielle asks, protectively wrapping her arm around Noah.

"I'm fine," Noah says, tears welling in her eyes.

"It was a weird moment," I say. "I'm sorry that your fake teeth took me by surprise, Noah."

"I'm sorry—her what?"

"Okay…what's going on?" Charlie asks.

"Nothing. Noah and I used to go to school together—that's all. We were friends, right, Noah?"

Before she can answer, Kendall jumps in. "Well, we don't have the best luck with people from Noah's old school, do we?" she laughs. "You didn't know the dead girl, did you?"

Noah's eyes widen like saucers. She's terrified of how I'll react, and she should be…but I'm not going to react right now.

"Kind of," I say calmly. "Did you?"

Kendall laughs again. "Um, yeah. My boyfriend, Zach, was the one she was stalking and obsessed with before she died. She made up this entire relationship—"

"Did she make it up, though?" I interject.

"Well, yeah," Kendall scoffs. "She did make it up."

Liar. Maybe she even believes it, though. Maybe she's so fucking gullible that she actually thinks this whole relationship happened in Mia's head—that she made those videos of herself on her own and somehow planted them on her boyfriend's phone.

What's more likely is that she doesn't believe it, and she did all of that and went along with the lie because the alternative would have embarrassed her in front of her friends and family.

But I saw Zach sitting in the same Audi that's in the driveway right now, waiting for Mia outside of our school and our apartment for months.

It was weird that he never got out of the car. I didn't think much about it, though; I just thought he was a douchebag. I didn't think he was dangerous.

But he's about to learn the real definition of that word.

"Okay," I say, shrugging. I laugh a little, just to make sure she knows I don't believe her—that I know her boyfriend was fucking Mia. And that's the part that gets her. Rage flashes in her eyes.

"I'm serious! We were scared of her. She was like…weirdly obsessed with us."

"Yeah, I learned my lesson," Zach says, joining the conversation. I tense a little, just in case he recognizes me. We never met, but surely, Mia mentioned her twin brother. Surely, he recognizes the eyes staring back at him as hers. It'd ruin everything if he did, but it makes me a little sad he doesn't…for her. "Don't accept random follow requests from girls online," he continues, laughing. "You never know which ones will end up being crazy. We even had the cops coming to our houses for a few days."

Mia wasn't crazy, either. Her only crime was that she was a little too much like me—too angry, too reactive.

Too passionate.

We didn't really know how to be anything else. Our entire existence hinged on chaos. We never knew quiet in our house—not with death always looming over our heads, threatening to tear our world apart.

So, when Mia found out Zach had a girlfriend, she was heartbroken and angry. Having lived the other side of it, she wanted his girlfriend to know he'd been cheating on her for months. She sent her screenshots of conversations they'd had where he told her he loved her, photos of the two of them together. Mia considered it a kindness.

But Zach told Kendall it was all fake. She slammed her on social media—got her friends to bully her, too. And when that wasn't enough, she put nude photos and videos of Mia online with her name, address, and phone number.

Mia live-streamed her suicide a couple of weeks later.

"Yeah, they were trying to blame us for her death, but it's not my fault her stupid mom died and she went insane."

Zach laughs, and I just about lose it.

"Kendall, Jesus," a guy says from behind me. This one I don't recognize. "The girl is fucking dead. Can you stop now?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, Leo. I'll consider it."

"Okay…" Charlie says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Why don't we go inside and get a drink, Tate? What do you like?"

"Whiskey," I say while my eyes shoot daggers at Kendall. If she were smarter, she'd be afraid, but instead, she returns the same look.

This is your last day on Earth, you fucking bitch. This is the last day you'll ever laugh at my fucking sister. I hope it was worth it.

"Okay, well, we don't have that," Brielle says. "My parents only allow clear drinks in the house."

I snort. "What?"

Brielle scowls. "Honestly, Charlie, I made an exception for you and let you invite a friend, which I never do, but if he's going to be disrespectful, you'll both need to leave."

I throw my hands up innocently. "I'll be good."

"Everything we have is inside behind the bar," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"Great," I say. "Thanks."

I let Charlie put an arm around me and steer me toward the house.

"God, I'm so sorry about that," he says once we're out of earshot. He smiles and opens the door for me like this is a real fucking date or something.

But I guess he thinks it is, doesn't he?

"It's fine," I tell him, stepping back inside the house.

"I know how bad that all sounded, but I swear, Kendall isn't a bitch. I feel terrible about what happened, but like…she was a crazy stalker. It looks like we have…rum, vodka, and gin."

Gritting my teeth, I reply, "Gin."

"Okay, and for mixers…we also only have clear or pale drinks."

"Just hand me the bottle. And how do you know she was a crazy stalker?"

He slides the bottle toward me and then pours himself a vodka with pineapple juice.

"Well, Zach is one of my best friends. We play baseball together, so I saw him almost every day all last spring, and just the sheer amount of messages and photos she sent to Kendall…and, I mean, there were thousands of messages and hundreds of photos…it would have been impossible for him to have been that involved with someone else and none of us even knew about it."

"So, where did it all come from?"

"They're fakes," he says confidently. "I'm a photographer, and I can tell they're all edits. I told Kendall I could tell; it's obvious if you know what to look for."

"Oh, I get it," I say. "So, if you're his best friend, you know whether or not he owns the clothing in the pictures or whether or not they were taken at his home or in his car. Because a photo generator wouldn't know what those things looked like."

"Well, no…" he starts. "I mean, yeah. But I didn't even need to look at it like that; there were other clues. And she was always the only one on camera in the videos."

"Got it," I say, taking a swig from the bottle.

Silas enters the room through the side door, pausing for only a second when he spots us. But Silas is always calm, collected. His surprise at not finding the house empty would only be evident to someone who really knows him.

"Um…hi," Charlie says. "Who are you looking for?"

"That's actually a friend of mine," I answer before Silas can.

"Oh…I didn't realize you were bringing someone," he says, looking Silas up and down. Unlike Silas, Charlie is easy to read. He's insecure, which made this whole thing a lot easier for me to do, and he's wondering if Silas and I are just friends.

"I'm Silas," he says, taking a seat beside me at the bar.

"Charlie." Annoyed, he turns to me and says, "Can I talk to you in private for a minute?"

I smile. This is going to be easier than I thought. "Sure."

"Um, feel free to make yourself a drink," he tells Silas as he steps out from behind the bar.

But his tone says, Don't fucking touch anything, asshole.

I follow Charlie into a downstairs bedroom and close the door behind me.

"Okay, I don't want to make this awkward, but we're a really close-knit group of friends, and I had to beg them to let me invite someone else, so I don't think they're going to be super happy that you brought a guest without even telling me."

"I get it, but look at it from my perspective—you're a stranger who invited me to a secluded house in the woods. I've watched enough true crime television to know that doesn't always end well. I kind of freaked out, and I asked someone to come with me at the last minute. That's not that big of a deal, is it?"

"I guess not," Charlie says. "He's not your boyfriend or anything, right?"

"No."

I turn, locking the bedroom door.

"Oh…" Charlie says. He sits on the edge of the bed.

I walk toward him until I'm standing between his legs. "I lied," I tell him. "Silas is my boyfriend."

"Oh…well...do you guys have some kind of arrangement? Because I thought this was—"

"Yeah, we do," I say, grabbing him by the throat. At first, he's excited, but then I apply more pressure, my eyes hardening, and he realizes he's supposed to be scared. It's thrilling…in more ways than one. My dick has been rock solid since I sucked Silas dry in the car; now, it's throbbing so hard, I'll be surprised if I don't come in my pants.

I could make him suck it first. I could slit his throat while I come down it.

But he doesn't deserve the privilege. And if I can wait until we're done, god…think of how good it'll feel.

"The arrangement is that we're here to kill all of you."

It's when he tries to speak and can't get a sound out that fear finally takes over. He thrashes against my hold, and I pin him to the bed with a hand over his throat and a knee in his stomach.

"Ew, you should just kill yourself, you gross bitch. No one cares about you," I quote to him, and his eyes widen. "That's what you told my sister. That's one of the many things you sent to my twin sister the week she died."

With my free hand, I pull my knife from my pocket, flipping it open with my wrist. "I cared about her. And she wasn't fucking lying."

I drive the knife into the side of his neck, and when I pull it out, blood spurts from the wound. It's darker and thicker than I expected—it must have something to do with the volume that comes with hitting a major artery, which is new for me. With my knee still pinning him to the bed, I watch as he chokes and flails beneath me.

It's so satisfying—even more so than I expected. As his blood saturates the white down comforter, my own continues rushing to my dick; it has its own pulse now. It's all I can do to keep from pulling it out and stroking it.

Yeah. This is so fucking good, but so very bad.

"Sorry, Charlie," I say, and then laugh. "Actually, I'm not sorry."

I drive my hunting knife into his chest eight or nine more times—until his shirt is nothing but blood-soaked ribbons and I'm sure he's stopped breathing. Then I take a moment to catch my own breath, admiring my work.

He looks like a painting—white, tattered, bloodstained shirt against the matching blood-soaked comforter; cold, dead, dark eyes.

It's art. I pull out my phone and take a picture.

Now I'm a photographer, too.

I lock the door from the inside before leaving the room and closing it behind me. An involuntary smile spreads across my face when I meet Silas's eyes.

"That was…quick and quiet," Silas says.

"It was too good," I tell him. "One down, seven to go. I should go wash my hands."

five

The "Lying Bitch" Special

Noah

I'm a nervous fucking wreck.

I fielded questions about how I knew Tate the best I could, simply telling them we were acquaintances, like I'd done with Mia, but they wanted to know more. What was he like? Should we be worried about him with Charlie?

Yeah, you should be very worried about him. Not just with Charlie, but in general. I don't know why he's here—I don't know if it's for me or for them—but I know it isn't because he's interested in Charlie.

And to make matters worse, I realize what I should have done after he went inside the house was sneak back out to my car and leave. Instead, I chugged two more wine coolers, and now I'm having a panic attack.

"So, did you invite someone else, Brielle, or did Charlie?" Josh asks as he comes back out from the house.

"What?" Brielle asks. "You mean someone other than the guy with the blue hair?"

"There's another guy inside, yeah. He just walked out to the garage for some reason. Maybe the new guy brought someone else with him."

"What guy?" I ask. "What does he look like?"

He shrugs. "Black dude with a high school football shirt. Short hair, huge as fuck—at least six foot three."

I can't breathe. But I don't know why I even asked; Tate only has one friend.

But if they're both here? I need to get the fuck out of here before they burn the place to the ground. I think I'm going to be sick.

"Do you know him, too?" Brielle asks.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring her question. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

I walk cautiously toward the house, stopping once I get to the sliding glass doors. I scan the first floor, looking for any sign of Tate, Silas, or Charlie, and when I don't see them, I step inside, closing the door behind me.

I tiptoe through the open space like a child, searching for a bathroom. The first door I try is locked, but when I turn, I spot an open door leading to a bathroom on my right and dart inside.

I rush through the door and immediately end up emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. And once my stomach finally stops retching, I sob.

Because it's not fair. Mia, my mom, seeing Tate here…none of it is fucking fair.

I pull myself onto my feet and drag my too-heavy body to the sink, where I wash the tears, snot, and vomit from my face. I find mouthwash in the cabinet and then drink water from the faucet, and when I look up, Tate stands behind me with his arms crossed in front of him.

"You didn't go to the funeral," he says, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "You didn't go to either funeral."

His words slice through me, somehow past the void and to the version of me who was once whole, wounding her.

I turn, facing him. "I didn't know. I promise I didn't know what they were doing. I heard them talking about some girl a few times, but I didn't realize it was Mia. Why would I ever think it would be Mia?" I choke back a sob. "And then, when I did find out, it was…"

It was after they posted the videos. And it was too late.

"Even if I believed you, you're here, Noah. And you know what they did."

"Tate…" How do I explain this to him? "I have nowhere else to go."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"And I wanted to go to the funeral, but she wouldn't have wanted me there. I didn't want to do that to her."

"How could you even say that? She loved you."

"She had a funny way of showing it."

"Yeah, that runs in the family," he says. His eyes soften, one corner of his mouth turning up just a little.

"Don't," I tell him through clenched teeth. "Don't do that. Don't act like you're—"

"You're right," he says, cutting me off. "I won't act like I'm here for any other reason than to kill every single one of you."

I scoff, shaking my head. But as much as I want to write it off, it doesn't look like Tate is lying right now. "Whatever, I'm leaving. Have fun."

But when I turn to leave, I run directly into someone else's hard chest.

Silas.

Silas stands in the doorway, blocking my exit.

My lower lip trembles. "Move."

"You're fucking kidding me, right?"

He raises an eyebrow, dissecting me with his gaze. Suddenly, I feel small and helpless between them, exposed, like I may as well be naked.

I watch it register on his face when he notices the fingerprint marks on my arm and the giant bruise on my side from where I was shoved into the countertop earlier. Still, he says nothing.

"Tate, can you get your bodyguard to let me out of here?" I do my best to sound unaffected, but even I don't believe it, so I'm not surprised when they both laugh.

"Hey, Noah? Maybe you should ask Silas nicely yourself if he'd be willing to move," Tate says.

"Silas, would—"

Before I can finish the sentence, Tate kicks me in the back of the knee, and I drop onto the hardwood floor, kneeling in front of Silas.

"I think that's much better, don't you?" Tate asks. "Try again."

"Your nipples are hard," Silas says.

"Silas," I start weakly, ignoring his comment while my cheeks flush with embarrassment, "would you please…let me out of the bathroom?"

He shrugs and steps aside. "Yeah, sure, Noah. You don't have to be so fucking dramatic about it."

They laugh again as I pull myself to my feet and push past him. I storm through the house and then out the side door, determined to get to my car and get the fuck out of here, drunk or not.

But when I get to the car, I find all the tires shredded, and the words LYING BITCH carved into the driver's side in all caps.

I take a few steps back, gritting my teeth. I decide not to confront him and, instead, go to find Leo and ask him to take me home.

But once I take those two steps back, I realize my car isn't the only one sitting on its rims. All five of the vehicles in the driveway were given the same treatment.

Well, without the LYING BITCH special. That was just for me.

When I turn back toward the house, Silas stands near the door with his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching me.

"I can't let you leave, Noah," he says. "I'm sorry. He needs this."

He turns, walking back inside the house.

"Silas!" I shout at his back, chasing after him.

Before he reaches the back door, it slides open, and Kendall and Zach step inside.

"Why are you doing this?!" I ask.

He pauses, but not to answer my question. I watch him watch them make their way up the staircase and then disappear down the hallway. He looks out toward the pool, then back toward the stairs.

"Silas!"

"Shut up," he says. "I'm thinking."

"A-about what?"

He doesn't answer, but whatever he was considering, he must make a decision because he heads outside. Music blares as we pass Brielle and Leo, who sit under the pergola while Josh and Alexis fuck around in the shallow end.

"Silas, please talk to me! Stop ignoring me!"

He scoffs. "You mean like you ignored me for an entire fucking year?"

"Excuse me!" Brielle shouts over the speakers. "Who are you?"

Silas doesn't answer either of us. He walks right up to the amps, tilting one of them upward as if inspecting it.

"Hey, don't touch those!" Brielle says, standing with her hands on her hips. "Did Charlie invite you?"

Ignoring her, Silas looks down at my sandals and then says, "You should go stand in the grass…just in case."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"All right; that's it. Where the fuck is Charlie?" Brielle asks. She grabs her phone from the side table. "What the fuck? The wifi is out. Can you call him, Leo? I don't have any signal out here."

"I don't, either," Leo says. "I'll go inside and look for him."

Picking up the amp, Silas says again, "Go stand in the grass, Noah."

"Tell me what's going on!"

"Hey! Put that down!" Brielle yells. "Those are expensive! They're very fragile!"

Silas rolls his eyes before shifting the weight of the amp onto one arm, then uses the free arm to shove me into the bushes. Before I can pull myself to my feet, the amp soars through the air and lands in the water next to Alexis and Josh.

The music stops. Sparks fly as it short circuits, and Brielle screams. The lights, the house, everything goes dark. With just a sliver of daylight remaining, I can make out Silas standing just a few feet away with his back to me. He pulls a knife from his pocket and flips it open, watching the bodies of my classmates float face down at the water's surface.

They're…

Oh, my god. They're dead.

And Silas is just watching, waiting for…what? Maybe to see if either of them moves; maybe he just wants to make sure.

My heart pounds; my vision blurs as blood pumps in my ears loudly enough that I barely register Brielle screaming anymore. And I can't move. I try, but my body refuses to cooperate.

And if I could move, where would I go? What would I do?

Tate wasn't lying. They really are here to kill every single one of us. And there's nowhere to hide.

"Si—" I start, but all that comes out is a raspy, failed attempt at his name. I swallow hard and try again. "Silas…"

It's not much better, but Silas moves, and things get a bit clearer again.

"Help!" Brielle yells, scrambling to her feet. "Help me!"

"Brielle, run!" I scream.

But she's drunk and high; the patio is wet, and her movements are sloppy. She stumbles as she turns, giving Silas plenty of time to catch up to her. Before she reaches the door, he closes his fist around her hair, pulling her backward.

Then he plunges the knife into her chest, over and over again, before pushing her back toward the pool.

She doesn't fall in—her legs give out first, and she ends up lying on her back just at the pool's edge, her body twitching. A gargling sound comes from somewhere deep in her throat as she chokes on her own blood.

"Brielle!" I cry, rushing toward her. I kneel beside her, panicking, holding my hands over the knife wounds in a pathetic attempt to stop the bleeding, but there are too many of them, and it's too much. "Help!" I scream, just as futilely as Brielle had done before.

There are no houses for miles. And anyone inside the house is just as trapped as I am.

"You can't save her, Noah," Silas says. His hands close around my shoulders, and he gently pulls me away from Brielle's body. Then, with one foot, he carelessly kicks her over the edge and into the water.

I watch her sink beneath the surface, blood from her wounds painting the surrounding water a dark red before dispersing into something lighter.

"B-Brielle?"

My lower lip quivers as I stare into the pool, a part of me expecting that she'll come back to the surface, gasping for air, and I'll be able to pull her to safety.

Of course, that doesn't happen.

"You should have done a better job picking your friends, Noah."

"This isn't you!" I say through tears. "This isn't you, Silas. I know you. You're not a bad person; you're not a killer, you…you were good."

Silas laughs. "Are you kidding me, Noah?" he asks before kneeling beside me on the ground.

I lower my gaze, flinching when Silas uses his thumb to lift my chin. I sniffle as our eyes meet. "Silas, please…"

"You know who I am," he says, running the blunt side of the blade—still wet with my friend's blood—down my cheek. "I've always been a killer, and I think you know that, too. I think—if you're honest with yourself—you've seen it. Maybe you even liked it."

I shake my head. "That's not true."

"It is. I was good to you, though, wasn't I? I was always good to you."

I nod, slightly.

He takes my hand in his and turns it over, tracing the fingerprint bruises on my arm. "He's hurting you, isn't he?"

"Mostly, he just hurts my mom."

"I told you," he says. "You should have come to me. I would have taken care of it for you."

"How could I? After all this time, you—"

"I wouldn't have made it hard for you. And then, maybe none of us would be here. This is your fault."

I sob. "Are you going to kill me now?"

"No, I can't kill you, Noah," he says. "You're too pretty. Tate's going to kill you, baby. And I have to let him."

When I start to cry, he adds, "I'm not happy about it. You should know that. But you didn't have to be here, either."

"I won't tell anyone," I whisper.

"I believe you, but that's not the point."

I whimper, grabbing a fist full of his t-shirt, stained in blood, and curl my body into his. I know it's foolish—seeking comfort after watching three of my friends die from the person who killed them and said he'd let me die, too—but he's Silas.

And he was good to me. We were a part of each other—that's what he said.

"Noah…" He sighs, wrapping his arms around me. "Why do you have to be so sweet?"

He kisses the top of my head, taking the time to smell my hair before trailing kisses down my blood-stained cheek and then my neck, using his tongue and grazing my throat with his teeth.

"Silas…" I say breathlessly.

"I love it when you say my name like that. You know what? I wish I'd put a baby in you so that you couldn't leave me." He lifts his head, his lips lightly brushing mine just before we hear a loud crash from inside. Silas tenses, then pulls away, heading for the house without another word.

What do I do now? Run?

My eyes dart toward the front gate.

"The gate won't work with the power out. You can't leave, Noah," Silas says, as if he can hear my thoughts.

I pull myself to my feet, wiping my face with the back of my hands before chasing him into the darkened house. "Wait! Please!"

The first thing I hear when I step inside is Kendall screaming. Huddled on the staircase, she peers through the wooden posts, watching as Tate struggles against both Zach and Leo.

Tate has a knife in his hand, and Zach is leaning over, screaming while holding his hand to a knife wound somewhere near his hip. But the two of them are both football players as big as Silas. Leo gets an arm around Tate's neck, holding on tightly while Tate stabs him in the thigh.

"Ah, fuck! Get the knife!" Leo yells as blood saturates his white swim trunks and runs down his leg.

Before Zach can go for the knife, Silas takes him to the ground, punching him in the face a few times before putting him in a headlock with his legs wrapped around the front of his body, immobilizing him.

"Help!" Kendell screams again through tears. "Zach, no!"

And when I look back at Tate, Leo has him on the ground with the knife in his hand. He brings it overhead as if he's about to drive it into Tate's chest.

"No!" I scream. And without thinking, I grab a bottle of gin from the bar and break it over Leo's head. He falls forward onto the ground, releasing the knife. Tate grabs it and crawls out from under him, laughing, his teeth red with blood.

"Oh, god," he laughs. "That was fucking great."

"Leo?" I call out, crying as I shake him. "Leo, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Glass from the bottle crunches beneath Tate's combat boots as he moves toward us. "It won't save you, but I'm glad you did that for me, baby. It made me really fucking happy. You still want to be a good girl for me, don't you?"

Leo groans, bringing his hand to his head. "Fuck…"

I shake my head. "He didn't do anything," I tell Tate. "He really didn't, I promise. He didn't do anything wrong—he even told them to stop."

Tate sighs, and then kneels in front of me, pressing his blade against my lips. "But did he fuck you?"

"What? N-no."

He bites his lip ring and shakes his head. "Noah, I've known you for your entire life. That means that I can tell when you're lying, and if he fucked you, then he did do something wrong, didn't he?"

"Tate…"

But before I can finish whatever sad ass excuse for a rebuttal I had, Leo pulls himself to his feet and tries to run. He doesn't make it far before he collapses on the floor, likely due to both the knife wound to his leg and the head injury, courtesy of me.

This is your fault, Noah.

Tate flashes me his bloody teeth once more before he casually strolls over to Leo, who is on all fours attempting to pull himself up again, and stabs him in the back until he stops moving.

"God, that feels good," he says. When he turns back toward me, his face, neck, and the front of his shirt are all splattered in blood. He nods at Silas. "Is that one dead?"

"No," Silas answers. "Just sleeping. I figured you'd want to kill him yourself."

"What about the girl? Where did she go?"

"Upstairs."

"Fucking idiot. Tie him up, and I'll go get her…after I kill Noah."

I scramble to my feet and begin backtracking toward the staircase. I realize it makes me an idiot like Kendall, but I don't have a clear path to an exit, and even if I did, the fence is eight feet high.

"Silas!" I scream through tears. "Silas, please! Please, don't let him hurt me!"

But he doesn't even look up and instead drags Zach's limp, unconscious body down the hallway by the back of his shirt.

"He's not going to help you, Noah," Tate says.

Now, I turn and run up the staircase, afraid to look back when I hear Tate bounding after me, taking the steps two at a time. I turn into a bedroom and barely get the door closed and locked before he's on the other side.

"Noah…" he taunts in a singsong tone before ramming his body into the door. The wood buckles a bit, and I know it won't last long.

I look around for anything I can use as a weapon, but this spare room is almost entirely empty, save for some wall decor.

But there's a phone. A landline on the fucking desk. I almost cry with relief, but when I pick it up, there's no dial tone.

Shit.

"Let's play a game," he says before hitting the door again. "It's called 'Obey,' and I need you to open the door now, Noah. I promise it won't be that bad if you do it nicely."

"Tate?"

"What is it, baby?"

"You could just leave me in here."

"I can't do that."

"But I loved Mia. It hurt me, too. Even when she didn't love me, I still loved her. You know I loved her."

"That's not why, Noah."

"Then why, Tate?" I sob.

"Because you've haunted me, and I can't be haunted anymore. I need to be clean."

There's something about that word—clean—that doesn't sound so bad. "Yeah," I tell him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I need that, too. Maybe I should just give up. There are things worse than death, right? I mean, death is just…nothing."

"Didn't really sign up for a philosophical debate. This is more of just a murder situation."

"You really hurt me. I want you to know that before I open the door. You killed me a long time ago; the fact that I'm still walking, talking, and breathing…it's just…a technicality."

Something about what I said must have angered him, because he rams the door again—harder this time—and I jump back.

"Open the goddamn door, Noah!"

I move toward the back of the room, the breeze from the open window sending shivers up my spine.

Wait. The window.

Only it's not just a window—I push the curtains aside, revealing a door leading out to a balcony running along the backside of the house. I could jump, and maybe…maybe I could clear the fence.

I'd probably break my legs, though.

Tate rams the door again, and I watch the wood splinter down the middle.

"Noah!"

I grip the railing hard in my sweaty palms. This is it—this is my last chance to decide.

Jump or face Tate.

I swallow hard and climb over the railing. And then, I make a mistake. I look straight down.

It looks like Kendall had the same idea. To my right, I find her corpse…skewered through the stomach by the fence's pointed finials.

Fuck.

Fuck, that could be me.

But the next sound of splintering wood leaves a hole big enough for Tate to reach his arm through and unlock the door. Fear beats my trepidation, and I jump.

six

You Can Jump, But You Can't Hide

Tate

I'm alive.

That's what goes through my head when I break through the wooden door and turn the lock. I've never felt this alive in my fucking life, never felt this powerful.

"You should have played the game, Noah," I say as I step into the room. "Now, I'm going to have to spank you, too."

But just as we make eye contact, she leaps from the balcony.

"Don't!"

I race across the room just in time to see her hit the ground on the other side of the fence. She lands on her feet before bending her knees and rolling. I watch, holding my breath, and after about a minute, she finally moves, groaning as she pulls herself into a seated position.

So, she's alive. But there's no way she's uninjured.

"I don't know where you think you're going!" I shout as she uses a nearby tree to bring herself to stand. She limps over to where she lost her shoes and slips them onto her feet. "There's nowhere to run, baby."

She looks back at me once before limping away from the house.

"Fuck!"

"What happened?" Silas asks, stepping out onto the balcony beside me. "Did she—"

"She jumped," I tell him. "She fucking jumped, but it's fine."

"Is it?"

There's hope in his dark eyes. He thinks I'm going to let her get away, but he's wrong. "Yeah, it is, because I know where she's going. See those lights in the distance?"

"Summerfest?" he asks. "You want to chase her down at a carnival? What if she goes to the fucking cops?"

"She has a mile and a half to go on at least a twisted ankle, probably other injuries, too. We're ahead of schedule as it is. We can still take care of Zach and maybe even beat her there."

"What about the other girl?" Silas asks.

I point to the fence below. "She's a fucking shish kebob. Got off easy."

"Jesus. That's getting off easy?"

"I would have made it last a while." I sigh, shaking my head. "Fucking cunt. I wanted Mia's eyes to be the last thing she saw before she died. She sucked the fun out of it."

Silas rests his hand on the back of my neck. "Tate, I'm—"

"Whatever. I'm not going to let her ruin my fucking day. Do you think you can get the power on and the wifi back up?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Good," I say. "Let's do that. We'll have to be quick about it. I want to record it on his phone. We'll schedule it to post later—once we're long gone. Everyone can watch him die, too. I'm going to cut off his dick and shove it down his fucking throat."

"You can hit stop now," I tell Silas. "Speed it up and add some music to it—something uncomfortably upbeat, like you'd hear on an old, silent film."

He laughs a little. "That's disturbingly perfect."

I look at the corpse tied to the chair. "Well, this is my masterpiece."

Carved into his chest and abdomen—and I mean, really, really carved in there—are the words FOR MIA. And even though he passed out from the pain and blood loss, which made it a little less fun, I still sliced his dick off and shoved it down his throat, and he still choked on it until his heart stopped.

"I scheduled the post for late morning," Silas says. "That should be plenty of time for us to get to where we're going."

"See you later, fucker," I say before kicking over his chair. "Let's go get Noah."

"We could get caught."

I know there's logic behind what he's saying, but I don't see it. I feel like a god right now; I'm unstoppable. I can have whatever I want, and right now, I want Noah.

I want to watch the light fade from her eyes for the last time. I want to feel her body go slack and lifeless in my arms and finally stop carrying the weight of her. I'll brush her hair away from her face and tell her it's too bad it had to end this way—that we could have burned the world down together, but she was too fucking scared.

And I want her to tell me she understands why I have to do it; I want her to accept it. After all, there are worse things than death, like she said. Then we'll both be clean.

"But we won't get caught," I tell him. "Can't you feel it? We're gods now, Silas. They can't stop us." I run a bloody hand over his chest and then down to the waistband of his jeans, using it to pull him into me. "We can do whatever the fuck we want."

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay."

"So, what do you want, Silas? Do you want Noah?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's okay. I saw the way you were looking at her—do you miss her tight little body? Do you miss her mouth?"

I run my hand over the ridge of his cock, growing harder by the second.

"Tate…"

"It's not a trick question," I say. "There's no wrong answer. We could have some fun with her first. It won't be wrong if she likes it, and you know she likes it. Do you want Noah, Silas?"

"Yes…" he finally says in a gravelly tone. "I miss her a lot."

"Then let's go get her," I say, kissing him hard before releasing him.

Silas doesn't do well with teasing. When I step back, his eyes darken with lust.

"If we go now, we should still make it there before she does."

We leave the bedroom, and as we pass the living room's floor-to-ceiling picture windows, light from outside catches my attention. With the power now on, the pool is illuminated with LED lights, changing colors while three bodies float at its surface. Dark blood stains the water around one of the bodies—the girl with the pixie cut, Brielle. I watch it turn from red to deep purple to something closer to black with the alternating colors. It's the most serene shit I've ever seen. If I had more time, I'd stay and watch for a while, admiring Silas's work. Since I don't, I take only an additional second to commit it to memory before closing the door behind me, leaving them to their respective tomb.

Once we get to the car, we open the trunk and change into clean clothes before getting in and starting the engine. Silas is quiet, which is typical. But tonight isn't typical.

"She looked really pretty," he says as we drive.

He's not wrong; she did look pretty. I hate her teeth, but not because I don't think they look good. I just don't like that she felt like she had to change them. It's not what I wanted for her. And the bruises—I didn't want that for her, either.

"She has a tattoo on her shoulder—did you see it?"

"Yeah," Silas says. "A butterfly."

It's fitting. They're beautiful, but fleeting and deceptive in a way. If you crush their wings, they're no different from any other pest you wouldn't bother looking at twice.

I thought Noah was different. I thought we were all the same. But she's just like them, isn't she? Just like all the other pests.

I reach for the dashboard, cranking up the volume, and the latest Gods of Tomorrow song blares from the speakers. Then I lean back in my seat, draping my arm out the open window, my fingertips tapping the side of the vehicle to the beat of the song.

"Not very stealthy," Silas shouts over the music.

"Doesn't matter, Silas. I told you—we're gods now, too."

He hits the gas and by the time the song ends, we're pulling into the parking lot.

I don't even flinch when we walk right past the police officers at the gate. I take down my hood and smile at the woman sitting in the ticket booth when I pay cash for our admittance.

Noah wouldn't have had any money on her—I don't think. But I don't think she would have tried to go through the front gate, and I have a feeling the scene would look a lot different if she'd shown up here screaming about mass murder and begging for help.

She's either hiding, or we beat her, and she's not here yet.

I scan the area, taking inventory of my surroundings. I haven't been here before—it's not really a place for people from our side of the highway. It's a decent-sized lake; a few boats float idly at its surface with a pier just to my right. The area where they've set up the carnival is paved over, and there's a small permanent stage at the far end where they have concerts in the summer. Now, it looks like it's being used as some kind of local talent show or school showcase. Younger girls wearing sequins twirl batons while their parents watch.

Not long from now, they'll be calling their friends and neighbors, saying, I can't believe we were that close to the murders. And maybe what could have happened to their children will haunt them for quite some time.

A boy can dream.

To my left, one of those rent-a-fences separates the carnival from the wooded area. I worry it'll be difficult to find Noah in a place like this, even for a god.

"I don't think she's here. We should watch the fence," Silas says. "If there were a dirty girl limping around here in a bikini top, she'd stick out."

"Right…okay."

Just as I could see the carnival from the house's balcony, I can just barely see the lights from the house through the trees from here. "I'll watch from there," I say, gesturing to the building housing the restrooms just behind me. "You should move down toward the midway."

He pulls his hood over his head before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweats and walking off, and I backtrack toward the small, shed-like building, leaning against its back wall.

I grab a cigarette from my pocket and light it, and then I watch.

And watch.

I smoke it down to the filter, dropping it and grinding it into the blacktop with my heel.

What if I missed her? What if I miscalculated, and she ran out to the highway and someone picked her up?

Then Noah will be gone, and I'll still be haunted. She'll be fine, just like she has been for the past year. That's why I could never let her go. I can't wrap my head around how she could do it—how she could exist so easily as someone new, someone without me—while I had this horrible, dirty, twisted feeling in my gut after she left that I couldn't get rid of.

Maybe it's time to start combing the forest.

But just as I get impatient, she limps out from the tree line toward the safety barrier, shoving one of them aside before stumbling through the space she created and falling…right into Silas's arms.

seven

You Have Two Hands for a Reason

Noah

Almost there. I'm almost there.

My ankle is on fire. I gave up and crawled a couple of times, but the forest floor on my raw, skinned knees was worse…and slower. It didn't last long.

But I can hear it now—the sounds of the midway, music and people laughing. I can smell the popcorn and fried food; I'm going to make it.

And then what? the voice in my head presses.

And then, I'll have to go to the police and tell them what happened. I hate myself a little for thinking it, but I don't want to. I don't want them to get in trouble—how fucking stupid is that? Whatever they did to me must have fucked up my head even worse than I thought.

I almost cry with relief once I reach the tree line. Adrenaline surges through me, and I pick up my pace, barely feeling the pain in my swollen ankle as I rush toward the metal barrier. Pushing it aside, I stumble through on legs like jello, losing my balance and falling again.

But before I can hit the ground, strong arms wrap around my waist, keeping me on my feet. Inhaling, I know who it is before I even look.

No.

I struggle against his hold with what little energy I have left.

"Easy," Silas says. "You need to calm down, Noah. I've got you." He tightens his hold on me. "I'm not going to let you go."

"Silas, no."

He shushes me, running his hands up and down my back, and I give up, relaxing in his hold.

"You found our lost girl."

Tate's voice causes my body to tense. I fist Silas's hoodie in my hands, still pressed against his chest, before I dare to look up.

"Hey, little lost girl," Tate says. He pulls his hood back, tousles his blue hair, and smiles.

It's the smile that sets my teeth on edge.

It's the way it matches his eyes. No wonder I'd been so easily confused before—the man in front of me looks at me like I'm the only thing he's ever wanted to look at, even though we both know he's here to kill me.

"Leave me alone," I tell him. "There are police here. I'll scream."

"If you scream, I'll stab you," he says. "How many times do you think I could stab you before the police get to you? Besides, you don't want anything bad to happen to us, do you? You saved me, remember?"

I try to push away from Silas, but I barely move. And the truth is my body is too sore and far too tired, and it feels good right here. Tate approaches us with no sense of urgency, taking his time while never breaking eye contact. When he finally closes the space between us, he reaches for me, smoothing matted blonde hair away from my face.

"I bet you're hungry," Tate says. "Are you hungry, baby?"

"What?" I ask, confused.

"I'm fucking starving," he says. "I want one of those big ass pretzels. You want a pretzel, Noah?"

I shake my head. "No. I want to go home."

"Why?" he asks. "So your stepdad can beat the shit out of you? You want a funnel cake? You like funnel cake."

"I want a funnel cake," Silas says. "And one of those lemonades."

"What…what's happening right now?"

"We want to play a game, Noah," Tate says. "It's called 'Obey,' and I think we'll all feel a lot better about everything once it's over. Come on."

He turns, walking off toward the midway, and I watch, my expression twisted with confusion.

Silas lifts me off the ground, holding me on his hip.

"What are you doing?"

"Looks like that ankle could use a break," he says, looking up at me.

I nod. "Yeah."

Tate turns the corner, and Silas follows. I hold on to him, letting my head rest on his shoulder, and he carries me over to a picnic table, setting me down on top before sitting beside me.

I watch Tate from across the aisle, waiting at a food truck window for his order.

"I missed you," Silas says. "Have you been happy?"

"No," I say softly. "Not even a little."

He frowns, then presses a finger to my lips. "Stay," he says.

The game is called Obey, so I nod, and he walks toward the pickup window, helping Tate bring the food and drinks back to the table.

"You didn't say you wanted one, but I know you did, so here," Tate says, handing me one of the three lemonades before sitting at my other side.

I don't realize how thirsty I am until I bring the straw to my lips. I drink half of it before coming up for air.

"You're welcome," he says, removing the lid from his lemonade and pouring whiskey from a flask into the cup.

"Hey, Noah," Silas says. "Give me your foot."

He slides his hand down the outside of my thigh, stopping at my calve and laying it across his lap. I hiss when he presses his cold cup of lemonade against my swollen ankle.

"Does that feel better?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Good," Silas says. "Now, open your mouth."

I hesitate, and he tears off a piece of the deep-fried cake batter and holds it to my lips. "You know the name of the game, Noah."

I open, and he pushes it inside my mouth. "Now, lick your lips. You've got some powdered sugar right…here."

He swipes the left corner of my lips with his thumb before pushing it into my mouth, and I lick it clean.

"God, I forgot how fucking soft she makes you," Tate bemoans. He tears off a bite of his pretzel before lying flat on his back. "I kind of hate it."

Silas shrugs. "Whatever."

"I like you hard. It makes me hard. I like it when you're soft, though, Noah."

Tate runs a finger up my arm, and I shrug him off, moving closer to Silas.

"Hey, don't do that," he says. "Let me touch you."

"You're going to murder me."

"Yeah, but you'll live a lot longer if you make me happy."

He sits up, wrapping an arm around me before pressing his lips to my shoulder, and then trails kisses across my collarbone. Arms locked at my side, I close my eyes and hold my breath, exhaling when he stops, nuzzling his head against my neck. "Did you miss me, baby?"

I shake my head slightly. "No."

"Liar. You look fucking beautiful. I almost lost my mind when I saw you today; you know that? I wanted to bend you over and fuck you in front of all your friends."

"You killed all my friends."

"Hey, that's not true," Tate says. "Silas killed some of your friends, too, and you're still being nice to him."

He stuffs the last of his pretzel in his mouth and then finishes off his lemonade. "You know what? I think we should go on some rides. You want to go on some rides, Noah?"

"No."

"Fine. Just one ride, then. We don't have a lot of time, anyway; I have another surprise for you."

"I don't want to. I don't want either one."

"Well, too bad," Tate says. "This day isn't about you. This is my day, and I want to go on the ferris wheel."

"Isn't every day about you?"

It comes out of my mouth before I even think about it, like a habit or a reflex. Like when you're in the car, and you're suddenly pulling into your driveway, but you don't remember how you got there.

Suddenly, I'm watching Tate pull his lip ring through his teeth—the same teeth he flashed earlier, covered in blood, as he slaughtered my former classmates—and I don't know how we got here.

Beside me, Silas laughs.

Tate smiles. "Yeah, baby. Every day is about me."

I try not to flinch as he steps toward me and picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder.

"I don't like this," I tell him.

"Really? I like it," he says, leaning down and biting my upper thigh hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Ouch!" I kick against his hold. "Fuck, Tate! That hurt!"

He laughs and keeps walking. Blood rushes to my head, and I close my eyes, thinking maybe I'll just pass out or better yet, all of this is just another one of my nightmares, and I'll wake up in my own bed.

"I'm going to set you down now, okay?"

When he sets me down, we're in the line for the ferris wheel. The carnival must be closing soon because most of the other rides have already shut down for the night.

"You can lean on me, if you want."

"No, thanks, Tate. I tried that once, and you let me down."

Tate scoffs. "You know what? That'd be funny if it weren't a figment of your fucking imagination."

"I would never touch her," I say.

He whips around and grabs me by the throat, eyes consumed by rage as he squeezes…tightening his grip by the second until—

"Hey…" Silas grabs him by the wrist and shoves him off of me. "What are you doing? There are people around."

I gasp for air as Silas pulls me into his side, but it's a little too late. A nearby officer heads our way.

"Is everything okay here?" he asks.

"Yeah, we're good," Tate says.

"Wasn't asking you," the officer says. "Are you okay, miss? Are either of these men bothering you?"

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. He's taking in my disheveled state—the filth, the injuries. The bikini top isn't so out of place at the lake, but it is in the middle of the night.

"If you're under duress, you can tell me. I'll make sure you get somewhere safe."

I consider it for a second. I think maybe he's right, but I also think if I tried to leave with this police officer, I'd end up stabbed and watching him shoot Tate and Silas in front of me.

I also think I'm fucking insane because when I do speak, I sign my own death warrant.

"I'm fine," I tell the officer, burrowing further into Silas's side. "They're not bothering me."

"Are you drunk?" he asks.

"No."

The line moves, and the person operating the ride shouts, "Hey, are you guys getting on or what?"

"Go ahead," the officer says. "And then get the fuck out of here."

I lower my gaze, and we make our way toward the ride. Tate opens the door, and I follow him into the gondola, sitting on the same side between the two of them.

My eyes fill with tears. That was my last chance, and I fucking wasted it.

I sniffle, choking back a sob, and they notice.

"Hey," Tate says. "You did so good." He threads his fingers through my hair, his thumb tracing small circles behind my ear, the way he used to comfort me. "You did the right thing. This is the right thing, and I think you know that. And after this, we're going to show you."

"How?"

"I'm going to show you how good revenge feels." He slips his hand inside my halter, teasing my nipple with his thumb. I jump on contact, and Silas pins my leg to the bench seat. "Then you'll understand me a lot better. But first, you're going to do something for me."

He takes off his sweatshirt and drapes it across our laps, then unbuttons his jeans and pulls out his hard cock, fisting it at its base.

"I've been so fucking hard all day, my dick has its own pulse," he says. "And that scared look on your face is only making it throb harder. You're going to make me come before the ride stops."

"But—"

"You're questioning me. That's not how we play the game, Noah. They've still got about twenty of these to load and unload. You've got plenty of time if you don't waste it sitting there and acting like you don't want it. You're not the one in control here, and I know you like that, too, so just give in. Let everyone down there see what an obedient little slut you are. Maybe I'll even let you come, too."

With the flush of embarrassment comes a flood of wet heat between my legs. I hate it…I hate that they broke me like this, and my body doesn't work right.

I hate that I like hating it, too.

I bring my palm to my mouth and lick it, and then wrap it around his shaft.

"Fuck," he moans. He slouches further into the seat, spreading his legs wider. "Just like that, Noah. Be a good little slut."

I squeeze my legs together, the pulse between my legs begging for attention, working him faster as our gondola moves closer to the top.

Beside me, Silas groans, and I realize he's stroking his own cock while he watches.

"You have two hands for a reason, Noah," he says.

"He's not asking," Tate groans. "You need to let Silas fuck your other fist."

I wrap my free hand around Silas's hard dick, pumping them both together from base to tip. "Mmm," he moans, dropping his chin and biting his lip, watching me milk his cock. "Faster, Noah. You know what I like."

Tate reaches his hand inside my top again, this time sliding my halter aside, exposing me before taking my tit in his hand and rolling the hard point of my nipple between his thumb and middle finger.

"There you go. This is what you were made for," Tate says. "Don't think I don't see you squeezing your thighs together while you pump our dicks."

With the last car filled, our gondola heads toward the ground. I turn my body into Tate, attempting to cover myself, knowing that anyone who takes the time to look can see exactly what we're doing.

And Tate knows it, too. And he likes it.

Precum leaks from the tip of his dick as it jumps in my fist. "I'm going to come," he says. "Put it in your fucking mouth, baby."

Releasing Silas, I lean down and do what he asks, licking the tip before taking it in the back of my throat and bobbing my head on his cock.

"Jesus," Tate says. "You sure missed sucking my dick, didn't you, baby?"

"It fucking looks like she did," Silas says.

"It fucking feels like she did. Fuck!" He grabs me by my hair, holding me in place while he thrusts into my throat, and I gag while he fills it with cum—a lot of cum. I swallow around him before it can run down my chin.

"Shit, Noah," he moans when he hears it, still filling my mouth. "Feels good when you do that, too."

I swallow another mouthful, and when he pulls out, I can still feel it dripping from my lips. Before I can wipe it with the back of my hand, he stops me. "Leave it like that. Show Silas." Gripping my chin, he turns me to face Silas. "Don't you think she should leave it like that, Silas?"

"I think she'd look better with cum all over her tits, too," he rasps.

"You heard him," Tate says. "Make him come on your tits."

I stroke his cock as we head back to the top of the ferris wheel, where it stops. I guess they're unloading the ride now.

"How wet are those little bikini bottoms of yours?" Tate whispers in my ear as he leans over my shoulder, watching me work Silas's dick. "I bet I could wring them out. I bet you think about this every time you come, don't you?"

He sucks my earlobe into his mouth, flicking it against his tongue ring. "That's not a rhetorical question. Do you think about us when you fuck yourself?"

When I don't answer again, he digs his teeth into my neck. "Ow! Yes!"

"Fuck…" Silas groans. "Don't stop what you're doing. I'm about to come all over you."

Tate pulls the triangle of material covering my other tit aside, fully exposing me for Silas.

"She looks so scared," Silas says. "It's hot as fuck. Open your mouth like you're about to scream."

He grabs the back of my neck, pushing me down toward his lap. White, hot ropes of cum paint my chin, neck, and chest before dripping down my fist.

"Fuck…fuck, that's a pretty fucking sight."

"Let me see," Tate says. I lick my lips, wipe my hand on my shorts, and sit back in the seat. "Yeah, that is pretty."

I gasp when he brings his mouth to my chest, licking the area clean, sucking each of the hard points and flicking my nipple with his tongue ring before covering me up. Then he gently places a hand on my cheek and brings his lips to mine.

"Kiss me," he says.

I press my lips together and move back an inch.

"It wasn't a question. Get over here—there's nothing to be afraid of."

I lean in, closing the rest of the space between us, and bring my mouth to his, immediately tasting Silas as I slip my tongue past his lips. Tate breathes me in, moaning into my mouth, and that's when I know it's a bad idea.

He wraps his arm around me, placing his palm on the small of my back, deepening the kiss. I almost—almost—wrap my arms around his neck before the ride jerks into motion again, snapping me back into reality, and I pull away.

"You're probably cold, aren't you?" he asks.

I nod. I hadn't really noticed it before, but it did get colder.

"Here," he says, pulling his hoodie down over my head. "Better, right?"

"Yeah, that's better," I whisper.

Hazel eyes meet my own, and he brushes my hair behind my ears before offering me a crooked smile, causing my breath to catch in my throat.

Tate's not going to kill me, I think. Tate loves me.

I quickly break eye contact, embarrassed by the thought. This is exactly why I can't be around Tate. This is why I can't be around either of them.

Silas throws his arm around my shoulders, using a hand on my cheek to guide my eyes to his before his lips engulf mine.

"Mmm," he says as his tongue slips past my lips. "I can taste our cum on your tongue, baby."

"That's how it should be," Tate says. "But you've been a bad girl, Noah. Instead of getting my dick every day, you're going to get my knife." He slips a hand between my thighs, cupping my swollen pussy through my jean shorts. "But that's okay, baby. Because if you're honest with yourself, I think you know you deserve it, don't you?"

Before I can reply, our gondola stops at the bottom. Silas takes my hand, lacing his fingers with mine as we exit the ride. I keep my head down as we step off the platform, feeling about fifty sets of eyes on me.

Tate wraps his arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I'm sure that doesn't help.

"Where are we going?" I ask as they steer me through the nearly empty midway.

"It's a surprise," Tate says. "Don't say I never did anything for you, Noah."

Maybe this is the part where he kills me.

"You'll like this," he adds as we walk through the gates and into the parking lot. "I know Silas is going to like it."

"Silas, where are we going?"

"We're just going for a drive, Noah," he says, keeping his gaze forward, his tone terse. "You need to stop asking so many fucking questions."

"Silas, tell me!"

"You're not playing the game right," he snaps. "And you lost the fucking privilege of questioning me a long time ago, so shut your fucking mouth."

It stops me in my tracks. Tate is always angry and reactive, but not Silas. It's worse when it's Silas.

My lower lip trembles.

I think I know what he meant now. I remember the time the three of us got into a bar outside of town, and as we were leaving, some guy grabbed my ass in the back alley. Silas beat him so badly that Tate, of all people, intervened and stopped him. When we left, he was on the ground, his face unrecognizable, and Silas's fists were covered in blood. He sat silently in the backseat for most of the drive home, furling and unfurling those bloody fists. Tate warned me not to touch him.

I was terrified I'd find out he was dead when I turned on the news the next morning. But I didn't. They carried on like nothing happened, and so I did, too.

When we were sophomores, Silas was up for a starting position on the football team over one of the seniors, and so he and his friends decided they'd start taking cheap shots at him at practice. It only lasted one practice.

When Silas got sick of it, he pinned the other guy to the ground, grabbed him by the arm, and stomped his humerus in half. Neither of them started that year, as Silas was suspended for the season, but the other guy never played again.

And then there was the time I watched him slit an animal's throat without blinking an eye.

I did know Silas was dangerous. I knew he was a killer. I just didn't care, because I knew he wasn't a danger to me.

"Silas, I'm sorry," I tell him. "I missed you every day."

"Don't do that," Tate says. "I already told you that Silas won't save you. You hurt his fucking feelings, Noah."

"It's the truth, though," I say, refusing to look at Tate. "Silas…"

He releases my hand and jerks open the car door, slamming it behind him after climbing inside.

Tate laughs. "Told you. You hurt his feelings; best not to bring it up again, or he might change his mind about being the one to kill you."

My shoulders slump in defeat.

"Get in the back," he says, opening the car door.

I get into the vehicle, sliding all the way over on the bench seat when Tate climbs in behind me.

"How come he gets an apology, and I don't?" Tate asks.

My eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"Maybe you should say sorry to me, too."

"When did you tell Mia the truth?" I counter.

"I would have," he says. "Eventually. If you would have come back and stopped acting like such a fucking brat about it."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Tate, I've known you for your entire life, too. I can tell when you're lying, too."

Silas starts the car, music blaring through the speakers as the engine comes to life. Grateful for the interruption, I fold my arms in front of my chest and lean against the car window. Once we pull onto the highway, Tate slides over until his body is against mine.

"You didn't even give me a chance to explain."

"If you really wanted to, you would have tried harder. Besides, what's there to explain? I understood just fine."

"It wasn't about you."

"I'm aware of that. It was just a game."

"That's not what I meant—I meant it wasn't personal."

"I know, and that's a problem for me. It was personal to me. You used me. We were friends, Tate, and you groomed me. And you were so fucking good at it that I don't even know when you started doing it, but you did. Now, I'm just…fucked in the head. You broke my brain…at a chemical level. I don't work right anymore. You made me sick."

"You're not sick. And I never made you that way. It was always you."

Silas lowers the volume on the speakers. "You don't really think that, Noah. There's no way you could actually think we were trying to hurt you or that we used you. You know better."

I scoff and look away, blinking back tears.

"What about Silas? Huh?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Whatever you did to me, you must have done to him, too."

"You're giving me way too much power; I don't hate it, but you are. You're not broken, baby. There's nothing wrong with that pretty head of yours," he says, tapping my temple with his index finger.

"Yeah, well…coming from you…that doesn't really hold much weight. You're not exactly the embodiment of mental stability."

In the front seat, Silas laughs. I look out the window and realize we're passing Brielle's family's cabin. There are no police cars, no flashing blue and red lights, no crime scene tape. No one has discovered what happened in the woods yet. I wonder when they will.

"Huh, that's really funny, Noah," Tate says. "You actually reminded me—I owe you something from earlier."

"What?"

"You know what." He leans back into the seat and pats his knee.

I shake my head. "No."

"That's three now," he says. "You're only going to make it worse. I've got a knife in my pocket, and I'm happy to see you. Unbutton your shorts."

When I don't move, Tate purses his lips and shakes his head, then pulls the knife from his pocket.

He flips it open, the blade still stained in my friends' blood, and holds it to my throat. I back away until my head hits the car window, and he digs it into my skin. I feel a burn like a paper cut, and realize he's pierced the skin just as hot blood runs down my throat.

"I think you've forgotten what we're doing here, Noah. I'm trying to help you, but if you're going to be difficult, we can always end this now."

"If you're going to kill her, let me know," Silas says. "I'd like to get out of the car."

"Hey, Silas? How do you feel about necrophilia?" Tate asks.

"Uh…I think that's something you can't be sure about until the right opportunity presents itself."

My eyes widen, and Tate shrugs. "Good point."

I shake my head, unbuttoning my shorts. "I'll be good," I tell him.

"Good." Tate smiles, folds the blade back, and pats his knee again. Hooking my thumbs into my shorts and bikini bottoms, I pull them down over my hips and lie across his lap.

I feel his warm fingertips against my skin, lightly running up and down my bare ass to the apex of my thighs, sending goose bumps up and down my spine.

"Ah, Noah…" he pauses, exhaling slowly. "You look so pretty bent over my lap and ready like this. It really is too bad, baby. Such a fucking waste."

His fingers still. My body tenses in anticipation of what's to come, and I mentally condemn myself for the arousal that comes with it. My nipples harden, my clit pulses while I wait.

And then he lifts his hand, and it comes back down on my ass.

Smack. One.

Smack. Two.

Smack. Three.

"Fuck!" I shout, releasing the breath I've been holding. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

Smack. Four.

"In case you want to talk back again later. Now, you've got one free pass." When I start to sit up, he pins me down with his forearm. "Don't move yet," he says. "I want to know how wet you are. If I slip my fingers inside your pussy, will they come out soaked?"

My cheeks flush as my heart pounds again with anticipation.

"Not rhetorical, Noah."

"Yes…" I admit.

"That's what I thought."

I tense as his fingers run down the crack of my ass until they reach my wet slit, and he pushes them inside my pussy. A desperate whimper leaves my lips as he slips them in and out of me, and I squirm on his lap.

"I can hear how wet her pussy is," Silas says.

"Yeah, this is what happens when you're a slut who likes to be covered in cum and punished afterward."

He curls his fingers, working me faster. I bite my lip to keep from crying out and attempt to squeeze my legs closed.

"Don't do that," he says, using his other hand to spread my legs wider. "What's the problem? No one at your prep school knew how to fuck you right, and now you can't even take my fingers?" When I don't answer, he grabs me by my hair and pulls hard. "That wasn't rhetorical, either. Did they or did they not know how to fuck you?"

"No…" I whimper.

"That's what we thought. It's okay; I can help you with that. Lift your hips, Noah."

Meeting Silas's eyes in the rearview mirror, I do what he says, lifting my hips until I'm on my knees.

"Like this?"

"Just like that, baby."

Tate moves out from under me, positioning himself behind me, and my heart pounds as I hear the distinct sound of him fumbling with his jeans. My eyes remain locked on Silas's in the rearview mirror, watching as they move from me to Tate just before I feel the head of his cock against my backside. I gasp as he runs it through my wetness and back and forth over my clit before finally thrusting inside of me.

"Ohhhhh, fuck!" I moan, gripping the edge of the bench seat hard in both of my hands, my body trembling as Tate buries himself to the hilt and holds it there.

"Jesus, Noah," he groans. "Your pussy is wetter than your fucking mouth."

I wriggle against him, desperate for him to move.

"That's it," he says. "Arch that back, baby." He finally moves, pulling out nice and slow before slamming into me again. "Give me that good angle."

I moan—a loud, desperate sound—and he picks up his pace, rocking his hips into me. Tension quickly builds at my core, each thrust taking me closer to the edge.

"Oh, god…" I whimper.

"I am god today," he says, slamming into me harder now. Each thrust of his rock-hard cock into my pussy sends my head into the car door. "You remember that, Noah. I'm your god, and you should ask for my fucking forgiveness."

"Fuck…"

"Say you're sorry, Noah. Tell me you're sorry for keeping your pussy from me."

"I'm sorry!" I cry out. It's another one of those autopilot, reflex-like reactions, and if I weren't on the brink of orgasm, I'd never say it, and he knows that. But when his dick is inside me, my body knows to do what he says.

I allow my eyes to flutter closed, surrendering to the pleasure he's giving me—to how good each deep thrust of his cock feels buried inside me. It's wrong, and I know that; I know he's going to kill me. It doesn't stop my legs from shaking. It doesn't stop me from whimpering his name while he slams his long, hard dick into me.

I don't even realize the car is parked until I feel cool air against my skin instead of the top of my head slamming against the car door. When I look up, Silas brushes his thumb across my lips, parting them before pushing his thick cock into my mouth. He places both of his palms on my cheeks and then threads his fingers into my hair, holding my head in place.

"I couldn't resist," Silas says. "You just looked so fucking sweet like this, Noah. You really are a good girl."

I brace myself as he thrusts in and out of my mouth, eyes watering when he hits the back of my throat, moaning around the mouthful as Tate pushes me over the edge and the orgasm rips through me. Waves of pleasure consume me as my pussy pulses around his cock and my entire core spasms.

"Fuck," Tate groans. "You're coming, aren't you? I can feel it."

Unable to speak, I nod, but I don't know if he can see it. Overstimulated and low on oxygen, it's all I can do to keep from collapsing onto my stomach.

"I can feel it, too," Silas says. "You've got her whimpering and choking around my dick, and it feels so fucking good."

Tate's hand slides over my hip and inside the hoodie until he reaches my chest, pushing my bikini top aside so he can grip my tit in his hand while he fucks me through the orgasm. "You should have come home," he says, digging his nails into my skin. "I can't give you my forgiveness, Noah. But I'm going to give you my cum, and you're going to thank me for it."

Tate moans, his thrusts becoming shorter until he stills, burying himself inside me when he fills me with cum. "Jesus Christ, your pussy feels good…fuck…"

He grabs me by my hips, gripping them tightly, groaning while rocking his hips from side to side—like he's trying to get even deeper—until he's empty.

In front of me, a sound comes from deep in Silas's throat, his breath coming short as if watching Tate come is about to push him over the edge.

I taste precum on my tongue and know it is.

Tate pulls out and moves beside me, cupping Silas's balls in his hand while he fucks my mouth. "What happened to we're on a schedule, we don't have time for this, and I'm always in control, huh?" Tate taunts. "You pulled over real fast to make time to choke our little slut with your cock, didn't you?"

Silas sucks air through his teeth. "Fuck!" he cries out before cum fills my mouth. "Fuck you, Tate…"

I swallow around him to keep from choking as he holds me in place, still rocking his hips and pushing his dick into the back of my throat. I pump him with my hand until he finishes, and I let him fall from my mouth, swallowing again.

I wipe my face and mouth with the sleeve of the hoodie before sitting back in the seat and bringing my knees to my chest. "And we are on a fucking schedule," Silas says, adjusting his sweatpants before sitting beside me on the bench seat. I pull the hood over my head, and he throws his arm around my shoulders.

"Are you okay?" Silas asks.

I nod, and he kisses my forehead.

"You really should have come home."

I bury my head in his shoulder and wrap my arm around his waist.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. You know how I feel about you, don't you?" he asks.

"Hey," Tate says, pulling me away from him. "No conspiring. Drive the car."

"What?" Silas scoffs. "I'm not fucking conspiring."

"Great. Drive the car, then."

Sighing, Silas leans forward, kissing me slowly on the lips before exiting the vehicle and getting back into the driver's seat. I wipe my eyes again and then search for my discarded bottoms and shorts and pull them on.

"That's probably not very comfortable, is it?" Tate asks.

I shake my head.

"You can change your clothes when we get to your house."

My house? They're letting me go?

I'm too afraid—too relieved at the thought to ask, so I don't. Instead, I lean against him, wrapping my arm around his back as I stare out the window.

He lets me, holding me and kissing my cheek while running his hands up and down my back. Our eyes meet in the reflection of the darkened window, and he smiles.

But the way he smiles…the way it differs from the devious look in his eyes lets me know this isn't over, and I'm not getting off this easy. Still, I choose ignorance.

After all, I'm tired.

I close my eyes and let myself fall asleep against his chest.

eight

It's a Texture Thing

Noah

"Honey, we're home," Tate says.

Five more minutes, I think, refusing to open my eyes. Just five more minutes of pretending this is okay—that's all I want.

"Let's go, Noah," he says, patting my ass. "Get up. We're going inside."

I open my eyes, stretching my aching body and taking stock of my injuries.

Everything hurts. It seems like it hurts more now that I've slept. My ankle, my shoulder. My hip hurts—maybe from the jump or maybe from limping the way I did.

Between my legs and the back of my throat hurts.

Silas opens the door and helps me out of the vehicle. "Do you have a way to get inside?"

"Um, yeah," I tell him. "The garage door has a code."

He guides me toward the garage with Tate behind us, and I type in the passcode. The door lifts, and I lead them into the house, disabling the alarm once inside.

"Where's the kitchen?" Silas asks.

"It's…that way. Through the living room and then to the right."

He doesn't explain before heading in that direction.

"Nice house," Tate says.

I'm not sure how to respond to that. Objectively, it is a nice house. But what happens inside this house…it isn't nice at all, and I wish I'd never stepped foot in this place.

"I guess," I say, shrugging.

"Is your room upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Come on; I'll help you."

I wrap an arm around him, and we make our way to the staircase. Once we reach the steps, he picks me up, carrying me to the top.

"You could just throw me down the stairs, you know. Get it over with."

He laughs, and I wait for him to say something like, I was never really going to kill you, Noah. I care about you too much to do something like that.

Instead, he says, "Nah, I've seen you jump from a second-story window. You'd probably just stick the landing. Which room is yours?"

"The one at the end of the hall."

Once we reach the threshold, Tate sets me down, and I flip on the light.

"Damn, this is your room?" he asks. "It suits you."

I scoff. "Yeah, no, it doesn't."

"It looks like sunshine in here," he says, looking over the paintings on the wall. "That's how you look to me—like sunshine."

His gaze drops to the boxes near the wall, filled with books and assorted personal items—the kinds of things I wouldn't have needed over the next few days. He stops at a box with a framed photograph of me with Mia at our junior prom sitting on top and picks it up, smiling just a little.

In the photo, I have a tight, closed-lip smile the way I always did before because my teeth embarrassed me. Mia beams from ear to ear, her smile just as wide and perfect as Tate's, the same hazel eyes sparkling more than her sequined pink ball gown. I wore something even louder—a black dress with a deep 'v' dipping down to my belly button. It screamed, look at me—see me, want me, touch me; someone for once fucking notice me, but it didn't work. Tate had a date, Mia had Levi, and I went with someone who ditched me as soon as he got the chance.

I took their car and left alone a couple of hours later. Silas made me feel better, though—when we were still just friends.

"I tried to talk to her," I tell him. "I never hated her."

He turns the photo over in his hands and tosses it back into the box.

"Where were you going to go to school?"

Were.

"University of Oregon." I turn away, blinking back tears. "I'm just going to…take a shower," I say, opening my bathroom door.

"You have your own bathroom?" he asks, following me inside. "It's cute. Is this your closet?"

Before I can answer, he opens the door to my walk-in closet and steps inside. "Oh, shit. What happened in here?"

"What? What do you mean?"

When I enter the closet, my heart sinks. On the floor are the shredded remnants of my wardrobe, and at my feet, a pair of kitchen shears. It's fitting, really. It's like the universe knew I would cease to exist soon, and decided to start getting rid of the evidence early.

"Did he do this?" Tate asks.

I shrug. This time, when I blink, I'm unable to prevent tears from rolling down my cheeks.

Probably. But I guess it could have been my mother, too. Maybe they even did it together.

"Hey, it's okay," Tate says. "You don't need this stuff anymore, anyway. Go ahead and shower; just make it quick. I'll find something you can still wear."

I limp toward the shower, turning on the water while Tate looks through the pile of shredded clothing. I don't wait for it to warm before stripping down, pushing back the curtain, and stepping inside.

It's cold enough that it momentarily takes my breath away, but it doesn't really matter. The shock to my system is a nice break from the pain.

I sit on the bench, lathering up my loofa, and begin washing my body, tensing when I hear footsteps in the bathroom stopping just outside the curtain.

"Are you okay?" Tate asks.

I swallow a lump in my throat before answering. "Yeah."

"Do you need any help?"

"No."

"Okay. You have three minutes, Noah. I put some clothes on the sink for you."

He waits a beat, and when I don't answer, I hear his boots against the tile, heading back to the bedroom. Assuming I only have two minutes to spare, I finish scrubbing my body and then hurriedly wash my hair.

I turn off the water, step onto the rug, grab a towel, and sit on the toilet lid before drying myself off. There's a pair of black underwear on the counter that hasn't been destroyed, so I slip those on. The jeans have a few cuts in them, but they aren't unwearable, so I put those on, too, before pulling on a dark green sweatshirt.

No bra, though. I'm not sure if it's because there wasn't anything salvageable or if it's for lack of trying—not that it matters. I wrap a towel around my hair and step out of the bathroom. Tate sits at my vanity while Silas stretches out across my bed with a cleaver in one hand and a knife sharpener in the other.

Not ominous at all.

Tate stands, gesturing toward the bench seat. "Sit."

I sit in front of the mirror, looking not at my own reflection, but at Silas and the knife.

"Hey, Noah," Silas says, filing the blade. "Found what I was looking for."

"What do you mean?"

I'm so distracted by Silas—by the motion, by the sound of the cleaver running through the sharpener—that I don't even notice Tate behind me, removing the towel from my head and using it to wring out my hair.

"Do you feel better?" he asks.

"Um, a little. I guess."

He grabs a hairbrush from the vanity and begins running it through my hair. And it feels…really fucking nice. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, forgetting again what we're doing here—that hours ago, I left a house full of dead bodies, and now one of the killers is brushing my hair and the other is behind me, reclining on my bed while sharpening a knife.

I missed them. And if I can pretend none of that other stuff is real, I don't even notice that hole in my chest.

Tate sets the brush down in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders, rubbing the sore muscles.

"Remember what I told you about what we were going to do for you?" he asks.

In the mirror, I watch Silas stand, crossing the room until he's behind me, too.

"You didn't tell me," I say. "You just said you were going to help me understand you."

"We're going to help you get your own revenge. Which of these rooms does your stepdad sleep in?"

"Um, their room is downstairs, but I don't—" I start.

"Don't worry; I'll find it," Silas says. "Hold this." He passes Tate the cleaver knife and leaves the room.

"Silas!" I shout. "Silas, stop! I don't want to!"

He turns the corner, making his way down the staircase without looking back at me. I stumble a little when I start down the stairs after him, and Tate appears at my side.

"There's just no talking to him when he's like this," he says, smiling.

"Silas!" I scream again as Tate helps me to my feet.

"Easy on that ankle, baby. I've got you." He wraps an arm around me, and I lean on him, letting him help me down the staircase. "I want you to know that it's okay if you like this, Noah. There's nothing wrong with it—with any of it. I don't want you to feel guilty for enjoying the things that we've done or what happens next."

"Well…what's happening next?"

He doesn't answer, but I think I know.

By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Silas is already hauling Paul into the dining room. Blood runs from his nose down his chin as he struggles against his hold, but Silas has five inches on the older man as well as thirty pounds of muscle and infinite rage.

"Sit!" Silas shouts when they reach the table. Tate pulls out a chair and hands Silas the meat cleaver.

"Who are you?" Paul cries out. "You can take whatever you want! I have money!"

"We don't care about your fucking money," Tate says.

Paul looks at Tate, recognition flashing in his eyes. Tate is hard not to notice anyway, but with the blue hair, he's easily recognizable. Next, he notices me, and then looks at Silas before turning back to Tate again.

"I know you," he says, appearing to relax a little. "I know both of you. You're just…what? A couple of nineteen-year-old kids? Whatever you do here, I will be pressing charges, and you will go to jail." He turns to me. "It's not worth it…for whatever this lying whore said to you. She's not even that pretty."

It happens so fast it's almost like it isn't real—like I'm watching a movie. In one swift motion, Silas grabs Paul's hand, pinning it to the wooden table while raising the cleaver knife overhead with the other, and then brings it down on his wrist.

It slices clean through the bone and gets stuck in the table. Silas has to tug on it twice to get it free.

Paul screams, falling from the chair onto the floor, his remaining hand gripping the other wrist while it spouts blood, and the other hand just…sits there…on the table.

"I always thought this would be a fair punishment for men who hit women," Silas says calmly. "Come over here, Noah."

"Help!" Paul screams through his sobs. "Kathy! Help me!"

"Silas, you need to get out of here! My mom is going to call the police."

"Nah, I've got their phones in my pocket," Silas says. He kneels on the floor with his knee on Paul's back, immobilizing him. "Come on, Noah." He extends the knife toward me. "It'll feel good; I promise."

"What are you talking about? What will feel good?"

When I don't move, Tate shoves me forward. Stumbling on my injured ankle, I end up on my knees beside Silas, who takes my hand, presses the knife handle into my palm, and then closes my fingers around it.

Then he pins Paul's arm against the hardwood floor. "Go ahead, Noah. He deserves it. It's not a bad thing; it's the right thing."

"I'll kill you," Paul says, gasping for air, his breath loud and labored now. "I'll fucking kill you, Noah!"

Even through my fear, I laugh a little because…I know he's not going to do anything to me ever again. No one is—except for Tate.

"Do it now, Noah!" Tate screams, pulling me back into the moment.

"He hurt you; he hurt your mom. And he'll keep doing it if he can. He ruined your life," Silas says.

Tate saunters up to the table, picking up the dismembered hand by its index finger, and tosses it onto the floor beside me. "One could argue he had a hand in my sister's death, too. Things could have been different if she had a friend around."

I stare at the heap of bloody flesh at my side, and my vision blurs. But Tate's kind of right, isn't he? If it weren't for him, we never would have moved, and it probably would have forced us all to make up, no matter what that looked like. I could have had more—more of Tate brushing my hair, more of Silas holding me and sheltering me from the rest of the world. I could have Mia, and I wouldn't have this hole.

"What are you…what are you talking about?" Paul sobs.

Apparently, he's given up on shouting for help. Maybe I was right—maybe Mom is using again, and it'll take a lot more than a little dismemberment to get her out of bed.

"Don't be a wimp, Noah," Silas says.

"She's always been a wimp," Tate says. "She used to be better at following fucking directions, though."

I glare at him.

"Oh…didn't like that one, did you?" he asks.

"You stupid fucking whore," Paul spits. "I'm gonna—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence before Silas punches him in the face.

"DO IT NOW, NOAH!" Silas screams—screams—in my face through clenched teeth.

He's terrifying, like that time in the back alley, and all I can do is react. I lift the cleaver overhead, screaming, and then bring it down on his wrist.

My aim isn't as good as Silas's—the knife comes down at kind of an angle—and I definitely don't possess his size or strength, so it doesn't slice clean through.

It feels good, though, just like he said. I bring it up and back down—again and again. Four times it takes before the hand finally separates from the arm.

I let the knife fall to the ground and sit back on the floor, my entire body shaking with some mix of shock and adrenaline.

"Good girl," Silas says, placing his hands on my shoulders. "You did so fucking good, Noah."

He leans in, kissing my face, my lips, and pulling me into him. But I can't really move. I can't speak.

"I'm so proud of you, baby," Silas continues as Paul wails. "Look at that worthless asshole. He won't be able to hurt anyone anymore. You did that to him."

Paul rolls onto his back, his eyes closing, but I can still see his abdomen rising and falling slightly, so he's breathing. He's still alive.

"Misuse it, you lose it. Do you get it now, Noah?" Tate asks. "How good it can feel to make someone pay? He's giving up, and he's going to bleed out. He's fucking helpless, and you made him that way. How many times did you and your mom feel helpless because of him?"

"What…what did you do?"

I look up and see my mom crossing the room…with a gun in her hand.

"What did you do, you little bitch?!" she screams.

She barrels toward me, raising the weapon at her side and pointing it directly at my head before firing.

Pain. All I feel is white hot pain before I hit the floor.

Silas lunges for her legs just as the sound rings out, taking her down, the gun sliding across the hardwood floor. I watch him from behind, driving the knife into her body over and over again, until I close my eyes, unable to watch anymore.

He's killing her. He's killing my mom.

"Hey," Tate says, appearing at my side. "You're okay. Where does it hurt?"

It's my arm or my shoulder—the entire left side of my body is on fire, but I can't speak to answer. He runs his hands over my body, over my torso and neck before turning my head and pushing them through my hair…until finally, he closes his hand around my upper arm.

"Ahhh!" I scream.

"Okay," he says, studying the wound through the torn sleeve of my sweatshirt. He sticks his fucking finger it in, and I scream again. "This is okay, Noah. It just grazed you—it's a scratch."

A scratch? It was a bullet! That's what I'd say if I were capable of speaking, but I'm not. I'm in shock, trapped inside my own mind. My mother grabbed a gun, aimed it at my head, and pulled the trigger. If Silas hadn't lunged at her, my own mother would have killed me.

My chest hurts. I didn't know. I didn't know she hated me this much.

And now she's dead. She must be, right? Because Silas is standing over me with a bloody knife in his hand, and she's somewhere else, not moving, not making a sound.

I start to cry, and it quickly turns into hysterics.

"Hey, it's okay," Tate says, appearing at my side again. "You're okay. This is going to hurt, though, Noah. Take a deep breath."

I don't know what he's talking about, and I don't care. I don't bother taking any kind of intentional breath because how could anything hurt right now?

My mom tried to kill me.

My mom didn't want me on the planet, breathing air anymore.

As I sob, Tate rips the torn sleeve from my sweatshirt, tying it around the top of my arm, and then pours what I assume is alcohol of some sort onto the wound.

I guess it burns.

He sits me up, pulling me into his lap just in time to watch Silas split Paul open from his sternum to his waistline. Then he—or it least it looks like it's what he's doing from this angle in the darkened room, but it doesn't make sense—plunges his fist into the wound.

"Silas…"

It comes out in a whisper. It took every ounce of my energy to produce that one word, just his name, and it doesn't even register.

Stop. That's what I want to tell him.

"It's better not to talk to him when he's like this, baby," Tate says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You know that. This is how I like him, though—hard."

When he removes his hand from Paul's chest cavity, there's something clutched in his fist.

It's a part of him—maybe the spleen. I think it's too small to be a liver, but I don't really know; I've never seen either in real life, fresh from a dead body.

I watch as Silas sinks his teeth into it, and when he turns to me again, blood drips down his chin while his jaw works, grinding the organ between his teeth.

"Take a bite," he says, holding it to my mouth.

Pressing my lips together in a tight line, I shake my head.

"Just do it, Noah," Tate says. "It's not a big deal. We're all just meat."

"Just a little bite. He should have stayed out of our woods. This is what he gets," Silas says.

I shake my head again.

"Do it now!" Silas screams, pushing it past my lips. I feel the organ against my teeth, taste the blood in my mouth, and I just want it to stop.

And so, I take a bite. A small bite, turning my head to the side and gagging at the feeling of flesh on my tongue.

Tate slaps his hand over my mouth before I can spit it out.

"Swallow it," he says.

I shake my head.

"Swallow it fucking now, Noah, or the next bite will be bigger."

I try my best to swallow it three or four times, but it won't go down whole. I give up, crushing it into tiny pieces between my molars. It's soft, kind of like fruit, and easy to grind.

It takes a few tries, but I manage to swallow the tissue.

"Is it done?" Tate asks once I finally stop retching.

When I nod, he removes his hand. "Show us."

I wipe my bloody mouth with my remaining sleeve and then open wide for both of them to see. Once satisfied that I've swallowed it all, Tate takes the organ from Silas and sinks his teeth into it.

"Mmm. It's a texture thing. I get it; it's not great," he says, tossing the bloody mass aside. "All right, let's go. Can you walk?"

Walk? I can't talk.

"I've got her," Silas says. "We'll go out through the garage again. We should hurry, though. We'll be lucky if no one heard that gunshot, and we're fucked if they did."

Silas leans down, picking me up, and carries me through the living room, stepping over my mom's body on the way to the door, the weapon she shot me with lying just to her side.

I shouldn't have looked.

She's wearing Christmas pajamas—the ones I bought for her last year—the white and red shredded flannel material drenched in blood and clinging to what's left of her torso. Her lifeless, glossy green eyes follow me until we're out of sight.

Silas sets me down in Tate's lap in the passenger seat and then gets in on the driver's side and starts the car.

We pull away from the house, and I know it's the last time I'll ever see it. It's the last time I'll ever see this neighborhood, this town. It's the last time I'll see anything.

And inside each of the cookie cutter houses—with their matching exterior lights all set to turn on at the same time every night—everyone else is just sleeping. Tomorrow, maybe they'll send thoughts and prayers like they did when Mia died, and then they'll sleep just fine again.

"You ruined everything."

I surprise myself when I hear the words aloud instead of just inside my head.

Tate threads his fingers through my hair, still damp from my shower, his thumb tracing circles against that spot behind my ear again.

"I didn't mean to," he says. "I never wanted to hurt you. And I get it. I know you think I don't, but I do, because I do understand you."

"No, you don't."

"I do. You needed someone to love you out loud so that you'd believe it. I can't really explain why I couldn't do it. It wasn't anything you did wrong."

I'm far too tired, far too broken at a visceral, soul-shredding level to listen to any of this. The fabric of my existence has been mangled, splintered into something I don't even want to look at anymore. I can't take anymore.

"I just want it to be over. I want to be clean, too."

"Hey, it's your song." Tate leans forward, turning up the volume. "Hey There Delilah" by Plain White T's plays on the stereo. "The world will never be the same, and you're to blame, sweetheart."

But it's not my song. I'm not sure it's my fault, but the world won't ever be the same. That version of me—of the three of us—it doesn't exist; it hasn't existed for a long time. And now, we'll always be this. We'll always be the runaways—the cannibals from my childhood bedtime story.

The murderers and their victim who mistook this all for love.

"Hey, what's worse than death?"

What? What is this? A riddle? A threat? "Tate, I can't…I don't have the energy."

"In the house, you said there were things worse than death. What's worse?"

This, I think. All of this is worse. Being tricked into a sexual relationship with two of your friends and falling in love with them, only to find out they weren't capable of loving someone like you out loud—and he's right. It is what I needed. Now, I'll never know what that feels like.

Your best friend taking her own life when you're on bad terms and knowing you'll never get the chance to fix it.

Watching your mother's husband abuse her. Your own mother pointing a gun at you and pulling the trigger. Stepping over her dead body.

This is all worse.

"The hole," I tell him.

He can't possibly know what I'm talking about, but he never asks for clarification, nodding before kissing my forehead. I close my eyes, letting fresh tears roll down my cheeks.

nine

Hair Dye and Cigarette Guy

Noah

"There's supposed to be a small gas station off this exit—one without cameras. It's on the list," Tate says.

I don't know how long it's been—I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it's still dark, and from what I can tell, we're the only car on this mountain highway, wherever it is.

And since I don't want to be awake, I close my eyes again.

"How's her arm?" Silas asks.

"It's fine. The bullet really did just graze her. It looks like a deep scratch."

"We should have left her at the house. I wasn't thinking about it at the time. I was…high on the kill."

"Yeah, you killed her mom and made her eat her dad," Tate says. "Maybe she'll finally hate you as much as she hates me now."

"Probably not," Silas says.

Tate laughs. "Yeah, you're right. Probably not. I couldn't leave her, though."

"Well, if we're taking her with us, that changes things. We'll have to make new arrangements."

"We're not taking her. I'm killing her—you know that."

"She's a part of us. We can't—"

"You're right. She can't come with us, and she's a part of us, so I have to. How are we supposed to start a new life if there's a part of us, like an arm or a leg, in Oregon?" Tate asks.

"You're making this worse for me," Silas says. "You realize that, right? Why don't I just pull over, and you can do it right now?"

"I'm not going to do that," Tate says. He pulls me tighter, resting his chin on top of my head and stroking my hair. "Her own mother just tried to kill her; I don't want her to be scared anymore. I'll do it when we get to the first house—nicely, while she's sleeping. I'll dig a hole in the backyard, in the woods. It'll be respectful, not like what we did with the others at the house."

"Damn it, Tate! I—"

"Shhh! She's sleeping. If you wake her up, she's just going to hurt again."

I am. I am hurting again.

"I love her. I would have had no problem loving her out loud."

"Well, you didn't, did you? How many times did you sit in your car outside that house at night without ever going to the door? You didn't even try."

"You followed me?"

I feel Tate shrug. "I thought you were still seeing each other and lying to me about it. But you were just sitting there—you never went in."

"I thought that was what she wanted, and I thought she was going to be happy."

"Are we really going to spend another two months fighting about Noah again? Huh? You agreed to this. She didn't have to be at that house with them. We can't take her with us, and we can't let her go. At this point, they'll arrest her as an accomplice, anyway. She doesn't have a life to go back to. She's the fox, Silas; I'm only putting her out of her misery."

Silas relents, like I did a while ago. Tate is right about that, too, though. I was Mia's friend. We have a past, and I was seen with them at the carnival; I let them into my house on camera. I left with them on camera, too, willingly.

I do look like an accomplice.

I cut off Paul's hand. If Silas hadn't sliced him open, he still would have bled out and died from that injury. Maybe I am an accomplice.

If I live long enough for the shock to wear off, I'm going to have a nervous fucking breakdown.

Silas pulls up into the parking lot of a small mountain gas station, parking next to one of only two pumps, and turns off the car.

"Hopefully, there's a bathroom. I'm gonna grab some food, too. You want me to get you anything while I'm in there?" Tate asks.

"Maybe an energy drink," Silas says. "Keep your head down, though. Put fifty on the pump."

"I know," Tate says.

He opens the door before sliding out from under me, and I keep my eyes closed, still pretending to sleep while I adjust to his absence, resting my head on the center console.

Silas gets out next, waiting beside the pump until he can begin refueling, and then sits in the driver's seat with the door open.

"I'm sorry, Noah," he says, leaning down and kissing the top of my head. "You're so pretty and so sweet, and I'm so sorry. You know how he is, though. Please don't hate me for it."

Yeah, I know how he is. He's a master fucking manipulator. He wouldn't be able to convince me to let him kill Silas, though. I don't think…

"Fuck. I should have told him to get you some Skittles." Silas sighs. "I'm just going to go get you some Skittles, sweetheart. I'll be right back."

He exits the vehicle, closing the door behind him, and my heart stops. My eyes shoot open, and I watch him disappear inside the building.

They left me alone.

This is it, I think. If there is any part of me that still wants to live—if I have any survival instinct left in me at all—I need to get up and run.

My body says no, but I do it anyway, moving in that too-heavy way I've moved in for weeks now. I open the door with my good arm, stumble out of the vehicle, and then limp across the parking lot and into the woods with no plan.

I don't make it very far—maybe I'm past the tree line for a couple of minutes before I hear Tate calling my name.

"Noah!"

My heart stops. I drop onto my knees and crawl under what I think is a blackberry bush and lie alongside a fallen log.

"Noah!" he screams louder this time, their footsteps coming closer and closer. "This is your fault! Why did you leave her alone?"

"She was sleeping! And there's nowhere for her to go—"

"Noah! Come back!" Tate shouts. "You'll die out here, Noah. You have to come with us."

"Tate…" Silas says. "We can't do this. We can't be out here screaming in the woods; we don't have time to waste like this. We need to go."

"I can't!"

"Tate…we need to go, or we're going to get caught. We don't have much time left until the sun comes up, and we don't even know if she went this way. She could have gone in the other direction; she could be running down the road right now. Someone might have even picked her up. We can't do this."

"You did this on purpose," Tate says, his voice cracking.

"I didn't."

"Noah!"

And then, I see him—maybe fifteen feet away. If he looked—really looked—he could see me, too.

"Noah, please come back! I promise I won't hurt you! I'll take care of you if you come back!"

He waits for a moment, scanning the area, his breath coming short and heavy.

He's crying. I realize he's crying, and then I have to cover my own nose and mouth with my hands so he doesn't hear me crying, too.

"Noah!" Tate screams. "Fuck!" He kicks at the ground and tears at his hair. "Goddamn it! Why the…how…" He drops to his knees, sobbing, and wipes snot from his nose with the back of his hand. "Noah, please!"

"Tate, someone is going to come back here, or they're going to call the police."

"You can't leave us, Noah! I know you—no one else will know you. Please, don't do this!"

"Tate!" Silas shouts, pulling him back up by his hoodie. "We have to fucking go. We'll get in the car, and maybe we'll see her, right? Maybe she'll be on the road. That's what I'd do if I were her."

"It's not what Noah would do. I already lost my twin—I can't do this again. I can't just leave part of my body here. Noah, please! Don't do this to me again!"

He's lying, I think. He'll kill me. He said he has to—there's no other choice.

"Tate!" Silas says firmly, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pressing his forehead to his. "We have. To go. Now!"

"Fine!" Tate shouts. "Fine! If you want to die out here alone, Noah, go ahead! But I'm mad at you! And you will always belong to us! If you live, I'll kill you!"

"Nice," Silas says. "Real nice. That'll do it."

"Fuck you!"

Tate tries shoving him, but the attempt is futile. Silas grabs him by the shoulders, immobilizing him, and then pulls him into his chest instead.

"I'm sorry, Tate," Silas says. "I know you're disappointed, but we really do have to go. We've already stayed here way too long. The roads are going to get busier, they'll find the bodies, and we have to go, okay?"

Tate nods, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. "Yeah. Fine. Let's go."

And then, they turn to leave.

They're actually leaving me. I actually got away. I fight the urge to run after them with every remaining mangled fiber of my being, burying another sob in the back of my throat, tears streaming from my eyes and into my ears while looking up at the stars.

I hear Silas's car start, and then tires against gravel before they pull out onto the highway, and they're gone.

I stay like that for a while, looking up, waiting for something—for some power greater than me that I've never let myself believe in to give me some kind of sign, some sort of divine guidance on what the hell I'm supposed to do now.

Because they're right. I can't go home, and I wouldn't want to. No matter what happens next, Noah Barlowe is dead.

Eventually, when I get no answer, I pick myself up off the forest floor, dust off my clothes, and head toward the gas station.

I know how I look—barefoot in dirty, torn jeans; only one sleeve on my sweatshirt and a bloody arm. That's why I'm relieved when I get to the edge of the parking lot and the gas station attendant walks out with another customer, carrying fuel containers in each hand.

When I'm sure they aren't looking, I dart into the building, which is much bigger than it looks from the outside. And inside, it smells like hot dogs, and I know I'm starving, but I throw up in my mouth a little. The idea of eating something…of forcing something down my esophagus after…what happened in the house is just…

It's something I don't want to revisit quite yet.

I refocus my attention, scanning the store for something—anything I can wear. I spot a small clothing rack in the corner and head in that direction, indiscriminately snatching a pair of flannel pajama pants and a black long-sleeved shirt that says The Evergreen State beneath an outline of Washington. Judging by the material and the dated graphics, it's likely they've been here for a decade.

So, that's where I must be—this must be Washington.

Glancing through the front window, I see the attendant heading back to the store. Hurriedly, I take the clothing and head toward the bathroom, stopping in my tracks when I come across a display of hair color.

These also look like they've been here forever. The white boxes look faded and water damaged, and the women in the photos on the front have hairstyles similar to something you'd find in a nineties movie. I grab one—a very red one—and just manage to close the bathroom door before the attendant returns.

After locking the door behind me, I change my clothes, stuffing my own into the garbage and covering them with paper towels. The directions on the back of the hair color box seem pretty simple—mix it, paint it on, wait twenty minutes. I slip on the plastic gloves and get started, unsure of how I'll keep time and nervous someone will bang on the door soon, but I assure myself I'll be fine. This place isn't busy, and women don't come into places like this at night.

I find a way to keep time—playing a few of my favorite songs in my head while I sit on the toilet, hugging my knees to my chest. And when I finish the last one, and I'm sure it's been twenty minutes, I rinse it out in the sink using soap from the dispenser.

It takes a while—a really long while. The gas station sink doesn't have nearly enough water pressure to sufficiently tackle the task. And once I feel like I've done the best I can do, I reluctantly meet my reflection in the mirror.

Well, it's definitely red. Time will tell how red it is once it dries.

I wring out the excess water and hair color with paper towels, and then unlock the door. My heart pounds in my ears as I step out into the hallway. A convex mirror shows the attendant sitting on a chair behind the counter, reading a magazine.

I tiptoe through the back of the store, crossing my arms in front of my body and keeping my head down. He doesn't look up—not until I'm already walking out the door, passing a middle-aged man in a trucker hat on my way out.

"Morning," he says, greeting the attendant. "Can I get a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter? And do you have a newspaper?"

I hold my breath until I'm out of sight, letting it go once I'm hidden behind a red pickup truck parked in front, likely belonging to Cigarette Guy.

And then, I make a split-second decision—I step up on the wheel and climb into the back, lying beside the truck cab, making myself as small as possible.

I hear the door only moments later, and Cigarette Guy jumps into the vehicle.

He pulls back onto the state highway, the sun rising in the distance. I watch, reveling at its audacity, until my eyelids grow heavy.

That's how you look to me—like sunshine.

But inside, all I feel is a dark, bleak nothingness. There is no sunshine, and I know that. Not now, and never again.

When my eyes open again, the truck isn't moving. The late summer sun hangs high in the sky, so hours must have passed since we left the gas station. I climb out, careful not to put weight on my injured ankle, and observe my surroundings, cradling my bloody arm against my chest.

It looks like we're still in the Cascades. Dense forest, a small highway. The parking lot belongs to a roadside café.

There are a few more buildings on the stretch of road—a salon, a car repair shop, a couple of stores and restaurants. Across the street, a mother pushes a toddler in a stroller while the man with her walks a small dog, absentmindedly scrolling his phone.

It reminds me of the place where I grew up, but sleepy instead of stagnant and depressed.

Gravel digs into the soles of my bare feet as I walk around the side of the café, peering through the large picture windows. Cigarette Guy reads his newspaper, sipping a coffee in a corner booth. Aside from him, there are a handful of people in the dining room—one family and two other men, both dining alone.

A bell rings when I pull the door open with my good arm and step inside. A woman with long, grey hair looks at me from behind the counter. "Can I help you, sweetheart?" she asks with a slight southern drawl.

"Can—" I pause, my throat too dry or the trauma too raw to get the words out. Swallowing, I try again. "Can I use the bathroom, please?"

"Sure," she says. "It's right back there."

"Thanks."

I keep my gaze fixed on the floor until I'm inside the women's restroom. After I use the toilet, I wash my hands and then use them to catch water to drink from the faucet. I do the thing where I avoid looking into the mirror, knowing I won't like what I see, but then my eyes catch a flash of red, and I can't resist.

My hair is red. Orange-red. As someone who's never dyed her hair and hasn't really had a different hairstyle since middle school when I let Mia talk me into getting a perm, it's…shocking.

But with my green eyes and pale freckled skin, it isn't unbelievable.

It dried clumpy, though—like I didn't wash out all the hair color. Using my good arm, I run my fingers through it, attempting to separate and comb it out, but it doesn't work well, and I give up.

Next, I decide to take a look at that bullet wound, but when I attempt to pull the arm from my shirt sleeve, the pain is too much and I recoil, clutching it against my chest again.

My hand feels wet, and when I pull it away, it's coated in blood.

From where my mom shot me.

I close my eyes, gripping the side of the sink with that bloody hand, and I'm back in the living room on the floor beside Paul's mutilated body, and Silas is stabbing my mother, only in my head, it doesn't stop. It keeps going. Over and over…and over.

The room starts spinning. I can't breathe. As my vision blurs, I sink down onto the dirty tile floor.

"Are you okay?"

When I look up, the woman from behind the counter is in the small space beside me.

"Yes," I lie. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm so sorry—I'll get out of here."

I pull myself up, yelping when I accidentally shift my weight onto my injured ankle.

The woman looks me over, from my bare feet to my injured arm and then back up to my face. "Do you know where you're going?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Do you know where you are?"

"No."

"This town is called Winter Falls. You're in Northern Washington. You running from somebody?"

"What? N-no. I'm not—"

"Did a boyfriend do this to you?"

My lip quivers, my eyes fill with tears, and before I can stop myself, I start to cry.

"Shh," the woman says, wrapping her arms around me. "It's all right. You got anyone you can go to? Anyone we can call?"

I shake my head. "He's going to kill me," I cry.

"No one's going to kill you," she says. "You're okay now. Come on out here; when was the last time you ate?"

When was the last time I…no.

"We've got fresh cherry pie," she adds.

Soft, cooked cherries in thick, congealed pie filling. My stomach retches at the thought.

"I'm not hungry right now," I tell her. "But if I could just rest somewhere, I would appreciate it."

"Can you make it up a staircase on that ankle of yours?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah."

"All right, come on," she says, and I follow her out of the bathroom. "I'm Jodie, by the way. I own this place and the house behind it. There's an apartment over my garage that's empty right now—tenant broke the lease. You can rest there. What's your name?"

"Um—"

"Make it good. You only get to pick once."

"Delilah," I say, giving her the name from the fake ID Silas and Tate made for me last year.

"It's a lot," Jodie says, holding the front door for me. "Can I call you Lilah?"

"Yeah, Lilah's fine."

I follow her through the parking lot and toward the white farmhouse-style home, which must belong to her. To its left sits a separate two-car garage that appears to have been converted from a barn, and behind that is a wooden staircase leading to a single red door.

I follow her up those stairs and then through that door to a sparsely furnished studio apartment. There's a bed, a dresser, and a kitchenette with a microwave and stovetop. A chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, refracting sunlight from the only window into intricate patterns on the white walls.

"It's nice." I cross the room and sit on the bed.

"Thank you. I built this place for my daughter after she graduated so she could have some privacy. She moved away about ten years ago and died in a car accident a couple of years after that."

"I'm so sorry—"

"It gets hot up here in the afternoon," Jodie says, ignoring my attempt at sympathy. "You can open the window if you want. The bathroom is just through there, and that's the entire tour. There's nothing in the fridge, but there's running water and there should be some ice in the freezer. When you get hungry, just come down to the café, and we'll get you something to eat."

"I don't have any money."

"I'm not asking you for money, sweetheart—not now, anyway. But when you're feeling better, if you want to stay for a little while—just until you get back on your feet—you're going to have to work it off, and we could use the help down there. Have you ever waited tables before?"

"No."

"Well, you'll figure it out. How'd you get here, anyway?"

"Um, someone gave me a ride…but he didn't know that he gave me a ride."

"Stowaway. Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I ask.

She pauses, pursing her lips as if thinking it over before she pulls down the collar of her shirt, revealing a scar stretching from one side of her neck to the other, like her throat had been slit.

"See this?"

I nod.

"Husband did it to me thirty years ago. I know what it's like to run for your life from a man. I'll lock the door, okay?"

"Okay."

She leaves, closing the door. I watch the deadbolt turn behind her and finally breathe, relieved to be alive, yet alone and terrified of what comes next.

ten

Hey There, Lilah. What's it Like in Winter Falls?

Noah

Ilean against the wall with my arms crossed in front of my body, my eyes shooting daggers across the room.

Twenty minutes. That's all it took for Miles to run off with his ex-girlfriend and leave me here, standing alone. Apparently, she broke up with her new boyfriend a few days ago. She'd been texting him the last time we hung out, but he told me he was just helping her through it…as a friend.

I didn't even get one dance.

I watch as he pulls a flask from his jacket pocket—the same one he shared with me in the car on the way over. The two of them laugh while leaning over the high top table as they empty its contents into their punch. They each take a drink before heading back to the dance floor.

I don't know what I did wrong, but it's the same every time. Even in the sexy black dress with the makeup, I'm still just me.

"Isn't that your date over there making out with MacKenzie Stevens?"

I purse my lips and glare at Tate before replying.

"Honestly, Tate, I really don't need your shit right now."

"I'm not here to give you shit. I came to ask you to dance."

My eyes widen. "God, am I really so pathetic that you feel like you have to come over here and offer me a pity dance? Fucking…no."

"A pity dance? Why would it be a pity dance? I assure you, I have not an ounce of pity for how fucking sexy you look in that dress."

"Tate, stop. I'm serious—you're making it worse."

"Well, he's an idiot, anyway. And he has a small dick."

I scoff. "Yeah, I know."

Tate narrows his eyes. "What do you mean, you know? How do you know?"

"How do you know?"

"We have P.E. together."

I sigh. "Look…if you really want to help me, Tate, you can give me your keys so I can get the fuck out of here."

"Fine," he says. "If you want to let some dumbass with a small dick and bad manners ruin your night, I'll give you my keys."

"I'll have a much better night if I go home." I sigh, blinking back tears. There's no fucking way I'm going to let anyone here see me cry, especially not Tate. "I thought he liked me."

"Do you want me to beat the shit out of him?"

"No."

Tate frowns. "Here."

He removes his keys from his pocket and then runs his finger along the deep 'v' of my black satin dress. I swallow hard, tensing as he slips his hand under the material and tucks the keys inside. I look around for Mia, knowing she won't be happy if she sees it. He's been touching me too much lately; I'm aware of it, but I don't necessarily dislike it. His fingertips lightly graze my nipple, causing me to suck in a breath, before he removes his hand. I don't think it could have been an accident. "And you look fucking beautiful, Noah," he says.

"Thanks," I tell him—not for the fake ass compliment, but for the keys.

Tate steps behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. With my heels, we're about the same height, and he rests his chin on my shoulder. "Do you know what your problem is?"

"I have plenty of problems, Tate, all of which I'm well aware of. I don't think I want to hear whatever you have to say."

"You come off wrong. I don't know why exactly, but they misunderstand you—all of them do. They think you're too nice, and you let them think it; you let them get away with it. But I know better than that. I know you're not a nice girl."

I sigh. "Well, what do you propose I do about it?"

"Punch him in the fucking face, or…"

"Or what?"

Tate holds out a bottle of eye drops. "Put these in his drink. He dragged you out here just to embarrass you like this, so he can spend the night shitting himself."

I purse my lips, thinking it over, watching the two of them kiss and touch each other on the dance floor. Once I realize I'm grinding my teeth, I snatch the small bottle from Tate's hands.

"That's my girl," he says.

"Shut up, Tate."

I stomp over to the table, ensuring they're sufficiently distracted before poisoning the fucker's punch. I don't know how much I'm supposed to put it there, but a few drops should suffice.

I toss the bottle back to Tate before leaving through a side door. It takes a while to find his car in the dark, and by the time I finally do, it's raining. I climb into the vehicle, and once I start the engine, the speakers connect to Mia's phone from inside, and "You're On Your Own, Kid" by Taylor Swift plays through the speakers until I leave the parking lot and I'm out of range.

The rest of the short drive is quiet, save for the sound of light rain against the steel roof. It only takes a few minutes to get home, and when I do, I get out of the car and step directly into a puddle. It's no big deal, though. I don't have anywhere else to wear these heels or this dress.

I sigh and head for the staircase. At least my mom is at work, and I won't have to explain why I'm back so early.

Once I hit the landing, I dig around in my purse for my own keys.

"Hey."

Silas stands in the hall, leaning against the building to stay out of the rain, smoke billowing from his lips while holding a small, leather-bound notebook under his right arm.

"Oh…hey."

I don't really want to explain this to him, either.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "Why aren't you at prom?"

"Why aren't you at prom?" I counter.

He shrugs. "I didn't want to go."

"Yeah, well…good for you. That was a smart choice. I look and feel stupid, so I'll see you later."

"I don't think you look stupid," he says. "You look really pretty."

"You feel obligated to say that because of what I said."

"I don't say things I don't mean, Noah."

"Thanks…I guess."

"Do you want to hang out? I ordered pizza, and I have more weed."

"Um, I don't know. I don't really feel like it."

"If you go home and sulk, they win."

I guess he's kind of right. He's always right.

"Yeah, okay. Can I pick what we watch?"

He and Tate are always picking horror movies that end up giving me nightmares for days.

"Sure. If you tell me a secret."

"I'm pretty sure you know all my secrets."

"I'm sure there's something. I'll let you think about it. Come on," Silas says, opening the door to his apartment.

We spend the next couple of hours in his room, eating, smoking, and watching some wilderness survival show, carefully curated from the limited list of shows on Silas's watch list that won't terrify me or make me cry in my delicate mental state.

"You know what I like about when it's just us?" he asks.

"What?"

"It's quiet," he says.

I laugh a little. "Yeah. Tate and Mia are never quiet."

"Fucking never," he agrees.

"Yeah, we're both only children with single moms, though." I never knew my dad, and Silas never got along with his. His mom gave up and stopped forcing Silas to spend time with him a couple of years ago. "We're used to quiet. I think maybe they're just…not. It is really nice, though."

I realize Silas never made me tell him what happened at prom or why I left. It's one of the many reasons I'm so grateful for him. I think he's misunderstood like I am, but unlike with me, I think it's intentional. Silas would rather be the football player you wouldn't want to fuck with—the one who snapped some other guy's arm in half like it was nothing because he had a bad day, and would do worse to you if you gave him a reason. He likes the space it gives him, and the girls like it, too.

Silas's reputation might also be the only thing standing between Tate and the actualization of his death wish.

But I know he writes poetry in that notebook on his nightstand, and there are flecks of gold in his dark eyes when the sunlight hits them. Someone with golden eyes can't be anything but good.

I smile, reaching for him and wrapping my hand around the back of his neck. "You might be my favorite person in the world—you know that?" I tell him, tracing his hairline with my thumb. Silas is the kind of guy who gets his hair cut every two weeks and keeps it in a tight fade. Unlike with Tate, it isn't unusual for the two of us to touch; it's easy.

But his jaw tenses a little now. It confuses me; I watch his throat as he swallows, his gaze dropping to my tits, and I freeze. While it isn't abnormal for me to touch Silas like this or lie in his bed with him, the way he looks at me now—that's not normal.

His eyes roam over my body before landing on my lips. He parts his own, and I think for a second that he's going to kiss me.

"I could do it, you know," he says.

"…Do what?" I ask, slowly pulling my hand away.

Silas nods toward the television. "Live in the wilderness like that. I think I'd be happy."

"Oh," I say, releasing the breath I'd been holding. "Yeah, I don't think so. I mean, not me, anyway."

"Really? I think you'd be good at it."

He sits up, grabs the bag of weed from his side table, and starts filling the bowl again.

"Don't pass that to me again. I can barely move," I tell him.

"You owe me a secret," he says.

"Okay. I've been thinking that I'd be fine if the aliens took me. It'd be kind of nice to be noticed."

He laughs. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. Of the four of us, you have to admit, I'd handle it best. Mia would cry. Tate would try to fight them, and then he'd die. You'd probably think it was a hallucination and stay in denial, and I'd just be like, eh, what's one more thing?"

"Nah, I'd fight them, too. And I'd win. That's not really a secret, though."

"You tell me one, then," I say, my heavy eyelids fluttering closed.

"I didn't go to prom because I couldn't go with who I wanted to go with."

"Why not?"

"I don't know—it's complicated."

"It's never that complicated. Either you like the person, or you don't—if he wanted to, he would and all that."

"There's one other person who I've liked for a really long time, but I don't think she's ever thought of me as anything more than a friend."

"Well, you don't know unless you try."

"I've done everything except scream it in her fucking face."

"Yeah? Well, try that next time. Maybe she's just tired of trying, like I am, and she's waiting for someone to scream it in her fucking face so she can stop putting herself out there and looking stupid."

"Good to know. I'll consider that."

"Mmhmm, you do that."

When I open my eyes next, it's morning, and I'm still in Silas's bed in my prom dress with his body wrapped around mine.

Yeah, we don't do this. It must have been an accident. Still, he's warm, and he smells good. His hard chest feels good against my back, rising and falling with each hot breath against my neck. I stare at his arm draped across the front of my body and then slowly lace my fingers with his own. I like the way they look together, and I like how small he makes me feel, so maybe it's okay if I stay here like this for a minute and pretend it's an accident, too.

I close my eyes again, but my phone vibrates on the side table. Not wanting to wake Silas, I quickly reach for it with my free hand to turn it off, but grab his by mistake. Instead of setting it down, I turn it over, finding the screen unlocked and the camera open. The thumbnail in the left corner appears to be a picture of me sleeping.

My heart thuds against my ribcage. I know I shouldn't, but I click on it, and when I swipe on the photo, I find out it's just one in a collection of pictures he took of me while I was asleep.

Why would he do that?

My own phone vibrates against the table again, and I jump, dropping Silas's. It clatters against the side table before hitting the floor, causing him to stir beside me.

"Noah?"

I instantly release his hand and jump out of bed.

"Shit!" I say. "I'm so sorry. God, I'm just going to—"

"Wait, what?" he asks. He rolls onto his back, stretching his arms above his head, causing his shirt to ride up. "What are you doing? What are you sorry about?"

My eyes drop to the exposed skin above his waistline…and then to his hard dick tenting in his sweats.

Jesus. It must be huge…unlike my prom date.

"Um…I…"

Silas shrugs, adjusting it with his hand, which only gives me a better look. "What do you want me to do about it?" he asks.

I swallow hard. I can think of a couple of things.

"I'm just going to go. Sorry…again."

I race for the door, too fucking embarrassed to hear anything he's saying, and when I step out into the hallway, I find myself face-to-face with Tate.

"Whoa," he says. "What were you doing in there?"

"Nothing!" I reply, my tone a little too defensive.

"Liar. You're in your clothes from yesterday, you're a mess, and you've got this really guilty look on your face. So, please, do tell, and don't spare any details…for personal reasons."

"I'm not lying."

"Look, I'm not judging you; I'm proud of you. But it's fine—Silas will tell me."

"Whatever. I'm leaving."

"What's going on?" Silas asks, appearing in the doorway.

"Nothing," Tate says. "Noah's being a slutty little liar, aren't you, Noah?"

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there's a part of me that enjoyed hearing Tate call me slutty—that likes the way he's looking at me and that he's thinking of me that way at all.

"Hey, Noah," Silas says. "You should go stand in the grass."

"What?"

But when I look down at my body, I'm not wearing my prom dress anymore. I'm in my bikini top and a pair of sandals, standing in a puddle.

What? What's happening? This isn't how it happened.

And when I look back at Silas, he's hurling a speaker in my direction…

"Ahhh!" I scream, sitting up in bed. "Oh, shit. Shit."

"Are you okay?" Mason asks. "You were having a nightmare."

Fuck. He slept over. I shouldn't have let him sleep over, and I know that. Maybe that's why I dreamt of falling asleep with Silas after prom—I shouldn't have been there, either.

"Yeah, just…a nightmare. Well, it was a good dream first, and then it was bad."

"Who's Silas?"

My heart drops into my stomach.

"What do you mean? I don't know anyone named Silas."

"You said the name in your sleep—a few times."

"Oh, um, not Silas. I was saying, Cyrus. We…I had a cat named Cyrus when I was little, but…coyotes ate him so…that was the bad part of the dream."

"Jesus. Really? They have coyotes in Florida?"

Right. Florida. Do they have coyotes in Florida? I should have said it was an alligator.

"Coyotes are everywhere."

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?" I jump out of bed, narrowly escaping Mason's attempt to wrap his arms around me. "I'd better get ready for work, so you should go."

Mason frowns. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You always do this."

I shrug. "Do what? What did I do?"

"We get close, and then you shut down and withdraw, and I don't hear from you for weeks. And then we get close again, and it happens again."

He isn't wrong; I just didn't realize he was aware of the pattern. But I can't get close to anyone—not really, not ever. Not if I want to keep playing this game. No one can ever know me, just like Tate told me once before, and that's even more true now.

I can't open up. I can't tell anyone how I feel. I can't risk having more than just a drink or two with others around because I don't know what might come out of my mouth if I did.

And I can't fall asleep next to someone else. Because even though it's been over a year, I see them almost every night when I close my eyes. And I talk in my sleep.

But yesterday was my mom's birthday. And so, when I went to Jodie's to do laundry, I got into her medicine cabinet and took a Xanax, washed it down with some vodka, and only then did I decide I didn't want to be alone.

"Mason, I really do just need to get ready for work."

He sighs, reluctantly climbing out of bed and gathering his discarded clothing from the floor. When he isn't looking, I grab his wallet from the desk and quickly remove his debit card and driver's license before setting it down. I can't explain it—it's not like I'm going to use the card, and he's never done anything to deserve it…that I know of.

It's just that I can't stop playing this fucking game. In a way, it makes me feel like I'm still myself.

Or maybe it's just because I ran away from a bad life and woke up in a boring one.

"Then you'll let me take you out tonight, right?"

"I don't know," I tell him. "I'll text you."

"You know, Lilah…" Mason starts, pulling his shirt over his head. He straightens it out and then runs his hands through his blonde hair.

He really is handsome…in a very conventional way—muscular build, strong jawline, pretty blue eyes and a tight ass. He looks like the guys I hung out with at Holbridge Academy, except they only looked like good guys, and none of them would've deigned to work as a mechanic.

And my ex-boyfriends murdered them.

He crosses the room until he's standing in front of me, and continues, "One of these days, I'm going to get tired of this, and I'm going to stop answering your texts, and then what are you going to do?"

It stings a little, but I know I deserve it. "I won't hold it against you."

Mason laughs a little, shaking his head before placing a hand on my cheek. "Well, that's nice of you, but it's also not at all what I wanted to hear." He leans in, kissing me on the lips. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah…see you later."

Sighing, he heads for the door. I'm relieved when it closes behind him, and then I feel guilty for feeling that way. Honestly, I should leave him alone. I know he wants and deserves more than this.

But I get lonely, too. Is that so bad? Does that make me a bad person?

I have his license and debit card hidden behind my back, so yeah, it probably does.

I toss them into a drawer before getting into the shower and washing my hair. I've kept it red all this time and added bangs. I'm still in Winter Falls, working in the café. A week turned into a month, and that turned into, Can I stay through the winter? After that, it just became permanent; I didn't leave, and she never asked me to. I'm a good employee, and where else am I going to go?

But I'm careful. I stay off social media, and I don't let people take my photo. I bought a prepaid cell phone, and I try not to google anything about myself or the murders. And somehow, after all this time, I've stayed off the radar.

So have Silas and Tate. I don't know where they are or even if they are, but I know they haven't been caught. The media refers to what happened that night as the Multnomah County Massacre and named me an accomplice, just as Tate said they would. There were candlelight vigils and promises to leave no stone unturned, but months went by with no sign of Silas or Tate, so no one really talks about it anymore.

But it was in the local paper last month on the anniversary, reminding everyone of the tragedy. And even though there was a small, black-and-white photo of me in the article, which sent me into a panic, no one here looked at me twice.

I don't need reminders; I'll never forget. My body will never forget, and that's another reason I needed Mason out of here.

I have this…routine. It takes a long time.

After I dry my hair, put on makeup, and get dressed, I go to the kitchen and prepare some eggs, strawberries, and toast.

The toast is pretty easy to get down. I've gotten to the point where I can eat small bites of dry, crunchy foods, and they won't come back up in my throat. But I can't survive on just crackers and toast, even though I did for quite some time. My hair and nails have grown brittle, and I've lost more weight than I really had to lose. It helps—I guess—with the disguise, but I think it's killing me.

Jodie even made me take a drug test last spring. She said she tests all of her employees occasionally, but I knew it wasn't true. I could tell by the way she stared at my collarbones instead of my eyes when I spoke to her.

And so I sit here, and I spend an hour trying to force down whatever I decide to make, fighting against involuntary ruminations. It comes up, I swallow it back down. On days that I'm not too tired, too utterly fucking overwhelmed by the thought of eating to try, anyway.

Today, it's scrambled eggs and strawberries. And the inside of my mouth already feels like it's sweating.

I set the plate on the counter, and then slide onto the barstool. I let myself take a couple of bites of toast first as a warmup, and it goes down pretty easily. Next, I try the eggs.

As soon as I put them into my mouth, my esophagus tenses. I chew…and chew…until I finally get up the nerve to swallow.

And they come back up.

And they come back up.

On the third try, with the help of some water, I keep them down. I try the strawberries next, cutting them into tiny squares first, and it helps.

See? I can't have Mason here for breakfast. I can't go on dinner dates.

By the time I leave for work, I've finished the strawberries and toast and maybe three bites of eggs. Still, it's progress. I'll get there.

Another way my body remembers is the pain in my ankle when it rains, and today, it's definitely going to rain. I make my way down the staircase, using the railing to take some of the weight off of it.

I cross in front of Jodie's house and then make my way through the parking lot to the front of the café. Judging by the amount of cars outside, it's a little busier than usual, but it's also warm for this late in October. Winters here are longer and snowier than I'm used to, and when people can get out on the weekend like this, they make the most of it.

Distracted, I run into the back end of a truck that didn't bother pulling all the way into the parking space.

"Ah, fuck," I mutter.

Great. That'll leave a fucking bruise. Everything leaves a bruise now—another unfortunate side effect of my malnutrition. The back of the truck is covered with bumper stickers, but one in particular catches my eye.

Make Women Obedient Again!

"Mother fucker…"

I grit my teeth, looking from side to side to ensure no one is watching, then pull my keys from my pocket. Digging past the stickers and into the paint, I drag my house key across the tailgate.

I look back at my work and smile before rounding the corner onto the sidewalk, slowing when I find myself behind a couple with a little girl. It looks like they're coming from a fall soccer game. The girl, maybe around nine, dribbles her ball from one foot to the other behind her parents. As they turn toward the front door, the girl loses her footing and kicks the ball into the street.

"Damn it," she says under her breath. I laugh a little, remembering myself at that age doing the same thing when I thought no one could hear it—a harmless act of defiance that, for whatever reason, made me feel powerful.

But then she goes for the ball without looking.

I don't even think about it; at no point did I make a decision, and I don't realize what I'm doing until after it's already done, but I grab the girl by her jersey and pull her back as an SUV skids to a halt, its horn blaring. And then I'm on the ground with the little girl next to me, her parents kneeling beside us, frantic with questions, as they pull her, sobbing, into their arms.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"Why did you go in the road?"

"Are you hurt?"

The driver of the SUV gets out with the same questions. The soccer ball isn't as lucky.

"You're a hero," the mother says, helping me to my feet and then hugging me. "Thank you so much. You saved her life."

"Um, you're welcome," I say, awkwardly shrugging her off. "It's not a big deal. I have to go to work. I'm glad she's okay, though."

"Wait! What's your name?"

"It's, um, it's Lilah."

"Well, here," the dad says, opening his wallet. "Take this."

He holds out a few twenty-dollar bills.

"Oh, no," I tell him. "I can't take your money. I don't want to take your money. I—"

I almost say something about how I'm late for work, but I stop when I look around and realize that not only is everyone on the street watching, but people have stopped their cars and come out of shops lining the street to watch, too.

And a lot of them are holding up their phones, recording.

Oh, shit.

I panic, my breath coming short as my pulse quickens, and what food I did manage to force down threatens to come back up. "I—I have to go."

Lowering my gaze, I race for the safety of the restaurant—past the family, the onlookers, and Jodie at the front door. I don't stop until I get to the back room, pacing back and forth in front of my locker, my hands shaking.

Fuck. Is this it?

Is it time to go? I've known since I first got here that the day would likely come when I'd need to leave, but I let myself get comfortable and started to think maybe it wouldn't. After all, every year, they'll forget a little bit more. Every year, I'll look a little less like the nineteen-year-old girl in the grainy security camera videos and photographs.

And in this town, where nothing happens, and no one stays for long, they aren't looking for mass murderers.

I try the combo on my padlock twice with shaky hands before I get it right and my locker opens. After tossing my purse inside, I take out my green apron, tying it around my waist.

Jodie leans against the doorframe, watching me slam the locker closed before kicking it. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine," I lie.

"You're mad they took your picture?"

"Mad isn't the right word."

I brush past her, clocking in before passing through the kitchen and into the dining room. I pretend she isn't following me, waiting for answers, and busy myself wiping down the already-clean countertop.

"No one is going to find you," she says to my back. "You're safe here."

Of course, Jodie believes I'm only hiding from an ex-boyfriend. But I'm hiding from two ex-boyfriends and life in prison.

"You don't know that."

"Well, what would you do? Go back and let the little girl get hit by the car?"

Maybe. "No, of course not."

The bell above the door dings. "Welcome to Poplar Café," I tell the man. "You can grab a seat wherever you'd like, and I'll be right with you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jodie asks.

"Absolutely not. I just want to do my job, and then I want to wake up tomorrow to a normal day where no one knows me or cares about anything I did. And they don't take my fucking picture."

Grabbing a menu and a pot of coffee, I approach the man who just walked in. "I'm Lilah, and I'll be your server today. Can I start you off with some coffee?"

"Hey, you saved that girl, right?" a woman behind him says. "Do you mind if I take your picture?"

The rest of my shift went by normally, for the most part. Only one other person asked if they could take my picture, to which I also declined, and sometime before the seven hours elapsed, my heart rate slowed, and I felt stupid about my full-blown meltdown.

"Hey, Lilah," my coworker, Zoey, says as she passes me on her way to the back room. "Guess what?"

"You're late," I say, signing out of the cash register. "And the register was short again yesterday, so Jodie asked me to tell you to make sure you're reconciling the drawer at the end of your shifts."

"Okay, Jodie-lite. Calm down."

"Whatever. Text me if you have any problems closing. If there's anyone still lingering in the dining room after midnight, tell Gabriel. He'll get rid of them for you."

"You're no fun," Zoey says. "You didn't even guess, so I'll tell you—you've gone viral. See?" A video of me in the street earlier plays on her phone's screen. "Congratulations."

"What?" I ask. "What do you mean, I've gone viral?"

"Oh, right. You're too cool for social media. Viral is when—"

"No, I know what viral means!" I say, snatching the phone from her hand.

Six million views. It looks like it was uploaded from the security camera at the boutique across the street, so the quality is poor, and you can only see my face for a few seconds.

"Okay. I mean, that's not really that bad, is it?" I accidentally say aloud.

"I mean, you look okay in it," Zoey says.

She's lying. Her voice does that thing where it goes up at the end, but that's not what I mean.

"No one looks good when they're making a surprised face like that," she continues. "And I'm going to assume you save your nicer tops for when you aren't working, but you really never know when you're going to get caught out like this, so that's something you should think about."

"What? No, I mean…six million isn't that many, right? And you can barely tell it's me."

Zoey shrugs. "Six million is twice the population of Chicago, but sure. It's not the only one, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, that's the one with the most views because it captured the incident, but there are more photos and videos from the aftermath, too." She takes the phone back, and I watch as she types Winter Falls car accident into the search bar.

Six different stills populate on her screen.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"In this one, you're not making that face, but your hair looks a little frizzy."

"God fucking damn it!" I yell, kicking the lockers. "Fuck!"

"Um, are you—"

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Zoey."

"Well, you don't have to be such a bitch about it. It's not like I—"

"Hey!" Gabriel, the lead chef and acting manager when Jodie isn't there, steps into the back room. "There are people waiting out here. Are either of you working?"

"She is," I tell him. "And she's late and already clocked in. I'm leaving."

"I'm going!" Zoey says, tossing her phone into her locker and tying her apron on her way out.

"What's your problem?" Gabriel asks.

I sigh. "Nothing. I'm exhausted, and she caught me off-guard. It's not a big deal."

But I was a little too harsh. It wasn't Zoey's fault; I don't have many friends, and I can't afford to make enemies.

"Do you think she's stealing from the till?"

"Honestly, no. I don't think anyone is stealing; I think she's just sloppy."

It was me.

It was only a couple of times and only about forty dollars, but still, I shouldn't have done it to Jodie. But sometimes, I can't stop myself. Jodie is nice enough to pay me in cash after taking out my rent and utilities, but it doesn't leave me much left over after groceries and essentials. Plus, I'm angry and bored, and it's a shitty combination.

I'll stop, though. For now.

"Hmm, all right. Well, I put that to-go order that was never picked up in the fridge if you want it. I'll see you tomorrow, Lilah."

"I do want it. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

I stop by the fridge and grab the bag before leaving through the back door, then cross the parking lot to my apartment.

The lights in Jodie's house are off, and her car isn't in the garage when I pass. She hasn't told me yet, but Gabriel said she started seeing someone—a paramedic from the next town over. She's gone most nights and spends more time on her phone than she ever has.

Once inside, I bolt the door and take out a half-empty gallon of cheap as shit vodka I stole from the gas station. Like I said, I don't allow myself to drink often, and when I do, it's always alone, but it's an untenable life hack for my little eating problem. If I drink enough, I'm able to detach enough to eat an entire meal without vomiting. I take a swig from the bottle before removing the styrofoam take-out boxes from the bag.

A large container of fries, some mac 'n' cheese, and a burger—that's at least a day's worth of calories for a normal person. The fries I can eat sober and without much issue, so I can save those for breakfast tomorrow. There's a soda in the bag, too. I take it out, drinking until it's half-empty, and then pour vodka into the container until it's full again. Then I pile the food onto a plate and toss it into the microwave.

Another perk to my living situation is that Jodie shares her Netflix account with me. I skip past all the Halloween horror recommendations and push play on one of those survivalist shows Silas got me hooked on. I bring the food to bed with me, watching television while I drink until I can look at the plate of food without a lump forming in my throat.

Halfway through the second episode, I'm wasted, but I've managed to finish the mac 'n' cheese and at least a third of the burger, so that's something. I put the rest of the food in the refrigerator, and then I turn off the light, clumsily step out of my jeans, and remove my bra from under my shirt before crawling into bed.

My phone vibrates against the nightstand, and I grab it, knocking over my drink in the process.

"Fuck," I grumble, swiping to unlock it.

MASON Just now leaving work. I'm going to Spades with a couple of friends—I don't suppose I can convince you to come with me, can I? I'll pick you up.

I close one eye and attempt a reply.

Can't. Had a bad day an god drunk.

"Shit," I whisper, reading it back to myself after I hit send. Eh, well. He'll figure it out, right?

But the phone rings a few seconds later. I shouldn't answer it—I have rules about talking while drunk—but I do it, anyway.

"Hey," I say. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Mason says. "I'm just wondering how drunk you have to be before it's considered god drunk."

I laugh a little. "It's one of those things where when you know, you know."

"Hm, okay. Does this have anything to do with what happened this morning with the little girl? I saw the video; that had to be scary."

"Yeah, it was scary," I tell him, choking on the words a little. "I'm really scared…that my life is over…again."

"What are you talking about?" he asks. "Your life's not over, Lilah. You're fine; the kid is fine. Why don't you let me come over, okay?"

"No, I'm fine. And you have plans—you should go be with your friends. You should be with people who are good and good for you, and not me. I'm…not a good person." I should stop talking. I should stop talking and hang up the phone. "I'm walking around missing parts and a bullet wound, and I will never, ever be clean."

"You're a good person, Lilah."

"I wish I'd met someone like you when I was younger. Maybe I'd be different."

"When you were younger?" he repeats, laughing a little. "You're twenty years old."

"Yeah, but it's already too late because I can't forget. It's like…phantom limb syndrome, and even though they're gone, I can still feel them."

Tate, Mia, Silas, my mom. They'll all gone. I've lost all my limbs.

"Lilah, you're freaking me out. I'm just going to come over, okay?"

"No! No, don't."

"I don't think you should be alone right now."

"I don't want you to," I lie, because I have to. For the rest of my life, I'll always have to lie. "I don't want to see you…ever."

"Is this about what I said this morning? Because…I didn't mean it. If you're not ready for something serious, I'm fine with that. I don't even think I want to be in a relationship, so I don't know why I said that."

Now he's the one lying, and it makes me feel worse. "Yeah, you do. You deserve so much better than this."

"What—"

"Bye, Mason."

I end the call, turn off the television, and then curl into a ball under the covers and cry. Without realizing it, I push my hands into my hair and begin rubbing circles behind my ears with my own fingertips, comforting myself the way Tate used to. It's a habit I can't break—just another way my body remembers its phantom limbs.

My phone vibrates again, and Mason's name pops up on the lock screen.

MASON You're god drunk, so if you want to pretend this didn't happen tomorrow, I will, too.

It's tempting. But I've been doing this with him—lying to him, leading him on—for almost four months, and I like him too much now. But I'll never love him like I loved them, and I need to stop.

I sigh, and before I can toss the phone aside, it vibrates twice more. Don't read it, I tell myself. Save it for the morning when you're more rational and better equipped to deal with this.

But I don't. And this message isn't from Mason.

UNKNOWN Hey, little lost girl.

UNKNOWN Found you.

Hands shaking, I throw the phone across the room and scream. I don't sleep at all.

eleven

Phantom Limbs and Other Ghosts

Silas

"Well, that was easy," Tate laughs as we leave the parking lot. "You can wipe that fucking look off your face now."

I shoot him a side-eyed glare before turning back to the road.

"Yep, that's the one."

"Breaking into cars doesn't worry me," I tell him. "I'm worried about being on this side of the border. It's not smart—coming here. We've already been here too long."

"We need guns…and money. There's no better place to get those things than here, and you can't argue against that. I mean, we just found three of them in unlocked cars in a Walmart parking lot."

"Again, that isn't what I'm arguing with."

"You know, I thought you'd be happy to see Noah again," Tate says. "Oh, turn here. Take the scenic byway."

Of course, I want to see Noah. There's still a part of me that thinks maybe this is fate, because at the exact time we decided to come back, a video went viral of a girl from a nearby town who looked like a redheaded version of Noah. When Tate first showed it to me, I wasn't convinced. It was grainy, she looked too skinny, and none of them quite caught her eyes. That's what I looked for as I scrolled through the videos and still photos—I just needed to see my girl's eyes.

That didn't happen, but I landed in the comment section, where someone who claimed to work with her gave her full name: Lilah Watts.

We named her Delilah. And Watts is my last name.

She gave them my last name as her own. That's how I knew.

Relief washed over me. I spent so many nights lying awake, wondering what happened to Noah. When she was able to stay out of the news, I assumed she was dead. I worried it was brutal…or slow and gruesome, something much worse than whatever Tate had planned.

But he said he knew. He knew she was alive. It was that part that kept him awake at night. I'm not sure what he's going to do about it. He told me he won't kill her—that he just wants to play a game with her, and if I let him, he'll leave her alone. I'm unsure what caused the change of heart, but he's never lied to me before, so I believe him.

Maybe, after seeing her, he was never going to do it. You never know how you're going to react at a visceral level when you see someone you used to love for the first time. After Noah ghosted me, I was hurt. I tried to accept it, but that hurt grew to anger, and with nowhere to go, that anger convinced me I'd be okay with killing her and Tate would be better for it.

Still, as much as I want to see her, I don't think Noah is going to be happy to see either of us, and I don't want to fuck up her life again. I started all of this, and I know that. Maybe I should have kept her to myself; we never had any rules for what we'd been doing—not before her. We pretended it was casual, even though it hadn't been for quite some time. But I knew my feelings for her were becoming a problem, and he looked at her, too. I watched him stare at her thighs; I watched the way his eyes dropped to her chest when she spoke to him. I listened to the things he said about her and to her when she was drinking, and it didn't sound like he was joking.

So, one day, I told Tate how I felt about Noah, and then I watched the wheels turning in his head when he smiled and said, I think this could really work out.

And it did—for a while. The three of us really worked out well before Mia found out and Tate fucked it all up. The two of them are—or were, in Mia's case—both rage-fueled nightmares who would rather make someone else sorry than ever fucking be sorry.

It's easier to be the offended party than it is to admit what you did was wrong. So Tate and Mia were the offended parties, and Noah was punished for it.

We fought about it for months—because I wanted him to tell Mia the truth and be sorry. And he wanted to make Noah sorrier. It drove a rift between Tate and Mia, too, because she never believed him, and he refused to admit the truth. So, in both of their stubbornness, Mia lost more than just her best friend, and she was that much more lonely in the end.

I'd never point that out, though. There's no way he's unaware; he just…needs it to go somewhere else.

His pain manifests itself through fucking and hurting others. And I'm not much better because I'm more than happy to assist him with both, and I kind of started that, too…because I beat a man to death behind a bar once, and it turned out he was the kind of man no one missed.

No one ever came for us. No one ever knocked on my door. My picture was never on television or in the paper.

Tate loved it. And after a couple of weeks passed, I was able to admit that I loved it, too. It made me feel powerful—like I could do whatever I wanted and no one could stop me.

Like a god…just like Tate said.

It was Christmas of that year when he first suggested we kill Noah. We'd gone to this cabin not far from town that was empty almost year-round. We'd go there from time to time to drink and fuck without limits; we brought Noah there a few times, too. He was drunk and in his feels, and he missed her. I knew he missed her and had missed her the entire time, even if he wouldn't say it aloud.

"I was good to her," he'd say over and over again whenever he got drunk. He'd say it enough that I'm sure he was trying to convince himself, and it wasn't working. "She's heartless. I bet if we sliced her in half and opened up her chest cavity, there'd be nothing there." Then he rolled over, wrapping his hand around my cock, stroking it while he said, "I think we should find out."

I told him no, that I wouldn't hurt Noah. I told him for the thousandth time that if he doesn't want Noah anymore—if he doesn't love her, and he insisted he didn't—then he needs to stop doing this and let her go.

"I can't," he says. "She takes up too much space in my head—in my cellular makeup. Does that make sense? She haunts too many places in my memories and too many spaces in my head. Like this place…don't you feel it? It's dirty here now."

"I feel it. Just not the way you do."

While I'm angry with Noah for leaving me, too, and sometimes, I want to hurt her, I don't want to hurt her like that. I want to tie her to the bed and fuck her into submission and only let her go when she wants me again. I have this fucked up fantasy where she shows up at my door, pregnant and scared, and I'd take care of her, and then she'd never be able to leave me. In this fantasy, Tate is angry at first, but it doesn't take long for him to come around. I know he loves her, even though he lies about it, just like I know she loves him, whether she wants to or not.

I can't blame her for not wanting to—he doesn't always make it easy. But when he does, it's really easy. Like breathing.

"Well, how can you stand it?" he asks. "It feels like someone cut off a part of me—an arm, maybe—and I know where that arm is, and that arm is just fine, living a better, more privileged version of life without a fucking care in the world, and I'm incomplete. I'm dirty and haunted, and I can still feel that fucking arm."

I know the answer, but I know it isn't something I can tell him. He wouldn't like it, and he wouldn't accept it.

But the very real difference is that it wasn't my fault. Noah hurt me, but I didn't hurt Noah like he did—or like Mia did. I loved her, and she knows it because I told her.

That's why Tate is haunted. Because he hurt her, and it's his fault she's gone now, and he knows it.

"I want to do it, though," he said, teasing the head of my dick with his thumb. "I want to kill someone…like you did. I want to know what it feels like."

"Not Noah," I groan, gritting my teeth as my dick swells in his fist.

"Someone no one will notice is missing," Tate said. "Just to see how it feels. You liked how it felt, didn't you? Crushing his face with your bare hands?"

My cock jumps, precum leaking from the tip. Yeah, I fucking liked it, and he knows it, too.

Moving onto all fours, he licks my cum from the head, swirling his pierced tongue around the tip before taking me so far in his throat that his lips almost touch the base.

I don't know how he does it, but it drives me fucking crazy.

I need him to move; I need him to slide those lips, that fucking tongue back down my cock, but he holds it there, moaning around me, the vibrations making me writhe beneath him as he squeezes my balls.

Finally, he gives me what I want, sliding his tongue back up my cock. I move onto my knees, gripping the sides of his head in my hands, and he sucks while I fuck his face the way I wanted to, stroking himself with his free hand.

The sight of it sends me reeling. I slide my hands down the sides of his face until they're wrapped around his throat and squeeze.

Tate sputters, his face turning red as he loses oxygen. I know when to stop, but I'm so close, I don't want to.

His hand rolls over my hip, wrapping around me until his fingers slip inside my ass, applying pressure in just the right place while I fuck his face, maintaining the same brutal pace, and I explode, coming hard down his throat. When I finally pull out, he swallows before collapsing on his back with his hard cock still in his hand, gasping for air, licking his lips clean when the color comes back to his face.

I take over stroking his dick, wrapping my fist tightly around his base before sliding it upward over the thick tip and back down again.

"Tomorrow," he groans, still trying to catch his breath. "Tomorrow, I want to do it, and I want you to help me. I think I'd like to use a knife. Fuck…"

"That could get messy," I tell him.

"I want it to be messy—fuck, that feels good. Lick it…please. Put your mouth on it."

I grip the base, licking up and down the length of him while he squirms before swallowing his cock.

"Oh, yes," he whimpers with relief. "Oh, fuck, that feels good. Shit."

I taste his cum on my tongue before he thrusts up into my mouth.

"Then I want to fuck next to the body," he grunts as his eyes roll back in his head and spurts of cum hit the back of my throat. "Ah, fuck. I want to look into their cold, dead eyes while I fuck your mouth. I want to feel like a god."

The next day, we went for a walk and found a man ice fishing on the lake. Tate approached him, started asking him a lot of questions about ice fishing, and found out he was also the kind of person no one would notice was missing: no job, divorced, no living relatives, and a criminal record. He always spent Christmas out here alone, and it would be a while before anyone looked for him, if they ever did.

Tate stabbed him through the eye. He flopped around on the ice for a while, just like the fish he'd pulled from beneath its surface, before he died. When he finally stopped, I sucked him off like he wanted, and we dropped him through the hole in the ice. Tate was ecstatic, but on the way home, complained that man's winter gear made for a less than optimal experience. He would have liked to stab the soft parts—would have preferred it to be messier, to see more blood.

"Next time," he promised.

I explained to him all the logistical reasons we couldn't just go around killing people, and he assured me he wouldn't—not unless someone really deserved it.

We've had to have that same talk several times since, and yet, here we are, looking for someone who won't be missed again. Sure, there's a purpose behind it, but I know part of that purpose is just to scratch an itch. I wish I could say that I didn't want to scratch it, too, but I can't. And so, I drive well under the speed limit down the scenic byway in the dark, looking for trailheads with low traffic where someone maybe didn't make it back before nightfall.

"Whoa, slow down," Tate says. "Over there."

I pull the car off to the side of the road, parking beside a pickup truck and an old, faded trailhead sign.

Glacier Falls Loop: 2.4 miles.

"It's a loop," Tate says. "That should make it easy. You go one way, I'll go the other."

I nod before getting out of the car, then approach the old pickup truck and peer into the windows, trying to get a read on its owner. No car seat, no toys. No sign of anything definitively female, either—just an old flannel on the passenger side and a few canisters of chewing tobacco—one on the dash, and a couple on the floor.

I try the handle, finding it unlocked, and open the glove box. "Check it out," I say to Tate, holding up another hand gun.

"What'd I tell you?" Tate says. "It's too easy here."

"Yeah." I open the trunk, pull back the lining, and stash the weapon with the others.

"I'm going left," Tate says, starting on the trail before me. He's eager, and he knows he's more likely to run into whoever is out there before me if he goes that way. Still, I let him, stuffing my hands in my pockets and heading right, following footprints on the dark mountain trail, lightly covered in snow. It's not unusual for this time of year at this altitude, and any local would know this, but it makes the trail difficult to stick to, and it makes me wonder if whoever is out there might have gotten turned around.

Knowing my strides are longer than Tate's and that I don't need to be quiet and sneak up on my prey because it doesn't matter anyway, I quicken my pace, not quite running down the loop trail. After about twenty minutes of this, I hear voices—Tate's and that of another male.

"I'm glad I ran into you," Tate says. "I think I might be lost. I've been trying to find my way back to the trailhead for about an hour now, and my phone's dead. Can I follow you out of here?"

"You're fucking with me, right?" the man says.

Now, I do slow my pace, carefully closing in on him so the man doesn't realize he's been cornered.

"What do you mean?" Tate asks.

"You don't look like the hiking type," the man says. "If you want to suck my dick, just say that."

I'm close enough now to see Tate smile. "Okay," he says. "I want to suck your dick."

I step behind a tree as the man turns, scanning the area for other hikers.

"You see any other cars out there?" he asks Tate.

"Nope," Tate says. "Just your truck."

He gestures for Tate to follow him, walking a few paces back into the forest before he stops, and I hear him fumbling with his belt.

"I'm not gay," the man says. "I had a wife, but the bitch left me."

Tate scoffs. "Yeah, okay. Are you going to come in my mouth or bore me to death with your pathetic life story?"

"Shut the fuck up!" the man shouts.

It makes me more than a little uncomfortable, and I decide to move in on him, less concerned with whether or not he hears me.

"Make me," Tate says, smiling as his eyes meet mine.

"All right, get the fuck over here," the man says, letting his pants fall to his ankles. As Tate takes a step toward him, I reach around the tree and grab the man by the arms, holding them back by the wrists.

"What the fuck?" the man screams as he struggles against my hold. "Let me go! I'm going to fucking kill you!"

I laugh a little as he struggles ineffectually against my hold. He's no match for my size and strength, and it barely fazes me.

"Okay, I get it," the guy says, forcing a laugh. "But I'm not really into this kind of thing, all right?"

Tate smiles as he pulls out his knife. "I don't really care what you're into."

"W—what are you…oh, fuck!" the man says, resuming his panic. "Help! Help me!"

Tate laughs. "He's crying."

"Stop playing with your fucking food, Tate, or I'll do it myself!"

"Fine," Tate groans, rolling his eyes.

"No!" the man screams.

Tate pulls the knife back before repeatedly driving it into the soft flesh of his lower abdomen. The man screams until he can't, and when I feel his arms go slack, I release them, letting him fall to the ground.

"That was too easy," Tate complains. "I prefer at least a little bit of fight—makes it more exciting. I like that he cried, though."

"Whatever," I tell him. "We'll toss him over that ledge, and no one will find the body for a long time—if ever."

I grab the half-naked man under the shoulders and drag him in that direction, but Tate stops me. "Wait," he says. "I want the arm."

"The whole arm?" I ask. "I thought you said a finger."

"I want the arm," he says again. "I'll need you to break the bone first, but I know that won't be a problem for you."

No, it won't.

I let the body flop onto the snow-covered ground again. "Do you have a preference on which arm?"

Tate shrugs. "I don't, but thanks for asking. You're very considerate when you want to be."

I roll my eyes and then grab the right arm by its wrist, pulling it until it's at about a forty-five-degree angle.

And then, I stomp it in half.

"Nice," Tate says. "Very nice."

He kneels in the snow and begins sawing through the flesh. Once the arm detaches, we drag the body to the ledge and throw it into the ravine.

We retrieve the arm on the way back, stashing it in our cooler in the backseat.

"Let me know if you get hungry," Tate says.

"Yeah, I'm not doing that again."

"Really? I'd do it if you would. I feel like it was a really good bonding experience. No?"

I ignore him, keeping my eyes fixed on the highway.

He shrugs. "Ah, well. Next stop: Winter Falls. Whatever the fuck that is."

twelve

If You're in Trouble and You Know It, Make It Worse!

Noah

Make it stop.

That's what I think when I open my eyes. Make it stop.

But the 'it' is my phone vibrating against the hardwood floor as the alarm goes off, and no one can make it stop but me. As I roll over, my eyes catch the time displayed on the microwave, and I realize it's probably been going off for a while.

Fuck. I'm going to be late.

I crawl out of bed, my head pounding, but at least my stomach isn't rumbling for once. I toss my leftover fries into the microwave and then head to the bathroom, where I quickly rinse off before straightening my hair and applying some makeup.

"It's not frizzy," I say aloud, remembering what Zoey told me last night. I run my hands through my short red locks and shake out my bangs. It could use a trim, I guess…by a professional, for once. In my next life, maybe I'll wear a wig. Then again, the nice ones are expensive, from what I understand, and they'd prove limiting if I ever found myself in an intimate situation again.

Shit. Mason.

My pulse quickens as I try to recall our conversation from the night before. But surely, I didn't say anything too damning, right? I'd know if I did.

But wait, there was another thing.

The texts.

I drop the hair straightener, and it lands directly on my foot.

"Fuck!" I scream, jumping back. "Fucking damn it!"

That was my good foot, too.

I try to convince myself that I made it up—that somewhere between god drunk and sleep, I imagined I received those messages. But I pick up the phone with shaky hands, swiping to unlock it, and there it is.

Unknown: 2 Messages.

I'm in trouble, and I know it. I stuff the phone into the back pocket of my jeans, pull a flannel over my tank top, slip on my sneakers, and leave with the fries still in the microwave, locking the door behind me.

This time, when I walk around the front of the building, I promise myself that if someone else wants to get run over, I'll let them, no matter who they are.

"Hey," Zoey says when I step inside. "You look nicer today. You took my advice, didn't you?"

"What are you talking about, Zoey?" I ask as I head to the back to clock in.

"About getting caught out? And it's a good thing, too, because at this rate, it's probably going to happen again."

"At this rate? What's this rate? What does that mean?"

"A couple of reporters have called here for you," she says.

"What?" I can't breathe. "What did you tell them?"

"Jodie told them you didn't work here, and she doesn't know you; she told me to tell them the same thing. I don't really understand why, though. Do you want to tell me why?"

"I like my privacy," I tell her. "That's why I moved here—for privacy."

The phone rings as I breeze past her, tying my apron around my waist.

"Poplar Café," I say as I answer. "This is…Zoey."

Zoey crinkles her nose at me, nudging me with her shoulder as she passes.

"Hi, my name is Stephanie, and I'm with the Cascade Tribune. I was hoping to speak to…Lilah?"

Fuck. "I don't know anyone by that name; I'm sorry."

"Oh…really? I must have the wrong information, then. Maybe you can help me, anyway. The redhead who saved that little girl yesterday—do you know how or where I could get ahold of her?"

"No, sorry," I lie. "We don't know who she is; she must have been passing through. Have a nice day."

"Table fourteen is up," Gabriel says, setting two plates of food in the window.

That's my section now, so I grab the plates but freeze before rounding the bar. Two men in dark clothing and gloves sit in that back corner booth, each wearing a mask. It makes me uneasy, and even though I didn't eat, I think I may vomit.

"Zoey…?"

"Yes?"

"Did you seat Ghostface and Jason Voorhees in the back booth?"

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"Why did you do that?"

"What do you mean? It's Halloween week. People are allowed to be festive. Hey, actually, my roommates and I are having a party tonight; you should come. You, of all people, need to fucking unwind."

I barely hear her, my eyes still locked on the two men in the corner. I can't tell, but I think they're looking at me, too.

"They have coffee," I say. "So, are they drinking it? Did they take the masks off?"

They ordered food, so they must plan on taking them off, right?

"Oh, no," she says. "They took their straws, and they're just kind of—you know—wedging them up under the masks. It's kind of hilarious."

"It's kind of fucking creepy."

"I can take them the food if you're that scared," she says.

I look back at the table. Ghostface is definitely watching me; he cocks his head to the side as my eyes meet the place where his should be. I begin feeling queasy and set the plates on the counter, gripping the corner and looking down at my feet while I catch my breath.

"Lilah?"

"I don't like masks," I whisper.

It's true—I've never liked masks. They remind me of the story my grandmother used to tell me, which reminds me of the other reason I can't sleep.

Fuck.

"It's okay; I'll take care of this," Zoey says, her expression still confused.

But she's right, isn't she? It's Halloween this week, and he's only looking at me because he wants his food.

"No, I've got it," I tell her.

I fix my face, hold my chin high, and walk right over to that table, refusing to allow fear to take over. "Okay, who had the club sandwich?" I ask in my practiced server voice.

Jason lifts one gloved finger, and I set the plate down in front of him.

"That must make you the soup of the day," I say, setting the other in front of Ghostface. "Anything else I can get for you two?"

Ghostface shakes his head from side to side, almost comically slow.

I try to think of a question that would require an answer beyond yes or no. "Where are you from?" I ask.

Ghostface looks at Jason before shrugging.

And I'm annoyed. I'm way too high-strung for this shit right now, and so fuck my phobia and my tip; they probably wouldn't leave me one, anyway.

I scoff, shaking my head. "You know it's rude, right? Someone talks to you; you don't bother to reply. Someone brings you food, and you can't even say thank you."

Ghostface cocks his head again, then slowly lifts his gloved hands, curling them together to make a heart.

A fucking heart.

Across from him, Jason shakes with silent laughter.

"Okay," I say, fuming. "Yeah, you're fucking welcome."

I stomp away from the table, but before I can round the corner of the bar, find myself face-to-face with Mason.

"Hey," he says sheepishly. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"I'm kind of…" Busy. I was going to say busy. But it's easy to discern from just a quick glance around the dining room that it's a lie, and his eyes are sad, the way mine are most of the time. "Yeah, sure," I say instead.

He gestures to the empty booth behind the two men, and I follow, sitting across from him, which puts me back-to-back with Jason.

"Do you remember our conversation last night?" he asks.

I nod. "I think so. I remember most of it."

"Did you mean it? Do you really want me to leave you alone?"

"I think…it's for the best."

"Shit." He sighs, looking up at the ceiling before leaning in and reaching across the table for my hand. "I was really hoping you wouldn't be able to say it to my face."

I almost couldn't, but then I remembered how disappointed he'd be if he ever found out who I really was, and that made it easier.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "It really isn't you or anything you did; it's me. I'm the one who's…mentally unwell."

"You and those phantom limbs, right?"

I nod again. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"You're going to miss me," he says.

"Probably."

"Who are you going to talk to in the middle of the night when you're lonely?"

"No one," I tell him. "I'll just have to get used to being lonely again."

"I hate that."

I offer him a sad smile. "I'd better get back to work. I'll see you around."

I slide out of the booth, but before I can walk away, he stops me.

"Oh, Lilah?"

"Yeah?"

"I hate to ask, but I lost my ID and one of my cards, and the last time I know I had them was before I went to your place. Do you mind looking for them?"

"Oh…sure, no problem."

"Thanks. If you find them, you can just leave them at the shop or toss them in my yard or something—that way you don't have to look at my stupid face again."

"I wouldn't do that. I like your face."

Mason smiles before shifting his gaze downward. "Okay. Bye, Lilah."

"Bye."

I stay there, watching him leave. The door closes behind him, and reflected in the glass are the men in masks in the back corner. I almost forgot about those assholes.

"Hey! This coffee is cold," an older man calls from across the restaurant, waving his arms in the air.

I turn to him, plastering on a fake smile, and take his cup. "I'll get you another one."

I spit in the bottom of his mug before filling it.

Once I'm back behind the bar, I feel someone watching me again. It's Ghostface, and neither he nor Jason have touched any of their food or removed their masks.

This is not my day.

I print out their tab and stomp across the restaurant to that back table, stopping in front of them.

"Something wrong with the food?" I ask.

They both shake their heads in that slow, annoying way again.

"Do you want me to take these for you? Doesn't look like you're eating, so I went ahead and grabbed your check."

I set the receipt down on the table, but before I grab the plates, Ghostface picks up his straw and sticks one end in his soup.

You're fucking kidding me.

He sticks the other end up under the mask, and I watch him suck thick tomato bisque up through the straw, and it makes me want to fucking scream.

I ball my fists, locking my arms tightly by my side to prevent myself from yeeting the damn bowl against the wall, and walk away.

"Okay, well…have fun with that."

I stomp back behind the counter, muttering profanities under my breath while starting a fresh batch of coffee. With the dining area mostly empty, I find a place behind the counter where I'm obstructed from their view, cross my arms in front of my body, and glare at them.

Minutes pass, and he's still there with his straw in his mouth, sucking down soup.

"You should unclench your jaw," Zoey says. "I don't think I've ever seen you this angry before, and you're angry a lot."

"I'm going to ask Gabriel to make him leave," I say. "Did they speak to you when they ordered?"

"No," she says. "They just pointed. I don't know why it's bothering you so much. They can probably tell, though, and that's why they're staying."

"Maybe they're reporters."

"Is that why you're worried? You think the guy sucking soup through a straw is here on business?"

"Maybe," I tell her. "I need that table, though. It's going to get busy soon."

It always gets busy—for better or worse—after school lets out, especially on Fridays and when it's raining like it is today. There isn't much to do in this town, and Poplar is one of the few places in Winter Falls where you can sit down that isn't a bar. The result is that the place fills up with teenagers who often don't tip, either.

Air crackles in that soup straw loud enough for us to hear it from across the room.

"Sounds like he's done," Zoey says. "Maybe he'll leave."

I'll give them five minutes, I decide. I'll clear my empty tables, and then, if they're still here, I'll tell Gabriel.

But I get lucky because after I clear the first, they get up, toss some cash onto the table, and head for the front door. Ghostface leaves first, and I stare him down as he passes, and then, when I turn, I run directly into Jason's chest.

I inhale as he steps around me, and now I'm pretty sure I'm the one who looks like a ghost. All the color drains from my face, and I stand there, frozen, because I know.

He smells like Silas. They're here. I thought it would be the police or a private investigator who found me, but this is much, much worse.

They're here to kill me.

The bell above the door snaps me out of my haze, and I blink, sending tears rolling down my cheeks.

"Lilah?" Zoey calls. "Are you okay?"

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Yeah," I say, but it comes out as a whisper. "I'm fine."

"Do you want to take your break before we get hit by the afternoon rush?" she asks.

Zoey places her hand on my arm, a comforting gesture, but I shrug her off on reflex. She's nicer than I give her credit for, especially considering what a dick I am to her sometimes.

"Yeah." I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and try again. "Yeah, I do. I just…yesterday was a lot, and I didn't sleep well. Mason and I broke up, too, and—"

"You and your commitment issues, right?" she asks. How does she know? Does he talk about me? The question must be rhetorical because she continues. "I get it—it's fine. I'm not as helpless as you think; I can handle it."

"I don't think you're helpless."

She smiles, squeezing my shoulder before stepping around me. "Sure you don't."

I thank her before heading to the back room. Then I sit at the table, dropping my head into my hands, and try to get a fucking grip.

The afternoon rush is even busier than I expected. Jodie comes in, and I'm on my feet and preoccupied enough to keep at least some thoughts of impending doom at bay.

But the shift passes far too quickly…because I know I'm safe here, surrounded by people, and when I leave, I won't be.

At nine, Zoey and I both clock out and walk out into the dark parking lot together.

I've never found it menacing—actually, I don't think anything has truly frightened me since that night—but I do now. A chill runs down my spine as the cool late October rain settles on my skin, along with the distinct feeling of being watched.

"You sure you don't want to come over?" Zoey asks. "We've got plenty of booze to go around, and from the looks of it, the party is already in full swing."

"No, thanks," I tell her. "I don't even have a costume."

"That doesn't matter," she says. "But suit yourself."

Zoey walks off toward her red Bronco, and I turn in the other direction, stopping when I spot the same two masked men from the café watching me from the other side of the street.

It's them. I know it is. They're going to follow me home and kill me.

"Zoey, wait!" I call out. "I'll go with you!"

I jump into the Bronco, breathing a shaky sigh of relief once inside.

"Lilah, you really need to relax. You look like you've seen a ghost."

I feign laughter, and it must come out just as awkward as I think it does because Zoey grimaces, sucking air through her teeth and shaking her head before starting the vehicle.

Music blares from the speakers as the engine comes alive. Zoey throws it into reverse, tires slipping on the wet gravel as she brakes. Mason does the same fucking thing. It's like there's some unwritten rule—the further you get into the mountains, the more unhinged the drivers are. She pulls onto the main drag, gravel flying, and speeds unnecessarily toward the house she shares with three other girls our age just a few blocks down.

I grab the handle above the door as she pulls off the road without warning, driving through the yard and parking right next to the front porch.

"Jesus," I say. "What the hell, Zoey?"

"Well, the driveway is full, and I'm not parking down the block—this is my fucking house. Let's go."

I step out into the muddy front yard and then follow Zoey up the porch steps and into the crowded house. It's been a long time since I've been to a party like this, and it makes me a little uneasy, but I'm safer here than I am at home right now.

Still, I can't hide forever, and I know that. I'm just not ready to deal with it.

"Come on," Zoey says, taking my hand. "I'll get you a drink."

She pulls me through the crowd to the kitchen, where she grabs a couple of plastic cups from the counter. Before she can fill them with whatever red liquid is in the giant blue storage container in the middle of the kitchen, another girl stops her.

"Hold on," she says. "It's not strong enough yet."

"So, that's Rose," Zoey says. "She lives with me, too. Rose, this is Lilah…from work."

"Yeah, I've seen you there a few times," Rose says, grabbing a plastic bottle of cheap vodka from the freezer. "And I saw your video, of course."

Rose opens the vodka and drains the entirety of its contents into the tub before stirring it with a plastic oar.

That can't be sanitary.

When she finishes, Zoey fills two cups and hands one to me. "Wait," she says before I take a drink.

I pause while she sets her purse on the counter, shuffling through its contents for a few seconds before pulling out a small plastic bag and shaking a couple of pills into her hand. She pops one into her mouth, washing it down with the red mystery drink, and then holds the other out to me between her thumb and first finger.

"To help you relax. You need it."

I do need to fucking relax. I take the pill and place it on my tongue without hesitation, and then sip from the cup. Luckily, I was mentally prepared for it to be mostly alcohol, because that's what it is.

One drink, I tell myself. I can have one drink and hide here until morning if I want to.

Zoey smiles, both pleased and surprised by my compliance. "Good girl," she says, patting my cheek in approval.

It…does something to me.

"I'm going upstairs to change into my costume," she tells me.

As she walks away, I take another drink from the cup and then step into the living room, finding a place to lean against the wall and observe like the houseplant I was at parties like this for years. But this is different—people stare as I accidentally meet their eyes, likely because of the video. I recognize a couple of Mason's friends in the back of the room and quickly look away when they notice me, too.

But then, the alcohol, the pill, or a mix of the two must kick in because I don't care so much. I allow my eyelids to flutter closed, swaying alone to the music. I don't know how long I stay like that before someone places their hand on my arm, pulling me out of it.

"What are you doing at a party like this? Wait until Mason's preppy ass finds out you're just as much of a degenerate as the rest of us."

I recognize him as one of Mason's coworkers. I've seen him at the shop, but I don't know his name. "Oh…hey."

"Noah," he says.

My heart stops in my chest. I quickly backpedal away from him, but it's like the air is thicker, and I can't get away fast enough. Eventually, the back of my legs hit the sofa, and I sink into it, spilling what's left of my drink all over my jeans and the upholstery.

"Whoa, hey," he says, closing the space between us. "You okay?"

"W-why did you call me that?" I ask.

"Call you what?" he laughs. "How wasted are you? I didn't call you anything; I just told you my name was Noah."

I nod, attempting to slow my breathing and heart rate, but it doesn't work. "Right. I'm sorry." I realize I'm sweating, too. Even though the door and windows are open, it feels like I'm sitting in a sauna. "I'm Lilah," I say, shrugging off my flannel.

"I know," he says, laughing. "What are you on, Lilah, and where can I get some?"

That's a good fucking question. What the hell am I on?

Zoey appears in front of me in a two-piece leather nurse costume, and I spend a little too much time staring at her stomach and the beads of sweat forming on her bare skin.

"You like it?" she asks. "Looks like you could use another drink."

She takes my hand, pulling me up from the sofa, and leads me to the kitchen. "I'm glad you're making friends," she says, filling my cup before handing it back to me. "You know that guy works with Mason, though, right? That might make things a little awkward."

"Yeah, I don't…I'm not interested in him."

"Good," she says. "Let's go dance."

"I don't really—" I protest, but she doesn't listen, pulling me back into the living room, through the throngs of people grinding their bodies into each other.

And before I can think about it, I'm doing it, too. The other Noah comes up behind me and presses his body against mine, running his hand up my thigh and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Then he places a hand on my hip, grinding against my ass, and I feel like I'm wrapped up in a warm blanket.

A warm, wet, sexy sex blanket.

"Zoey…?" She dances with her back to me, her long, dark hair swaying behind her, and I can't stop myself from reaching out and running my fingers through it. "It's so soft," I tell her when she turns around. "You were right—mine's frizzy, and it sucks."

"No," she says, smiling. "I didn't mean that it's always frizzy. Your hair is nice." She places her hands on my cheeks before raking her fingers through my short, sweat-soaked hair, and I rub up against her palms like a cat.

"Zoey, what the fuck did you give me?"

"It's just a little bit of molly."

"Are you serious?!" I ask. "This is going to make it worse."

She laughs, pressing her cheek to mine. "No," she says. "It's not going to make anything worse. What did you think it was when I gave it to you?"

"Vicodin? Percocet? I don't know."

"What?" She laughs. "You thought I was giving you opioids? Lilah, that's dangerous. Those are highly addictive; you should know that. And I would know because I'm a nurse."

Shit.

Hot breath against my neck sends chills of pleasure up my spine, reminding me that Mason's friend is pressed up against me, that it's his hard cock I'm grinding my ass into. He slips his hand under my tank top, pressing it against my stomach before I feel his lips against the bare skin of my shoulder, and I moan.

But this—as good as it feels—this will definitely make it much, much worse.

I pull away from him, turning until Zoey is between us. Zoey—with her thick, dark hair and beads of sweat rolling between her cleavage and down her bare stomach.

I run my fingers through her hair again, bringing it to my nose and inhaling. It smells like jasmine—the way Mia's used to smell. Jasmine used to grow along the east facing side of our apartment building, and Mia would pick the small, white blossoms and weave them into her braid. I've always associated the fragrance with two things—Mia and home—both of which I'll never have again.

"You're pretty," I say, resting my head on her shoulder. "You remind me of someone I used to know. And I'm so mean to you at work."

"Pfft, no, you're not."

"I am. I am mean. And look at you—you're just better than me. You saved me from the bad guys."

"The bad guys? What are you talking about?"

"I…don't know. I really wasn't a bad person. I don't know why any of this happened to me."

"Of course you're not a bad person." She laughs again and nuzzles her cheek against mine, hooking her thumbs through my belt loops as we move together to the music. "Stop thinking. You need to relax."

Apparently, I'm not able to apply the same logic I did with Mason's friend to Zoey, because when she kisses my neck, I sink further into her, running my hand up her thigh and gripping her ass before turning and letting her mouth meet mine.

My body is on fire as her tongue twists with my own, my pussy throbbing as she grinds against my thigh, moaning into my mouth.

I come up for air, resting my forehead against hers when my eyes catch a glimpse of something else in the dark room just over her right shoulder.

The two masked men from earlier stand near the front door, their gaze fixated on me.

No.

Is it really them? Could I be hallucinating? Is that a thing?

"Hey, are you okay?" Zoey asks. When I don't answer, she turns, following my eyes, and sees them, too. "Oh, it's your friends again. Wait, are they the bad guys?"

Not a hallucination.

It takes a few seconds to convince my body that I need to run, but I do. I stumble back through the crowd and then to the kitchen, pushing my way through the sliding door leading to the backyard, and then run toward the street, slipping and sliding on the muddy, wet grass. I eat it when I step off the curb, rolling into the street beside a parked sedan only two houses down from Zoey's.

My chin burns, and when I wipe it with the back of my hand, it comes away bloody. "Fuck."

I glance toward the house just as the two of them step out onto the porch, and "Jason" pulls a cell phone from his pocket. Milliseconds after he finishes typing, my own phone vibrates.

UNKNOWN You can jump, but you can't hide. You know that.

Heart pounding and hands shaking, I pull myself to my feet and run. I don't look back to see if they're following; I don't want to know. I keep running until I'm at the top of the staircase, standing in front of my apartment door. After fumbling with my keys for longer than I'd like and dropping them once, I finally get the right one into the lock and turn it, practically falling into the apartment once it opens.

I bolt the door quickly, backing further into the room until I hit a wall, and then slide down onto the floor with my hand over my heart and try to catch my breath.

They're here. There's nothing I can do about that now.

I take my phone out of my pocket and read the texts again before replying.

What do you want from me?

What are you going to do to me?

I hit send and wait, staring at the screen, but minutes go by, and I don't get a reply. I pull myself to my feet and make my way toward the bed, freezing when I see what's waiting for me on my pillow.

A pack of Skittles with a post-it note on the front: You forgot these.

It's Silas's handwriting.

They were here—somehow, they were here inside my apartment despite the locked door. A chill runs up my spine. There really is nowhere to hide now.

My phone vibrates in my hand, catching me off guard, and I scream, letting it fall onto the hardwood floor. I take a second to compose myself before I drop to my knees and pick it up.

UNKNOWN I guess that depends on you.

What does that mean?

UNKNOWN You know the name of the game, Noah.

What if I don't want to play anymore?

UNKNOWN Then you'll only make it worse for yourself.

UNKNOWN Honestly, Noah…what did you think was going to happen?

"Fuck!" I say aloud, letting it drop to the floor again. I fall back onto my ass and drop my head into my hands, my breath coming short and heavy until finally, I scream, curling into a ball and letting the tears fall. "FUCK!"

That's the last thing I remember before letting my eyes close.

thirteen

Sex, Drugs, and Manslaughter (not necessarily in that order)

Noah

"You're getting better at that, Delilah," Tate says from behind me as I throw back another shot of whiskey. He wraps his arms around my waist, and I sink into him, his breath tickling my neck before he presses his lips to my throat.

Right here—in the middle of this bar, for everyone to see.

Granted, we had to leave our small town and find another smaller town where no one knew us so we could get in with our fake IDs, so the people here are strangers. Still, it feels good to feel wanted, and it feels even better to feel wanted in front of other people. I can't quite put my finger on why.

So, when I follow him back to our booth, and he pulls me onto his lap, I let him. Silas sits across from us, placing three beers down on the table and opening ours for us before sliding them over.

"Come here, Noah," Silas says, reaching for me across the table. I take his hand, entwining my fingers with his, and he leans in, caressing my cheek with the other hand before kissing me on the lips. "You just look so pretty tonight," he says. "Like a princess."

He reaches for the strap of my white sundress that keeps slipping from my shoulder and slides it back into place before kissing me again.

"A slutty princess," Tate says. He grinds up into my backside, ensuring I feel him hard against me. "Everyone is looking at you now, Noah. Do you like that?"

Smiling, I pull away from Silas and look around the small, dark space. The female bartenders are staring at me, whispering, the look in their eyes something akin to disgust.

Men stare, too, but not with disgust. There's something else in their eyes. Lust, sure, but that's not all.

I think it's anger. They're angry at me for participating in this.

Or maybe it's more because I'm enjoying it.

"Well, do you?" Tate asks again. "Answer the question, Noah."

Cheeks burning, I look back at him and nod, hiding a smile as I take a sip of my beer.

"Good," he says. "And you do look really pretty. You're the prettiest girl here."

I scoff at what I think has to be a lie.

"What's funny about that?" he asks, his fingers lightly running up the inside of my thigh. Before I can object, he slips them inside my underwear, quickly finding my clit, and I gasp. "Nothing's funny now, is it?"

"No," I pant. "It's not funny."

"Spread your legs more," he says.

I instantly obey, letting my legs fall open and biting back a moan at the heightened sensation that follows.

"I love how sensitive you are," Tate says. He locks his other arm around my waist, holding me tightly in place while rubbing small, slow circles over my clit with two fingers.

Silas leans back in his seat and looks under the table. "Jesus…" he says. His jaw tightens as he takes a swig of his beer.

"Tate…" I whimper quietly. "You have to stop, or I'm…"

"I know what I'm doing to you," he says. "It's okay. Just let it happen."

"Mmm…Tate, I…"

But my squirming in protest is only making what he's doing to me more noticeable.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yeah," I say, wriggling my hips, riding his fingers before I realize it and force myself to stop. "Yeah, it feels really…oh, god, it feels really good."

"Lean back a little," he says, sucking on my neck. "Come on."

I scoot my ass further down his legs and lean into him, crying out before I can stop myself as his fingers swirl around the sensitive spot at this new angle.

I quickly cover my mouth with my own hand. Fuck…I really am going to come right here in front of everyone. It's too late to stop it now.

I grit my teeth, digging my nails into his thigh, and then turn, burying my face in the side of the booth. I barely make a sound when I come, but the orgasm wracks my body all the same. I shiver as the waves of pleasure roll through me, and under the table, Silas rubs my thigh, comforting me until it's over.

Once I can breathe again, I risk opening my eyes. I feel the flush in my cheeks and don't dare look at anyone other than Silas.

"I kind of hate you for that, Tate," I say, biting back a smile.

"Yeah, right," he says, wiping his wet fingers on his jeans before grabbing his beer.

"I do." I smile and take a drink of my own. "Just a little."

He leans forward and, with a finger under my chin, turns my head until our eyes meet. "You're happy, though—I can tell. Maybe the happiest I've ever seen you. And I don't mean in this bar, I mean…this." He inclines his head toward Silas. "You like this."

To be honest, I try to spend as little time as possible thinking about what we've been doing because if I did, I'd be forced to process things I'd rather not deal with.

Like how this isn't normal. Or that while I told myself in the beginning that this was fine because we're all friends, so I'm safe, it doesn't feel like just friends to me anymore.

And what do we do when we go back to school in a couple of weeks? Does this just stop? Does Silas go back to dating cheerleaders, and Tate go back to being a fuckboy?

And if it doesn't stop, then it's still kind of fucked up, and Mia is going to kill me when she finds out. I broke one of our rules. What will people at school think?

This. This is why I don't think about it.

"I closed your tab," one of the bartenders says, setting a receipt down on the table. "Please pay your bill, and then the three of you need to leave."

"Why?" Tate asks. "What did we do?"

"You know why," she says, crossing her arms in front of her before focusing her gaze on me. "And you're disgusting."

"Hey, fuck you," Tate says as she walks away. "Let's go."

He throws some cash down on the table, and I follow him toward the back door.

"Don't listen to her," Silas says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "She's just jealous."

"Yeah, right. Why would she be jealous of me?"

"Because you're so pretty," he says. "And you've got two boyfriends."

Do I? Do I have two boyfriends?

"And your boyfriends are boyfriends," Tate says over his shoulder as we walk through the door and into the alley.

"Hey, how much for a turn with your whore?"

Silas and I look over our shoulders at the same time. A middle-aged man stumbles toward us, clearly belligerent, with a drink still in his hand.

"Fuck off," Silas says.

"Just ignore him," Tate tells us.

But he's still following, closing the space between us, and I'm scared. I cling a little tighter to Silas, and he kisses the top of my head. "It's okay," he whispers.

I'm glad it's dark so he can't see my eyes watering.

"Come on, everything's got a price," he says, close enough now that I can smell the liquor on him. "Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Then, just before we turn the corner, he grabs my ass, and I scream.

"What the fuck did you just do?" Silas asks, this time turning and getting right up in the shorter man's face. "Did you just fucking touch her?"

"Pfft, what do you care?" the man asks, swaying on unsteady legs as he points to Tate. "You let that guy touch her."

"Hey," Tate says. "Let's go. It's just you and your hand tonight again, you fucking loser. If you can even get it up."

"Why don't you come over here and say that to my face?" the man shouts back to Tate.

"Not when I can smell your breath from all the way over here, stinky. No one's going to fuck you like that."

But Silas stares at the man with clenched fists and his jaw set. "Did he touch you, Noah?" he asks again.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "I just want to leave."

"I did," the man says, and then pours his drink out on Silas's shoes. "What are you gonna do about it?"

I barely see Silas move before Tate's arms circle my waist, pulling me backward as Silas's fist connects with the older man's face. Blood sprays from his mouth as he falls backward onto the concrete, but Silas doesn't stop. It's like I'm stuck in a time warp, watching it all happen in an instant and somehow, at the same time, in impossibly slow motion. He kneels over him, hitting him over and over again—until his face looks like raw meat, and Tate finally pulls him back.

"Stop!" Tate yells. "That's enough. We have to go. We've got to get out of here."

Eventually, Silas nods and lets him pull him to his feet.

"Come on," Tate says, ushering us both toward the vehicle. "I'll drive."

"Should we call someone? Should we do something?"

"No!" Tate snaps. "We're not calling anyone; we're never talking about this again. Do you understand, Noah?"

"Is—is he dead?" I ask.

"No," Tate says, less than reassuringly. "He was still breathing. I saw him."

He helps Silas, who's still silent, his knuckles stained in blood, into the back and points me toward the passenger seat when I try to slide in next to him.

"You need to leave him alone right now, Noah," Tate says.

In the rearview, I see him sitting in the back, impossibly still, with his hands folded together between his legs.

"I'm sorry," I tell Tate when he gets into the car.

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything."

"It was my fault, though."

"No, it wasn't. It's not your fault, baby, and I don't want to hear you say that. It was his fault; he was looking for a fight. He's probably spitting out teeth and thanking us for a good time right now."

I laugh a little, wiping tears from under my eyes. "Yeah, right."

"Hey, we all have our…things," Tate says.

"Silas, are you—"

"Don't talk to him right now, Noah. Give him a minute to calm down."

"But it's been a minute," I argue.

Tate doesn't reply, his gaze fixed on the road ahead with one hand on my thigh and the other on the steering wheel. I sigh and lean back in my seat, closing my eyes when watching the lights from outside as we speed down the highway become dizzying.

A few minutes later, I feel Silas's hand on my arm, his mouth on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Silas says. "I didn't mean to scare you—I'm fine. I'll never hurt you, Noah. You know that, right?"

I turn back and nod. "I know. I'm not scared."

"Come here," he says.

I climb into the backseat and into his lap, wrapping my arms and legs around him. And then, he's kissing my neck and grinding against me. His lips find mine, his tongue pushing its way into my mouth, burying a moan as I roll my hips over his hardness.

He pulls his joggers down over his hips, his dick springing free, and pulls my underwear to the side before positioning himself at my opening. "Sit on it, Noah," he says. "Sit all the way down."

I lower my pussy onto his cock, whimpering as it fills me. "Oh, god…Silas…"

"That's it, baby," he says, thrusting up into me. "Such a tight fucking fit."

They're both big, but Silas is thicker. I've gotten used to it over the summer, but at some angles, it still fills me so full that it takes my breath away. This is one of those times.

His eyes find mine in the dark space as I rock my hips, sliding up and down his cock, and he meets me with each thrust, setting the pace as he pushes up into me with his fingers digging hard into my hips. Both of us panting, sweating, with the windows down on a hot summer night. I arch my back a little as I work my pussy over him, and the head of his dick hits just the right spot.

And I'm sure Tate is watching in the rearview mirror. I hike my dress up a little higher, exposing my ass, and fuck him a little harder, losing my pace as my legs begin shaking.

And then his hand closes around my throat. My heart stops; I grab his wrist with both hands, my eyes widening.

"It's okay. Don't stop," he says. "I won't hurt you. I'll let you go when you come all over me."

I nod, and he squeezes harder, further restricting my airway. Using his powerful forearms for leverage, I ride him again, chasing my orgasm while stars form behind my eyes.

And then I come apart, pulsing around him in one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had. When he feels it, he lets me go, and I somehow manage to scream while gasping for air. I'm still shaking when he flips me over, rolling on top of me, my tits falling out of the top of my dress while he slams his cock into me over and over, stilling with a groan when he comes inside me.

"Well, that's great," Tate says. "You probably got drunk guy's blood all over her and your backseat—you realize that, right?"

"It was worth it," he says, lying on top of me and burying his face in my neck.

When we get back to our building, they sneak me into Silas's apartment, where we shower, and Tate gets rid of our bloody clothes. Then, the three of us crawl into bed together, like we have most nights for the past couple of months.

"Silas?" I whisper once Tate is asleep. "Are you awake?"

"Mmhmm," he says.

"Are you drunk?" I ask.

"No, I'm not drunk. Why?"

"I just…" I pause, almost talking myself out of it before continuing. "I just want to know if you mean the things you say to me."

"What do you mean?" he asks. "Did I say something that upset you?"

"No. I mean like…when you tell me I'm pretty…or that you missed me. Do you mean that? Or do you only mean it like…as a friend?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "Damn. Screaming it in your face didn't work, either, did it?"

"What?"

"I don't mean it as a friend, Noah. We're not just friends. And it has been years since I've thought of you in just a friendly way, okay? Noah, if you knew the things that went on in my head, I…"

"What?"

"My mind isn't always a good place to be. But you're always there. The way I think about you—the things I want for you, for us…some of it would probably scare you, and I don't want to scare you. But I want you…every part of you. So, no. I don't see you as a friend. I see you as mine."

Shit. I'm in love with him. I might be in love with both of them. "There's nothing you could do that would scare me."

"Is that how you see me? As just a friend?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Okay," he says, pulling me closer. "Good."

Tate rolls over, slipping an arm around my waist as I burrow my head just beneath Silas's chin. "What we're doing…it's kind of messed up, isn't it?" I whisper.

"No. Don't talk like that, Noah; it freaks me out."

"I'm sorry, but I just—"

"There's nothing wrong with what we're doing, sweetheart. This is just how we're supposed to be."

"Okay."

"Good night, baby."

"Good night."

I wake in the morning when I hear Silas's mom getting ready for work and wait for her to leave before slipping out of bed. I catch my reflection in the mirror, noticing the bruises on my neck from last night.

I run my fingers over them, admiring them, before snapping myself out of it.

Then I dress in one of Silas's hoodies and shorts, slip on my shoes, and walk back to my apartment. My mom has been working nights lately, so I don't expect to see her up, but she is. She's in the living room with Paul, her new boyfriend.

"Where'd you come from?" she asks as I walk in. "I thought you were asleep in your bedroom. What's all of this?"

I furrow my brow. We don't do this; it must be for his benefit.

"I stayed at Mia's," I lie, pouring myself a cup of coffee. She never makes coffee, either; that's my job. "I always stay at Mia's, and you've never cared before."

"Well, I have news," she says. "We're moving in with Paul! Get dressed because we want to take you to see the house and the school—you're going to love it."

When I open my eyes again, I'm moving through darkness. Either that or my equilibrium is off.

But then, my back hits the bed, and someone's pulling off my shoes.

Oh, shit. Someone is in my apartment, taking off my shoes.

"Help!" I scream, kicking at the figure near my feet and backpedaling toward the headboard. "Get away from me! Leave me alone! Help!"

"Stop!" The man climbs onto the bed, pinning my legs down with his knees before covering my mouth with his hand. "Stop screaming," he says. "You can't scream. You're okay; I'm not going to hurt you."

I still at the sound of the familiar voice, and all the air leaves my lungs.

"You're not going to scream, are you?"

I shake my head, and he exhales in relief, removing his hand from my mouth. "Good. That's good." He lies beside me, caressing my cheek with his fingertips. "Do you have any idea how much I've worried about you? How much fucking sleep I've lost not knowing if you were okay or not?"

"Silas?"

My eyes adjust to the dark enough that I can see the figure in front of me has a full beard and longer hair, but it's him. It's his voice, his fingertips. However he got in earlier, he must have done it again.

"Hey, baby," he whispers. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." I feel stupid for saying it, but it's true.

I feel stupid for that, too.

"You're not mad at me?"

I shake my head. "I'm just scared."

"What are you scared of?"

But wait…if Silas is here, then Tate is here somewhere, too. I freak out and pull myself into a seated position, backing into the headboard as I scan the room.

"Noah…" Silas says, taking my hands in his.

"He's…you're…"

"Noah, he's not here. He's not here, baby. Calm down."

"You came back to kill me."

"No, I didn't. I could never hurt you; I know better now."

"Tate's going to kill me."

"I don't think so," he says.

"How'd you get in here?"

"I'm going to need you to repeat that," he says, staring deep into my eyes. "I was distracted; I can't stop looking at you. Are you sure you're real, baby? You look like an angel."

"How are you getting into my locked apartment, Silas?"

"Mmm, I went through the back door of the restaurant, took your keys from your locker, and copied them. Six-nineteen-four. Your combination is your birthday."

"Why? What do you want?"

"I just wanted to touch you." I hold my breath as he runs his fingertips up my arm, across my collarbone, and then trails them downward between my cleavage. "I want to know you again. I miss knowing you. It feels wrong not to."

"I'm the same."

"Are you happy?"

It's the same question he asked that night at the carnival. How could I be?

"No," I tell him, "I'm not happy. I miss…home."

"It's not home anymore, Noah. Nothing about it is home."

"Don't you ever miss it? Do you wish it still was?"

"I don't think about things like that, and you shouldn't either. I don't have time for any more regrets—not when I have so many around you."

"What does he want?" I ask. "Because I know he doesn't just want to see me and know me."

"We just want to play a game, Noah. Like we used to. You help us, and then maybe I can help you, too."

"Help me what?"

"Disappear. Your life here won't last much longer now—you know that, right, baby?"

I nod. "Yeah, I know, but…I don't have anywhere else to go. I kind of like it here; it reminds me of home, you know?"

"I do, but that's just how it is now."

"Because I'm a fugitive."

"Mmhmm," he says, trailing his fingers up my neck again. "But you're a really pretty one."

"I didn't do anything."

"That doesn't really matter now, does it? You need to stop running from us, though. You have nowhere to go—just like you said."

"Don't let him hurt me," I plead. "Silas, please don't let Tate hurt me."

"I don't think that's what he wants."

But he didn't say he wouldn't let him. "Silas…"

He runs his hand over my chest, palming my tit before continuing down my ribcage, then gripping my hip. "I can feel your bones," he says. "Are you eating?"

I shake my head. "I try to, but I can't…because of what you made me do…at the house."

"Yeah, I got…carried away. Sorry about that. You're still the prettiest fucking thing I've ever seen."

"Where were you?"

He pulls my tank top down in the front, exposing my tits. Without answering, he lowers his head, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth and flicking the tip with his tongue while his hand works the button of my jeans.

"Silas, what are you doing?" I ask, my voice a breathless whisper.

"I'm going to fuck you, Noah," he says. He kneels, working my jeans and underwear down over my hips and then tossing them onto the floor. "Because the last time I saw you, I didn't get to sink my dick into your pussy, and I've spent too many nights thinking about it to wait any longer."

He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his hard chest and abs that form that perfect 'v' shape before dipping below his waist. I follow it with my eyes as he lowers his pants over his hips. He pumps his dick in his fist while looking down at my body, and then, with the other hand, he grips the inside of my left thigh and pushes it to the side, spreading my legs further.

"So fucking pretty," he says, running his thumb up and down my slit. "Such a pretty pussy. And so fucking wet already."

Then he takes that wet thumb and presses it to my lips. "Suck."

I open, close my lips around his thumb, and suck, tasting myself on him before he pulls it back through my lips, my mouth making a popping sound. His rock hard dick twitches as it hovers over me, and I reach for it, desperate to touch it, and wrap my hands around the thick shaft. My fingers don't even come close to touching while I pump him in my fist, my pussy throbbing in anticipation. Silas looks down at my body while he watches me jerk his cock, biting his lip before moaning as he drops his chin to his chest.

"Fuck, Noah…" he says. "I hope you're ready for me, baby, because I've been rock hard since I found you passed out on the floor, and if you're not, I'm going to tear you apart." He throws my legs over his shoulders, forcing his way inside me without warning.

"Fuck!" I scream as he stretches me. "Silas!"

"Oh, fuck, I missed you," he groans, sliding out of me slowly before slamming into me again. "Fuck."

I whimper, clutching the comforter in my fists, a mixture of pleasure and pain wracking my body.

"Does it hurt, baby?" he asks over the sound of skin against skin. "I won't go easier on you; I just want to know. Am I hurting your tight little pussy?"

"Yes! Fuck yes, it hurts."

"That's what I thought." Silas rolls his hips into me in quick, powerful bursts. "Such a tight fucking fit, baby."

"Oh, god…" I let my legs go slack, my hips falling open wider while he fucks into me, biting his lower lip while he stares down at my tits, bouncing with each powerful thrust. "Fuck…tear me in half—it feels so good."

Waves of pleasure roll through my body from my core as Silas grabs a fist full of my hair, pulling hard, using it for leverage while he fucks me like a rag doll.

"Like this baby?"

"Oh, god! Don't stop! I'm…ahh!"

I scream, tears leaking from my eyes as my pussy pulses around his cock. Maybe it's still the drugs, maybe it's just the perfect way he uses me, but the orgasm rips through me in a way that's almost violent. I struggle against his hold, digging my heels into the back of his thighs and writhing against him, but it doesn't faze him. He keeps fucking into me with the same brutal force.

"There you go," he says, pulling my head back. "Doesn't that feel good, baby? You're still mine, aren't you?"

"Yes!"

"Tell me you want my cum inside you."

"I want your cum; I want it so bad."

"Fuck!" His thrusts become shorter until, finally, he buries himself deep inside me and fills me with cum. Once he's finished, he releases my hair, and I rub my aching scalp.

He wipes the tears from under my eyes with his thumbs. "You look so pretty like this," he says. "You're always pretty, but you look especially pretty like this. Did you know that?"

"No," I whisper.

I haven't felt pretty in a long time.

"You are, though," he says. "Keep it inside you, okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, Noah…there's a part of me that wishes you were a little more helpless," Silas says without answering my question. "I wish you were dependent on me. I wish you needed me to take care of you. But look at you—you don't need me at all."

"What are you talking about? I do need you."

Silas pulls the covers over both of us and then leans in, kissing me slowly, sensually. I run my hand over his beard and then to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper, my tongue twisting with his.

"I like your beard," I tell him as his mouth moves to my neck.

"I love everything about you."

And then, I feel that familiar ache in my chest and pull away.

"Silas…" I bite my lower lip, and my eyes fill with tears again.

"What's wrong, baby?"

I love you.

That's what I almost say. But it must just be some kind of combination of the sex and the drugs and the fact that he's holding me, and I've really needed someone to hold me for a while because I can't love Silas after what he did.

Not when he's the reason that I'm no one now. Not when he's the reason that I'm slowly starving to death, and he's killed several people in front of me…including my mom.

It has to be just that it feels good to be with someone who knows me. It feels good to hear my own name.

"Will you stay with me? At least until I fall asleep?"

"Of course I will."

He wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me into him and kissing the top of my head before running his fingers through my hair.

"You use my last name as your own," he says.

"Yeah." I swallow hard. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. It was kind of risky, though."

"I know. I just like the way it sounds."

But this time, when my eyes close, my heart pounds against my ribcage, and I never actually fall asleep.

I'm still awake when the sun comes up and Silas slips out of bed, but I keep them shut and don't watch him go, wondering what part of the game this was.

fourteen

A Little Extra Seasoning

Noah

Imust have fallen asleep sometime after dawn because my alarm wakes me now. I roll onto my back and open my eyes, stretching my arms overhead as I take inventory of my aching body.

My head pounds, my muscles ache, and the ankle that never quite healed right is swollen from running on it last night. I'm sore between my legs, too.

I drink a glass of water and then limp to the bathroom. I open the toilet lid, but before I sit on the seat, I notice something floating in the water.

My fucking birth control pills.

"Silas…" I sigh, bringing my fingers to my temples. "Why would you do that?"

I fish the plastic out of the toilet before flushing what's left of the pills, and then shower, spending extra time on my hair and makeup again.

When I go to the kitchen, I decide to spare myself from my self-imposed food therapy routine and just make myself a slice of plain burnt toast. Before leaving the apartment, I see the Skittles on the nightstand and bring them with me for lunch.

It's Saturday brunch, so it's already pretty busy when I walk in. Zoey doesn't work until four; it's just me, Jodie, and this new guy, Travis, for now.

And the weekend brunch crowd is the worst.

"Hey," I say to Jodie when I walk in. "How's it going?"

"The usual," she says, hitting print on the register. "We're busy. Jean called in, so I'm going back to the kitchen to help Gabriel. These checks are ready, and seven asked for more coffee with heavy whipping cream on the side."

Ugh, god. I know exactly who that is. Jodie must see my lip turn up because she pauses before walking away, adding, "Be nice, Lilah."

"I'm always nice," I tell her. "I'm not the problem."

"Yeah, that's not what she says."

I roll my eyes, dropping the checks off at two of my tables before I fill one of those mini pitchers with creamer, grab the coffeepot, and head to table seven.

"Hey there, Betsy," I say, tuning back into my best fake server voice. "I've got your coffee refill and some creamer, and they're working on your food right now—is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, you look tired," she says. "I won't ask you to do anything else for me. I'll let that nice young man know if I need anything."

I force a smile. "Great. He'll love that."

"Are you sure this is fresh?" she asks, bringing the cream to her nose and sniffing. "It doesn't smell right."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's fresh."

"It's not," she says. "Check the expiration date, and have that boy bring me a new one."

"No problem," I say, snatching it from her hand.

"Your skirt's too short," she adds as I walk away. "I'm going to have a talk with Jodie about how you and that other young lady dress. It's very disrespectful."

I pause for a second, just barely managing to bite my tongue.

"Good news, Travis," I say once I'm back behind the bar. "Betsy is in love with you, and she thinks I'm trying to poison her, so table seven is yours now. She wants more cream—your fresh cream."

"You're sick," Travis says. "But fine. You can have Post Malone at four. He asked for you anyway."

"Post Malone?"

A man sits at the front corner two-top wearing a black hat, tight black jeans, and a white hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Tattoos cover every bit of his exposed skin, from his fingers and up his arms, his neck, and even a few on his face. Straight black hair—not blue—sticks out from under the hat, and black painted nails tap on the tabletop while he sips coffee with the other hand.

"Post Malone" is Tate.

Steeling my spine, I approach the table.

"Hey, it's my lost girl," he says. "How's it going, freckles?"

His voice. Even expecting it, it hits me right in the chest.

"I don't suppose you're here for the soup special," I say, sliding into the seat across from him.

He smiles a little. "Nope. Well, kind of."

"You can't be here like this, Tate," I say, lowering my voice. "Someone is going to see you and call the police."

Tate scoffs. "No one here is looking for me, and no one is going to recognize me."

I have to admit—the tattoos hide him well. They're loud, distracting from all the things that make him noticeably himself. He has what looks like runes etched across his left cheekbone and a spiderweb covering the majority of his neck with a spider beneath his left ear. I wonder what else is hidden beneath his clothing.

"Your disguise is good, too. You're too skinny—I almost didn't recognize you in the video, you know."

"Yeah, well, that's not on purpose—it's a psychosis."

"Why are you so prickly to me? Hmm?" he asks. "I heard you were pretty nice to Silas—asked him to cuddle. I mean, I don't know if you blocked it out or what, but he's the one who killed your mom and made you eat your dad, not me. I'm just saying."

"He wasn't my…" I pause, exhaling. "What do you want, Tate? I have to work. And don't say you just want to play a game because—"

"But I do," he says. "I want to play with you, and I want money. You're going to help me with both."

"Tate, does it look like I have any fucking money?"

"Not really." He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, and I notice for the first time that the eyebrow ring and lip rings are gone. As he licks his lips, and I stare at the two holes where they used to be.

The tongue ring, though—that's still there.

"It looks like you're waiting tables and living on less than minimum wage in a piece of shit town. I thought you wanted to be a mad scientist or something. Didn't really live up to your potential, did you?"

My fist hits the table before I reel myself in. "That's your fault," I hiss through clenched teeth. "You took everything from me."

"No, it's not; it's your fault," he throws back. "And I'm so fucking tired of your constant need to be a victim—to be seen as innocent—that I could fucking scream."

"I never needed that," I spit back.

"You're not innocent, Noah. You're not a victim. You're just as angry and broken as I am. And you know what? If you would've just accepted it—embraced it, even—you could have been happy."

"Didn't really sign up for a philosophical debate, Tate. I need to get back to work, so why are you here? Are you going to kill me?"

"I haven't decided yet," he says. "Maybe. Maybe I just like to play with my food. You prefer yours raw, though, right? Bloody? Kind of the consistency of gelled cranberry sauce right of the can?"

I swallow a lump in my throat. "We're done with this conversation."

"Not yet," he says. "I have something for you." He passes me a folded napkin with something inside. "I suggest you open it slowly. You could get in a lot of trouble if you freak out."

I do as he asks, opening it slowly, and…

It's a finger—or half of a finger. From the second knuckle to the nail. I barely manage to set it down on the table without dropping it.

"Tate, no." My eyes fill with tears, and I shake my head.

"Hey, relax," he says. He reaches across the table and rests his hand on my arm. "I'm not going to make you eat that. I mean, Silas would, but…"

I wipe a tear away before it has the chance to fall.

"Hey, don't cry. It's all right. You just have to put it in the soup—that's all."

"What?"

"Put the finger in the soup. It's part of the game."

I shake my head. "No, I'm not doing that."

"It's your boyfriend's finger—the one from yesterday with the sad eyes."

My heart stops. "Mason? What did you—"

"Juuust kidding," he says. "But really, put the finger in the soup, or I swear to god, Noah, I'll cut him into so many fucking pieces they'll never be able to find them all—you know I will. Maybe I'll do the girl, too. You know how I feel about other people touching you."

"Lilah!" Travis calls. I look in his direction, and he gives me a what the fuck are you doing look.

I push out my chair. "I have to go."

"You forgot something," Tate says.

I look back, grab the napkin, stuff it in my apron, and walk away.

"You're a good girl, Lilah."

I grit my teeth and glare at him over my shoulder, then I clear off my two empty tables, seating them and taking their drink orders before I head back to the bar and try to come up with a reason to be in the kitchen.

"I'm feeling a little lightheaded," I tell Jodie after pushing through the saloon doors. "Do you mind if I grab a glass and get a soda for myself? You can take it out of my check."

"Just take the soda, Lilah," Jodie says. "You know it's fine."

I grab a glass and prepare to create a distraction, tripping over my own feet and intentionally dropping it on the tile floor.

"Shit!" I shout as it shatters everywhere. "Oh, my god—I'm so sorry!"

"It's fine," Jodie says. "Just…grab another one and get back out there. I'll take care of this."

My heart pounds against my ribcage as she leaves to grab a broom, and I glance at Gabriel, who faces the grill with his back to me. I reach into my apron, closing my thumb and first finger around the half-finger in the pocket, and then I drop it into the beef stew and push it to the bottom with the ladle.

I fill a new cup with soda and get the fuck out of there after that. I don't think I breathe again until the doors swing closed behind me.

When I get back out to the dining room, Tate is gone.

Hours go by with my nerves on end, panicking every time someone orders the soup of the day, but as I near the end of my shift, there's still no sign of the finger.

Either that or whoever got it actually enjoyed it. But I guess everyone who ordered it got a little extra seasoning, didn't they? My stomach retches at the thought.

Eventually, I convince myself that no one will get the finger. Beef stew is one of our least popular soup specials, and maybe at the end of my shift, I could go back, fish it out, and toss it down the disposal.

It's a nice thought. Until I hear the scream.

"Well, the police said it's a real finger," Jodie tells us. "It was probably in the meat—maybe someone lost it at the processing facility. They have to look into it, though, and we're shut down until further notice. You can request vacation pay if you have it, but I don't know how long this will all take."

"Jesus Christ," Gabriel says. "I'm so sorry, Jodie. I don't know how I didn't see it."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, too. And Jerry and his wife said they're going to sue, so…I'm not sure what's going to happen. This place is all I've got."

And there's already a news van parked out front. Which means I'm going out the back.

"I'm gonna go…clean up," Jodie says. "I'll call you all when I know more."

"I'll stay and help you, Jodie," Gabriel says, following her out to the dining room.

"A fucking finger," Travis says, laughing. "What the fuck? And I'm the one who served it to the guy! I mean, can you imagine—"

"I don't want to," I say, cutting him off. "I don't want to imagine it. Please, stop."

The room starts spinning, and I drop my head in my hands. Did he know all of this would happen? Did he know they'd call the police and shut down the restaurant?

I take my phone out of my locker and leave through the back, checking my messages as I cross the parking lot.

ZOEY Hey! What the hell happened at the restaurant? I tried to show up for work, but the police wouldn't let me through, and one of the regulars said they found an actual FINGER in the soup.

Yeah, that's pretty much what happened.

ZOEY Holy shit! What are we supposed to do now?

I don't know. The restaurant is shut down.

ZOEY So, did you serve the finger soup? Who ate it? Did they actually eat it?

It was Travis, and I don't know who the guy was, but he spit it onto his wife's plate.

ZOEY Damn. I guess we should start looking for jobs.

Yeah. Easy for her to say—not everyone will hire someone with a fake identity.

ZOEY What happened to you last night, anyway?

ZOEY Did they catch you?

ZOEY ...Was it hot?

No, they didn't, and I just went home. I don't want to talk about them anymore, okay? Don't mention it to anyone—the whole thing was weird.

ZOEY Okay, well…let me know if you hear anything.

I stuff my phone back into my bag and climb the stairs, receiving another message as I step into my apartment.

UNKNOWN Nice work. Meet me at this shithole called Spades at eight. Wear the slutty skirt.

At the bar? In public?

"Fuck…"

I toss the phone onto the bed.

The small sports bar at the far end of our little downtown is dark and quiet. A thick cloud of smoke hangs in the air, burning my eyes as I scan the space. It's also pretty empty right now, save for a few people playing pool in the far back corner. I swallow hard, thinking maybe Silas and Tate aren't here, unsure if that would be better or worse.

Eventually, I spot these newer versions of Tate and Silas—one covered in tattoos, the other with a beard and wearing thick black-rimmed glasses with a hoodie pulled over his head—in a high-backed booth on the opposite side of the room.

"You're late," Tate says.

"No, I'm not."

"It's 8:03. You should sit by me."

When I sit at the very edge of the booth, Silas chuckles.

"Come on over here. I'm not going to bite," Tate says.

I roll my eyes and slide over a few more inches.

"Hi, baby," Silas says.

"Hi, Silas. I like the glasses."

"Thanks. I stole them from a department store optician's display; I have them in blue, too. You like blue, don't you, baby?"

"Okay, you—" Tate says, pointing at Silas. "Stop being cute. Do you want a drink, Noah?" He slides a shot of whiskey in my direction.

"Not really."

I don't tell him I stopped drinking whiskey because it reminds me of him. Over the past year, just the scent alone has been enough to send me spiraling. I'd smell whiskey and suddenly, I'm transported back to that night at the carnival, licking it from Tate's lips while my entire world collapses around me.

"Sorry—I phrased that wrong. I made you think it was a question, and it wasn't," Tate says. "Take the fucking shot, Noah."

"I lost my job today," I tell him before throwing it back and slamming the shot glass down on the table. "The cops came. I could have been arrested." I look at Silas. "Did you know about this?"

Silas shrugs. "Yeah."

Wait a second; he was cute, and I almost forgot…

"You put my birth control in the toilet. I don't have any money."

Beside me, Tate laughs.

"It's not funny!"

"Lilah?"

Mason stands at the end of the table with a beer in his hand. His eyes are red, like he's been drinking for a while.

Or like he's been crying.

"Hi, Mason."

He looks from Tate to me. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine—"

"Well, who are they?"

"I…don't know."

It's a terrible answer, but I don't really have a better one.

"Maybe we're her brothers," Tate says, draping his arm around my shoulders.

"Lilah doesn't have any siblings," Mason says, his eyes fixed on that arm draped around me.

"Maybe you should mind your own business and fuck off," Silas says. "She doesn't like you."

"Si—" I start before Tate kicks my bad ankle under the table. I clench my teeth to keep from crying out. "I'm sorry, Mason," I say instead. "He's just…not friendly."

"Well, that's one way to put it," Tate says.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again.

"Oh, my god, she's fine," Tate says. "We get it—you're a fucking hero. But this girl right here? She's no fucking princess, okay? You can't save her."

"We just have some things to talk about," I tell him. "I'm fine, I promise."

Mason narrows his eyes, searching my own for the truth behind the lie. But the reality is Mason's never been that good at reading me; if he was, then he'd already know that what Tate said was true.

I'm not a princess. And he can't save me.

"Did you ever find those cards, Lilah?" Mason asks.

"What? Oh. No, sorry. I didn't."

"Because someone emptied out my entire bank account this morning. They transferred it all to an international account in my name, then closed that account, and they don't know what happened to it after that. They said there was no way to find out."

Fuck. That's why he looks so upset.

"I'm so sorry, Mason."

"Yeah…sure you are. You know, I'm starting to think what you said on the phone the other night is true."

"…What did I say on the phone?"

"That you're a bad person."

My mouth gapes. He looks me up and down, waiting for a rebuttal of some sort, something to convince him that he's wrong, maybe. When that doesn't happen, he shakes his head and turns away.

Tate laughs as Mason leaves the table, and I watch him make his way to the back of the bar, joining the group playing pool. He grabs a cue stick from the rack and glares at me one last time before turning his back to me and chalking the end.

I glower at Silas. "You did that, didn't you?"

He shrugs. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Put it back!" I snap in a harsh but low tone.

"No fucking way," Silas says.

"He doesn't deserve it."

"Oh, sweetheart…" Tate says. He runs his fingers through my hair, and I flinch. "I thought I told you—anyone who touches you deserves far worse."

"The guy had forty thousand dollars in his account, Noah," Silas says. "Did you know that?"

I shake my head.

"What's a guy like him doing with that kind of money?"

"I don't know; does it matter?"

"We'll share it with you," Silas says. "Does that make a difference?"

I frown. "That's why you were in my apartment last night. You heard us talking at the café—you knew I had his debit card."

"Why'd you take it if you weren't going to use it?" Silas asks.

"I don't know. It's just something that I do sometimes—I hurt people; I hurt…men, mostly. Not the way you do, though." Just in small, inconvenient ways like I did before. "I think I do it because…it makes me feel a little better about everything else that hurts and feels unfair."

"That's not the only reason I was in your apartment, Noah." He reaches across the table for my hand. "I mean the things I say to you."

"That's so sweet; I think I have a little tear in my eye," Tate mocks. "Hey, Noah, why don't you sit on my lap?"

My eyes dart to Mason again. Maybe he feels it because he looks at me, too, before quickly averting his gaze.

It'll hurt his feelings. I'm already hurting his feelings.

"What are you looking at him for, huh?" Tate asks. "You love him or something?" He shifts his body toward mine, running his fingers up my thigh, and whispers in my ear. "Maybe I'll go over there and tell him about how you let us take turns with you…for hours. I'll tell him how much you like to be spanked and treated like a whore. Do you think he'd like that, Noah?"

"No."

"You're always going to belong to us, baby," he says. He threads his fingers into my hair, his thumb finding that spot behind my ear. I close my eyes, holding my breath before exhaling slowly. "It doesn't matter where you are or what you do—that's just how it is, and you know that. Now, do what I told you to, or I'll slice him in half—you know I will. Come on."

I lower my gaze and move onto his lap.

"That's better," he says. "Just relax, Noah." His fingers find the silk material of my panties, running up and down my slit over the thin and increasingly damp material.

"Please don't do this to me again," I whisper. "Not here."

"How do you know what I'm going to do to you?" He pushes the material aside, dipping two fingers inside me, and I grit my teeth, gripping the edge of the table and smothering a whimper in the back of my throat. "You used to trust me," he says, pressing his lips to my neck.

"That was a mistake."

My cheeks burn. I can't even look at Mason or his friends right now. And Tate keeps moving those fingers, slowly pumping them in and out of me. I can hear how wet I am, and so I know Silas probably can, too.

"Silas, give me your hoodie," Tate says.

Silas pulls the hoodie over his head and passes it to Tate, who uses it to cover our laps.

Then I feel him fumbling with the fly of his jeans before the head of his cock rubs up against my pussy.

"Tate—"

But before I can object, he pulls my thighs apart, angles his hips, and I'm impaled on his cock.

"Oh, god," I whimper softly. I sit back, dropping my elbows on the table and then my head into my hands, my breath rugged and strained. I don't mean to, but I can't help it—I rock my hips just a little, just to take the edge off.

Tate grabs me by the back of my neck. "You better not do that, Noah. You need to stay nice and still for me, or I'm going to fucking lose it and tear you apart in front of everyone in here. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"Good. Now, sit up and look at Silas. He should get to see you like this."

I drop my hands and look at Silas across the table while trying to manage my breathing. I accidentally rock my hips again, and Tate groans, locking an arm around my waist.

"Careful," he says. "How does she look, Silas?"

"Pretty," he says. "Like she's got eight inches of dick inside her, and she wants to ride it so badly she can't fucking stand it."

His fingers find my clit, touching me while his cock throbs inside me. "Tell me something, Noah," he says, rubbing the swollen nub. "Does the hero over there fuck you this deep?"

A small moan escapes me, and I bite down on my lip before shaking my head. "No…"

"He's looking at you right now," he says. "He probably thinks he knows what I'm doing to you under here, but he has no idea you're dripping down my dick. But don't look at him; look at Silas. His hand is in his pants right now, stroking his cock at the sight of you."

I look from the table to Silas again, watching the way the muscles in his forearm flex, and I know he's telling the truth.

"You look like you're about to scream, Noah," Silas says. "And I would know—that's how you looked at me before I made you scream last night."

Tate increases his pace, applying more pressure to my clit, and I can't help it—I do it again. I arch my back, wriggling my hips from side to side.

"Bad girl, Noah," he says, rolling his hips, thrusting his cock just barely inside of me—but it's enough that on the edge of orgasm, I moan.

"Ohh…" I grit my teeth and dig my nails into the forearm across my waist. "Tate…don't."

"Mmm…fuck. There you go," he says. "Say that again—I liked it."

He pushes his cock into me again, and I draw in my breath. "Tate, don't. Don't make me."

"Don't make you what? Come?" Tate pinches my clit, and I gasp. "I'm gonna make you." He applies more pressure, rubbing me in quick circles. "Like this, right? I remember what you like."

My pussy clenches around him as his fingers threaten to send me over the edge. "Oh, my god."

"Yeah, that's it. Look at Silas, baby. Let him watch you come in front of everyone."

"Mmmm," I whimper, biting my lip and burying a scream in the back of my throat. "I'm…I can't…"

But I drop my head on the table, and then I do. I come hard, pulsing around his curved dick, throbbing against his fingers while the waves of pleasure roll through me. I can't breathe, I can't think…all I can do is stay like that with my face hidden in shame, whimpering while my legs shake under the table.

"Fuck, that feels good," Tate says. "I forgot how good you feel, baby." He runs a hand up and down my back. "God, why'd you have to be such a lying bitch, Noah? Why couldn't you just have stayed sweet like this?"

"I'm not…" I whisper, my breath heaving. Not a lying bitch? Not sweet?

Not either one, I guess.

"Aww, come on," Silas says, his own voice strained. "Noah's still sweet. Look at her."

"I need to come now," Tate says. "You can rock those hips of yours—nice and slow."

"I can't…"

"It's part of the game," he says. "You're not getting off my dick until my cum is dripping down your thighs…like Silas's was this morning."

He grips my hips in his hands, rolling me over his cock until I take over, riding him slowly like he asked, hoping it isn't too noticeable.

But at this pace, he lasts…and lasts. Groaning, whispering filthy things into my ears, telling me how good it feels and how he never wants me to stop. He tells me he wants me to ride it nice and slow for hours, that he'd make me come on it so many times, I'd have to crawl out the front door, dripping with cum, when he was done with me.

A server even stops at our table while I sit on it, flushed and sweaty, and Silas orders a round of beer. Mason shoots me one last shitty look, and he and his friends leave—all while Tate is inside me.

A chill runs up my spine, and it's me who's close again. I get a little braver, rocking my hips a little faster even as the formerly empty bar room fills.

"Oh, fuck. Get ready, baby," he says. "There's going to be so much cum. Lift your hips a little."

I do what he asks, and he pumps into me, his dick pulsing as he empties himself inside of me, and I come again, too, berating myself and my body for betraying me like this.

"Did my cum make you come again, you little slut?" Tate groans, stroking my hair while I whimper, my legs shaking beneath the table. "Jesus, Noah. Imagine what I could do to you if I could have you naked any way I wanted, baby. You know, if you hadn't run, we would have fucked you so good before I killed you." He turns my head and kisses me on the lips. "You would have been so sore, you probably would have begged for the knife over more dick." He kisses me again before adding, "Now go to the bathroom and clean yourself up."

I shift to the side, sliding off his cock and out from under the hoodie, and adjust my underwear. Cum soaks the thin material and the inside of my thighs; I feel it running down my fucking leg as I cross the room.

I close the door to the bathroom, grab some toilet paper, and wipe myself clean. Just as I finish, Silas and Tate step into the space, locking the door behind them.

"You need to help Silas finish," Tate says.

My eyes move from Tate to Silas, dropping to his waistline, where his cock strains against his grey joggers.

"Okay…"

"Get on your knees," Silas says, pulling out his dick. Precum leaks from the tip while he pumps it in his hand. "This won't take long."

I drop to my knees on the tile in front of him, opening my mouth wide enough to take his cock while gripping the base with my fist. Then I run my tongue over his length before taking it all into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks while I suck him.

"Mmm…that's it, baby. Just like that," he says, gripping my hair in his fist. He lets me keep the pace, though, his cock already throbbing like it's going to explode. "Look up at me."

I do as he asks, and Tate kneels beside me, pulling my v-neck shirt and bra down until my tits spill out over the top. "That's better," Tate says. "Let him look at you, too."

He pinches one of my nipples, and I yelp around Silas's dick.

"Jesus…" Silas moans.

"Did you like that?" Tate asks him before he pinches me harder. I cry out again, and this time, my eyes water. "Look up at him," Tate instructs.

I do as he asks, looking up at Silas while tears leak from my eyes, sucking and licking while I slide my lips up and down his thick length.

"Fuck…" Silas groans. Then he grabs the back of my head, forcing himself into the back of my throat, and comes. I swallow around him, but there's so much of it—and so much of him—I feel it dripping from the corner of my mouth.

When he pulls out, I wipe it away with my thumb, and then Tate takes my hand and sucks it into his mouth. "You know the rules," he says. "Don't waste it. And now, you have to give me a kiss."

I shake my head. Kissing Tate…it's one of my favorite things in the world.

And that's why I don't want to do it.

"You look like I just asked you to cut your dad's hand off," Tate says. "It's not a big deal."

Then he pulls me into him, his lips finding mine before his tongue slips past them, licking me, tasting me…tasting Silas on me.

And I let myself give in to it. I let my eyes close and kiss him back.

It's the way he kisses me that always makes me think he actually cares about me. It's his lips and his fingers in my hair, it's his thumb against that spot behind my ear.

I can't fall for it.

"Shit," Silas says, his breath still coming short. "You both look so fucking sexy at my feet like that. You better stop before I get hard again."

I break away and pull myself to my feet. "That's hot, too," Silas says. "Anyone who looks at your knees is going to know exactly what you were doing in here."

I look down at my red knees with the floor's square tile pattern embedded in my skin. Fuck.

"Come on," he says, throwing his arm around me. "It's okay."

Silas unlocks the door, and we walk out of the bathroom together with Tate behind us. I wrap my own arm around his waist and burrow into his side, keeping my eyes on the floor.

I'm overcome with relief when I step back out into the cold October night air, but when I turn in the direction of my apartment, Silas lets me go.

"See you tomorrow, baby," he says, kissing me on the mouth before heading in the opposite direction. "Get some sleep, okay?"

I don't know why I assumed we'd all leave together—or why I'd even want us to, but—

"Well…wait," I say. "What's tomorrow?"

"You'll see," Tate says. "You won't like it as much as you liked this, unfortunately. Good night."

I watch them turn the corner to the parking lot before I walk home alone in the dark. I wonder what the point of all this was until I open my text messages.

MASON You make me fucking sick.

Another knife to the chest.

That was it. That was the point.

fifteen

Guns n' Proses

Noah

Ididn't take any pills last night; I didn't come home and drink, and, for once, I slept without having nightmares.

Now, I wake up feeling better than I've felt in a while. You'd think with everything that happened yesterday—with the café closed and nowhere to go, with Tate's promise that they'd see me tomorrow and that I wouldn't like it—I wouldn't feel like this.

Like I have something to look forward to for the first time in a long time.

I get up, pour myself a cup of coffee, and then get dressed. I comb out my hair before digging through the fridge, agonizing over my food options.

I swallow a lump in my throat and pull out the eggs again, beating them in a plastic cup before pouring them into a skillet to make a cheese omelet. I take out the leftover hamburger from the other day, too, throwing out the bun and toppings before heating the meat and cutting it into the tiniest square pieces on a plate. Once my omelet is done, I give it the same treatment.

I set the plate down on the counter and take a deep breath as I stare down at it from my barstool. I get that feeling again—the one I get every fucking time I do this—like the inside of my mouth is sweating and my throat is closing up.

"It's just food," I say aloud. "You ate food for almost two decades, remember? I mean—fuck! Do you want to fucking die?!"

I jump when I hear the deadbolt turning.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised when Tate and Silas walk through the door.

"Are you killing someone?" Tate asks. "Who is it? The blonde guy? Can we watch?"

"No," I say firmly. "You need to get out. I'm doing something right now."

"You're not doing shit," Tate says, crossing the room toward the kitchenette. "What's for breakfast? Oh, there's more coffee. You want some coffee, Silas?"

"Yeah, I'll take some coffee. It's got to be better than that watery shit at the motel." He hops onto my bed, reclining with his feet out in front of him, and flips on the television.

"Guys…"

"That's a lot of Gatorade, sport. Do you have any fancy creamer or anything?" Tate asks, looking inside the fridge. Since I don't, he closes it a few seconds later, shrugging.

My eyes fill with tears. "Silas…"

"What?" Silas asks, setting the remote aside and jumping up, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"What is this?" Tate asks, stopping beside me. "Why's your food cut up into tiny little pieces like you're a fucking toddler?"

I blink, sending those tears rolling down my cheeks. "Get out!" I shout. "Stop making fun of me and get out!"

"Jesus, Noah," Tate says. "Chill."

"I can't chill! I can't eat—that's why my food is cut into tiny pieces like I'm a toddler. My fridge is full of Gatorade because I get dizzy and lightheaded at work, and I'm afraid I'm going to pass out one day, and they'll call an ambulance. And if they call an ambulance, they'll figure out who I am. I'm starving. Can't you tell? My hair is falling out, everything hurts, and I don't really need my birth control because I haven't had a period in months." I turn to Silas. "Please, please, I am begging you, Silas, please go. Make him go. I'll do whatever you want. I just need an hour so I can try to eat."

"I…didn't realize it was that bad," Silas says.

"Well, it is."

"Okay," he says, crossing the room toward me. "We'll go." He wraps his arms around me and leans down, kissing the top of my head. "I'm sorry."

I bury a sob into his chest.

"It'll be okay," he tells me, kissing me again. "We'll get through this. You'll get better, okay?"

We'll?

"Let's go," he says to Tate, who follows him out. I feel him look back at me once, but he says nothing before pulling the door closed behind him.

I pull the ribbing at the end of the sleeves of my hoodie over my hand, use it to wipe the tears away from my cheeks, and start the process of mentally preparing myself to take a bite of food all over again.

It's harder this time.

I take a bite of the omelet, grinding it in my back teeth until it's disintegrated to almost nothing, and hold it in my mouth until I work up the nerve to swallow. I repeat the process, and after I swallow the second bite, the door swings open again, and Tate steps inside alone.

"No," I say. "Go away, Tate."

"You know what I like about you?" he asks.

I scoff. "Nothing."

He pulls the other barstool over until it's right up against mine and sits beside me.

"Pfft, come on, that's not true," he says. "I like that you watched me hack your ex-boyfriend to death—that you know I was going to and still might kill you—and you'll still look me in the eye, call me names, and tell me to get out of your house. It's hot."

"Tate, what do you want? Because I am so fucking serious—"

"I just want to help you," he says. "It's my fault, right? Well, technically, it's Silas's fault, but we both know that anytime he does anything wrong, it's my fault, and if you do something wrong, that's also my fault. You'd probably blame me for global warming if you could—"

"Stop, okay? You can't help me."

He props his head up against his hand with his elbow on the counter, and threads the other hand into my hair, his thumb finding the skin behind my ear again. I lean into it, closing my eyes.

"Maybe I can. How did this happen?"

"I don't know," I tell him, sniffling. "Um, maybe that's not true. I think…I think I just waited too long. I—after it happened—I didn't want to eat. The thought of eating made me sick, and so I just decided that I wouldn't eat until the idea of eating didn't make me feel that way anymore. But then a week went by, and it still made me sick, and everything hurt. I tried, but it had been so long, and I was just…too in my head, and my body didn't cooperate. I kept thinking about the way it felt between my teeth and on my tongue, and the fact that it was in me, you know? And it brought me so much stress, I just kind of stopped trying. I tried to live off of liquid calories for a while, and eventually, really dry carbs were okay, so that's what I settled on for months, but it caught up to me." I wipe my eyes with my sleeve again. "I don't know why I'm even telling you this."

"Nothing helps?"

"Getting drunk. If I can get drunk enough, then I don't care as much. But that's not sustainable, either—not with my issues. My body hurts. My organs hurt."

"Let me stay," he says. "Do you still like The Weeknd?"

"I don't—I guess. I don't really think about stuff like that anymore."

"You don't listen to music anymore? What?"

"No, not really. I mean…do you?"

"Constantly."

"Right. Well, you're probably…" I trail off, deciding not to finish the sentence.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

"You're probably happier than I am. You're not alone. You don't have to think about food all day, and no one knows me, just like you said they wouldn't."

"You chose to be alone."

"Wasn't much of a choice, Tate."

He shrugs before taking out his phone. "Blinding Lights" plays from its speaker, and he sets it down on the table. Then he picks up my fork, stabs one of my miniature omelet squares, and holds it in front of my lips. "Open up," he says, the fingers on his other hand massaging my scalp.

I contemplate fighting him again, but maybe if I regurgitate the eggs onto his lap, he'll leave of his own accord. I open, taking the food from the fork.

"Good girl," he says. "Just relax. Listen to the music. What about vitamins? Do you take vitamins?"

Without realizing it, I swallow the food so I can answer. "Yeah, sometimes. When I can buy them, I grind them up and put them in my coffee."

He loads another bite of omelet and a piece of the hamburger onto the fork, holding it out for me, and I shake my head.

"This is embarrassing."

"It's not that bad," he says. "Why would you be embarrassed in front of me, anyway? Huh? I'm not just anyone."

I open and take the next much bigger bite.

"I wish you would have trusted me," Tate says softly enough that I barely hear it over the music. "When you left the apartments, I mean."

I swallow again, surprised that much food goes down with so little chewing. "Tate, why would I have trusted you?"

"I was always there for you, wasn't I?"

"I don't know how to answer that."

He feeds me again, the same amount of food as before.

"That's because you don't like that the answer is yes."

"Except for the times you tried to kill me!"

He raises his eyebrows and points at me with the fork. "You brought that on yourself."

I snatch it from his hand and swallow.

"Nope," Tate says, taking the fork back. "I'm feeding you, and it's working, isn't it? It's helping, right?"

I don't think it's the music or the fact that he's the one feeding me. I think it's more that he's distracting me with how fucking insufferable he can be—with the duality of his entire persona and how fucking confusing it is.

And if I'm being honest, it felt good just to tell someone else what's been happening to me.

Regardless of the reason, I need the calories, so I let him feed me again.

"It's okay," he says while I chew. "You don't have to tell me I'm helping you; I know how much you'd hate that. I'll be quiet now—just listen to the music."

I don't look at him; I don't acknowledge him in any way. I listen to the music, singing along with the lyrics in my head while he feeds me. I realize that it's been so long since I listened—really listened—to music, not just as something in the background at the café or in a movie, and after a while, I'm even enjoying it. Swallowing gets a little easier the way it does when I'm drunk, and I don't have to brace myself. Tate sings along softly, his foot tapping against the hardwood floor.

I kind of like that, too.

"I can't eat anymore," I tell him eventually, shaking my head when he offers me more food.

"There's not much left," he says.

And he's right—almost all the food is gone. I check the time on the clock like I always do.

Twenty-six minutes.

I ate more food than I usually eat in an hour in only twenty-six minutes. I almost cry.

"This is more than I ever eat. I don't want to throw up and have it all be for nothing."

"Okay."

He takes the plate from me, opens cabinets until he finds a storage container, and then he puts the extra food in the fridge before cleaning my dishes in the sink.

And I just…watch him.

"Let's go," he says. "Grab your keys."

I slide off the barstool and follow him toward the door, stopping to step into my boots. "Where are we going?"

He smiles, places his hands on my cheeks and then leans in, kissing my forehead and then my lips. "You'll see. We can fight about it when we get there."

I follow him out the door, where Silas sits on the top step with his hood up. He quietly stands as we step out, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and when I look at him, he lowers his gaze.

"Do you have a car?" I ask.

"We have a car," Tate answers. "But we don't need it right now."

Tate descends the staircase first, and I follow, linking my arm with Silas's.

"You're upset," I say, my tone hushed.

"I'm fine," he says.

"I know you." Leaning in, I press my lips to his shoulder, and then close my eyes, inhaling. When I open them again, Tate glares at me.

Silas shrugs and doesn't answer, keeping his eyes forward as we follow Tate around the side of the garage and stop in front of Jodie's front door.

"Open it," Tate says.

"What?"

"Use your key; I know you have one."

I do have one. Jodie lets me use her washer and dryer, and I feed her cats and water the plants whenever she asks. Still…

"Why?" I ask. "What are you going to do to her?"

"We're not doing anything to her—she's not here. We're looking for something."

"Well, what are you looking for?"

"Unlock the damn door, Noah, before someone sees us standing out here."

Reluctantly, I take out my keys, flipping through them until I find Jodie's, and unlock the door.

"She's been really good to me," I tell them as we step inside and close the door behind us. "I'd be in prison if it weren't for her."

"Yeah, you're really thriving," Tate says. "Do you know where the guns are?"

"What? What guns?"

"Apparently, she's got a shit ton of guns," he says. "According to her social media history, she collects them."

"Well…why do you need them? Silas?"

"We should look upstairs," Silas says. He starts up the staircase, still refusing to look at me. "I don't think they'd be down here."

"Come on," Tate says to me, inclining his head toward the staircase.

"I don't want to. Can't I just go?"

"Thanks for asking, but no."

I sigh, my shoulders slumping as I follow him up the staircase.

"I'm not going to shoot you, if that's what you're worried about. I wouldn't do that—it's too impersonal."

"Thanks for clearing that up," I reply dully.

He laughs a little. "Guns are easy to sell. It's fast money."

I don't bother replying, crossing my arms in front of my body, and when we get to the top of the staircase, he says, "Oh, and Noah?"

"Yeah?"

"We need to look high and low, so…you should look low."

"No."

"Noah…" He smiles in that way that doesn't meet his eyes and reaches for me, tilting my chin upward with his thumb. "I wasn't asking, baby, and I think you know that. Besides, it'll cheer Silas up to see you crawling around in those tight little yoga pants. Maybe you could rub up against his leg, show him you still have some meat on your ass; that might make him feel better."

"No," I say more forcefully. "I'm not going to crawl around on the floor."

"You're wasting time," he says. "Don't act like submitting doesn't make your pussy wet."

"I'm not eighteen anymore. And things are different now."

"Nothing is different." He traces my jawline with the back of his hand, trailing it down my neck before wrapping it around my throat, but he doesn't squeeze. "You will always be that eighteen-year-old girl, crawling at my feet. You'll always be nineteen, running for your goddamn life just to end up bent over my knee, getting exactly what you fucking deserve. You will never move on, and I think you know that. I think it's kind of beautiful, don't you?"

My eyes begin watering, and he kisses my mouth, but when I don't kiss him back, he gets angry and tightens that hand around my throat, biting my lip while I gasp for air. Then he shoves his other hand down the front of my pants and inside my underwear, his fingers easily dipping inside me.

"That's what I thought," Tate says, releasing his grip on my neck. My cheeks burn when he pulls them out and holds those wet fingers in front of my face for me to see. "I told you that you're still the same girl. This is the last fucking time I'm going to ask, and then you'll do it, but I'm going to slice this Jodie bitch all the way open and make you watch. I don't like the way you talk about her anyway…like she saved you or some shit."

She did kind of save me, but I'm not going to tell him that. Looking away, I slowly drop to my knees and crawl toward Jodie's bedroom.

"That's not so bad, is it?" he asks, following behind me. "I bet you feel better. It feels good to give in, doesn't it? Just like it did last night."

I drop my head and try to pretend I can't feel my clit pulsing between my legs, that every time he opens his mouth, I don't have to squeeze my thighs together a little more.

"Any luck?" he asks Silas as we enter the room.

"No guns in here," Silas says, sifting through the drawers of her vanity. "But she has a lot of jewelry. Where's Noah?"

"She's on her knees where she belongs," Tate says.

I look up at Silas, meeting his eyes, and watch the muscles in his jaw and throat flex when he looks at me.

He does like me like this. Maybe it will make him feel better.

"Get over here," he says. "Tell me which of these she doesn't wear very often and won't miss for a while."

I crawl over to him, rubbing up against his leg before I lift onto my knees, wrapping my arm around the inside of his thigh, and look inside the drawer.

"Um, well, she doesn't really wear jewelry," I tell him. "If she does, it's something subtle. She probably wouldn't miss any of these bulky earrings or necklaces."

He takes a step away from me and my touch, sitting on the stool in front of the mirror.

"I'm going to look somewhere else," Tate says. "She's not allowed to stand up."

I roll my eyes because I know he can't see them, and when I hear his footsteps continuing down the hallway, I crawl into Jodie's bathroom.

If I have to do this, I might as well take something I want, and Jodie has an entire pharmacy in here.

I don't know who Dr. Samuel Rutherford is, but he sure likes Jodie. She has massive supplies of medications that aren't easy to get your hands on, and doesn't take them enough to notice if I snatch a few here and there.

I stand, not really worried about breaking the rules; Silas would have to speak to me to make me stop, and right now, he won't even look at me. Then I sort through the bottles, careful to remember exactly where I got them from. There's a little of everything: muscle relaxers, oxy, sleeping pills. I dump a few from each bottle into my hand and stuff them into my pocket.

"What are you doing?" Silas asks.

My nerves and his voice in the quiet space cause me to jump, sending tiny white sleeping pills flying across the bathroom floor.

"Shit!" I drop onto my hands and knees and start picking them up.

"Guess you should have stayed down like you were supposed to," Silas says before kneeling beside me and helping me gather the pills. "What's all this? Did I turn you into a junkie, too?"

"No, I'm not a junkie. I don't take them very often—only on really hard days or when I really need sleep. I don't sleep well."

I don't mention the nightmares.

"That's probably my fault, too, isn't it?"

"Not exactly."

Silas scoffs, shaking his head. "Okay, sure. I think we got them all."

He empties the contents of his hand into the orange bottle and takes it from me, replacing it in the medicine cabinet.

"Wait, that's not where it was," I say, standing again. "They're in alphabetical order." I move it to the correct shelf and close the cabinet just before he turns the corner.

"Silas…you can't be mad at me."

He pauses, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, and leans against the doorframe.

"Please? I can't take it."

"I'm not mad at you, Noah. I'm mad at myself."

"I'm not." I step toward him, leaning against the opposite side of the doorframe. "I don't blame you. It's not your fault."

"How can you say that? Look what I did to you…"

"Do I look that bad?" I ask, biting my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

"No," he says. "No, that's not what I mean—you're still beautiful." He sighs and takes a step toward me, pushing my hair behind my right ear. "But you're sick, baby. You're suffering. And that is my fault."

I shake my head. "No."

"It is, Noah. You know it's my fault, and you should be mad at me. You were always so fucking special to me and so fucking good to me, even when we were just friends. When the rest of the world was bleak and ugly and…poisoned with sameness and disappointing predictability, you were rare. No one saw it, and you hated it, but I never hated it. I liked that they didn't know you. I liked having you to myself. I've been in love with you for the better part of a decade. Did you know that?"

"I didn't know that."

"I'm so fucking sorry, Noah. And…fuck. I was rough with you, and you said your body hurts…" He pauses, pressing his lips together and shaking his head. "You should hate me. You should punish me."

"I don't want to. You're the only person…" I stop, taking a deep breath. "I love you. And I'm sorry I never told you that before, and I don't care what you did. I don't care that I should hate you, and even if I could stop loving you—and I can't—I wouldn't want to. I was terrified when that video went viral, but when you found me, I was relieved. It felt wrong not knowing you, too. I forgot what it felt like to have someone in the world who cares about me. The real me, not the…fake version."

"You shouldn't love me. I broke you. I left you."

"I know." I swallow hard. "Don't do it again."

Silas leans in, kissing my lips, and I hook my fingers into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him in closer while his tongue takes over my mouth. He hitches one of my legs up around his waist and moans against my lips when he grinds between my legs. I slide my hands under his shirt, over his hard abs and chest, and whimper in protest when he pulls back, grazing my lip with his teeth before moving onto my neck.

"Oh, god…" I whisper, rocking my hips against him. "What if Jodie comes back?"

"I put a tracker on her car," he says, tracing the length of my throat with his tongue. His hand slides up my thigh and over my ass before slipping inside my waistband. "We'll get a notification if it moves."

Then he pulls my yoga pants down over my hips and sinks to his knees, pushing my thighs apart with the palms of his hand before slowly tracing my wet slit with his tongue and pushing it inside me.

"Fuck…" I moan, letting my head drop and my eyes fall closed. He swirls his tongue inside me, nuzzling his face against me before pulling back and moving his attention onto my clit. I grip the doorframe and arch my back, pushing my hips forward to give him better access, and gasp at the increased pressure.

"Silas…oh, my god…"

Silas laughs—laughs—while sucking my clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it. "I love those little sounds you make," he says, and then he pushes his fingers into my pussy, moving them in and out of me while his tongue swirls around my clit.

And then I can't help it—I place my hand on the back of his head and rock my hips back and forth, riding his tongue. He angles his fingers, matching the pace of my hips while moving his tongue back and forth, side-to-side. I feel that tightening in my core, threatening to come undone.

"That…that feels so good," I tell him, my voice strained. "Fuck! Oh, my god, I'm going to…come."

He sucks my clit into his mouth and moans, flicking it with his tongue, and I scream, gripping his hair in my fist, my toes curling inside my boots.

Goose bumps run up my spine as the orgasm rolls through me. I push back against the wall to stay on my feet while my clit pulses against his tongue until it's too much.

"I can't…oh, god. I can't take it anymore," I say breathlessly.

"I'm not done yet, baby. Not until you stop shaking."

I clench my thighs around his head, and he keeps me spread open, licking me and pumping his fingers inside me through the aftershocks, through my whining and squirming, until finally, my legs stop shaking.

Silas pulls away, kissing the inside of my thigh.

"I love you…" I say again, my breath heaving. My eyes flutter open, and when I look up, Tate is standing in the bedroom watching us.

There's fire in his eyes and not the good kind.

"Found the fucking guns if anyone cares," he says, his tone harsh. "Let's grab them and get the fuck out of here."

Tate storms out of the room, not waiting for us to follow, and Silas pulls himself to his feet.

"I love you, too," he says. He grabs my underwear and pulls them back into place, then does the same with my tights before kissing me on the mouth. "Let's go, princess."

I follow him toward the door, but he stops me.

"No, Noah. You need to crawl."

Unlike before with Tate, I don't protest. I drop onto the carpet and crawl toward the door with Silas behind me.

"This carpet is going to ruin the knees of these tights, you know."

"If it were up to me, you'd be on your knees so much that none of your pants would have any knees at all, Noah. Don't complain to me when you just rode my tongue, and I can still taste your pussy. Respectfully."

Tate waits in the hall with that same dark look in his eyes, his jaw flexed.

"Where are they?" Silas asks.

"They're downstairs. The bookshelf is a cabinet. It's locked, but it isn't anything special; you should be able to get into it," Tate says.

The two of them walk down the staircase, and I stop, debating whether I should ask if I can stand. But the idea of asking permission is a little too much for me right now—especially when Tate is in this mood—so I turn and crawl down the steps backward.

When I reach the bottom, Silas is already working on the lock. I crawl over to the couch and sit at Tate's feet, leaning against his leg.

"You must know you're in trouble," he says.

"Yes," I tell him. "But I don't know why."

It wouldn't be because Silas went down on me. That's never been a problem for him before, and he watched me suck him off last night and kissed me afterward.

He wouldn't just change the rules like this.

Tate leans forward, petting my head. "Because you're a bad girl, Noah," he says. "You're a sickness for me. And I'm going to have to do something about it. I'll have to punish you for it."

I turn, resting my head on his knee, and look up at him. "No, I'm not. I'm not bad, Tate."

"That's not going to work on me," he says as he strokes my hair.

"Got it," Silas says, opening the cabinet behind the bookcase.

And there they are. I don't know anything about guns, but there are at least ten different weapons, ranging from small handguns to rifles with scopes on them.

Tate stands and walks toward them, looking in as if admiring them for a minute before laying a blanket out on the floor in front of him. "We'll wrap them in this and take them out to the car," he says.

"No," I say. "She loves that blanket. Her daughter made it for her, and she died a few years ago. She'll notice if that's gone—trust me."

"Go get a couple of towels from the bathroom, then," Tate says, stuffing two of the smaller guns into the waistband of his jeans before Silas does the same. "You can walk."

I do as he asks, my heart pounding as I walk to the bathroom and return with a couple of towels from the linen closet.

"I have a bad feeling," I say as I lay them out on the floor.

"Yeah? Well, I am a bad feeling," Tate says. "Get over it."

"You'll be okay, Noah," Silas says. "I just checked the tracker. She hasn't left that house yet."

"And if she comes home, I'll just kill her," Tate says coldly. "Help us carry these to the car."

I sigh, grabbing one of the rolled-up towels, and follow them out the back door. I lock it behind me, and then we walk around the backside of the garage and through a small wooded area to where a grey sedan waits in a side alley.

"You know where we can find ammo in this shithole, Noah?" Tate asks.

"Um, I'm pretty sure they sell it at the drug store."

Tate laughs. "Of course, they do. Did you hear that, Silas? They sell ammo at the drug store."

"Yeah, I heard."

Silas opens the truck, and I dump the guns inside, relieved to have them out of my hands. "Now what?" I ask.

"Now, we're leaving," Tate says, snatching the keys from Silas. He moves to the driver's side of the car, shoulder checking me as he passes. He doesn't look at me and climbs into the vehicle, starting the engine.

"Well…where are you going?" I ask Silas.

I feel that tightening sensation in my chest again. They're leaving? What does he mean by leaving? Like…forever?

"We're staying at a motel a few blocks away," Silas says. "We're going to take the guns back there—that's all, okay?"

I nod, and he leans in, kissing my lips.

"I won't leave without telling you," he says.

Which is different than I won't leave you. All I can do is nod.

Tate doesn't want me. He was so good to me this morning, and he still doesn't want me. He's going to kill me or leave me again, and I'm not sure which is worse.

I cross my arms in front of my body, attempting to make myself smaller somehow.

Silas must mistake it for cold—and it is cold—because he runs his hands up and down my upper arms, as if trying to warm me, and then holds me against his chest.

"I love you, baby," he says. "You can text me, okay?"

"Okay."

But I'm pretty sure he and Tate share a phone. I don't think I will.

"Bye."

He kisses me and then walks to the passenger side of the car. I stay there in the alley, watching them pull away before I walk home alone.

When I get inside, I slip off my shoes and crawl into bed. And I just stay there. Without work, without them, I don't have a purpose. I don't know what to do with myself.

Hours later, there's a knock on my door. My heart jumps, but when I open it, there's no one there. Confused, I look around before noticing a delivery driver walking through the parking lot of the café toward his car. When I look down, there's a brown paper bag at my feet.

It's heavy; I smell Mexican food—my favorite—before I even open it, and my stomach rumbles, even though I'm not sure if I'll be able to eat much more than just the chips and rice.

The burrito looks really good, though.

I put on some music, like Tate did for me earlier, and make a plate.

sixteen

Waking Up is Hard to Do

Silas

"Are you going to tell me what your problem is?" I ask Tate after closing the car door behind me. He doesn't respond, watching Noah in the rearview mirror with his jaw tightly clenched as he pulls out onto the main road.

I reach over and place my hand on the back of his neck. "Tate?"

"Showing ourselves to her was a mistake," Tate says, shaking his head. "We should have just…done what we came here to do and fucking left. I just…"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

Tate pulls into the motel, parking in the far back corner of the lot with the tailgate facing the forest behind the motel. "I'm talking about her. She's under my fucking skin again; she's getting to me, and I…fuck! I want to choke the fucking life out of her. She's evil."

"Evil?" I shrug. "Noah is evil?"

"She knows what she's doing. She's fucking with my head."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don't even want to ask, but…

"Tate, if you've got something to say, I'm going to need you to be a hell of a lot less cryptic and just fucking say it."

"She always runs to you, doesn't she? It doesn't matter that I was the one who sat there and fed her and sang to her all morning. I'm not the one who made her chow down on her dad and gave her some kind of eating disorder, am I? But still, she runs to you every fucking time. She says she loves you. She needs me to know that no matter what I fucking do, I'm still the bad guy, and you're the fucking hero."

I narrow my eyes, unsure how to respond. I'm pretty sure there's at least one personal insult buried somewhere between the lines of what he just said, and it wasn't a mistake. I also know that whatever wall he's put up between himself and reality must be incredibly necessary to maintaining what's left of his sanity, because the mental fucking gymnastics he has to perform at this point for it to remain intact has got to be exhausting.

I'm genuinely worried about what would happen if he woke up. I'll do him a favor and not point out all the reasons Noah shouldn't love him, either.

"You're not wrong," I say. "Noah should hate me, and I told her that, too. You know what she was doing in the bathroom? Stealing a bunch of pills from the entire fucking pharmacy that woman has in her medicine cabinet so she can eat and sleep and get through the day without being in constant pain. And that's my fault. I already hate myself for it; I promise you, I don't need you to tell me how fucked it is—I already know."

"I didn't mean it like that."

I crinkle my nose. "Mmm…yeah, you did. And you're mad that she said she loved me. Have you ever told her you loved her?"

"I don't love her. I fucking despise her." He turns off the vehicle, pulls the keys from the ignition, and unnecessarily throws them against the windshield. "And I did tell her. Once. I practically said it, anyway."

"Practically? Then no, you didn't tell her."

"She knew what I meant."

"We're talking about Noah. I practically told her isn't good enough; you know that. You know better."

I rub the back of his neck, and Tate crosses his arms in front of him, leans back in his seat, and sighs. "I know you think she's innocent, but she's not."

"I don't know about innocent; I don't care about that. But no matter what you think you practically told Noah, you told her something different when she left."

In his head, it wasn't a big deal; it was preservation—for all of us. But he knows Noah. He says he understands her, so he has to understand how it hurt her. Maybe he's just been through so much that he thinks if it's not killing you, it can't be that bad.

But he tried to kill her, too.

"Yeah? What'd you tell her when you killed her mom?"

"You told her you wouldn't hurt her. I never told her I wouldn't kill her mom."

Tate scoffs.

"If you don't want to be the bad guy in her story, then don't be the fucking bad guy."

"I never said I didn't want to be the bad guy. I love being the fucking bad guy; I relish it. And she knew that. She always knew who I was—it's not fair for her to suddenly reject me just for staying true to character."

I shrug. "You break character for me."

I lean in and kiss him on the lips, lingering there for a second until he parts his own enough for me to slip my tongue past his. But as soon as I can taste him, before I can wrap my arm around him and deepen the kiss, he pulls away.

"You taste like traitor pussy," he snaps.

Tate snatches the keys from the dash and climbs out of the car. I take a moment to laugh and wipe the smile off my fucking face before following him around the back of the vehicle.

"Tate…"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he says as he unlocks the trunk. "What are we going to do with all of these? There isn't much room left under the upholstery."

"I know that. We'll have to put the smaller ones inside the door panels. I'll need some tools, but I can do it. I'll break into the body shop after they close, get what I need, and put it back before they open in the morning."

Wouldn't want them to report anything missing. I doubt things like that happen often in a place like this, and I'm sure Noah's ex would be pretty quick to point the police toward her sketchy friends from out of town.

We picked a good time to be criminals, though. You can find instructions on how to do almost anything on the internet. Picking locks and breaking into safes, hacking phones and cameras, making money disappear without a trace. That's how we learned how to make fake IDs, too. Tearing the interior of this car apart and putting it back together shouldn't be that difficult. I've always believed a determined person can learn anything.

"Good. I'll fuck the place up while we're at it. And if that blonde fucking asshole is there, I'll slice him open and hang him from the fucking car lift."

Yeah, I know he will. Which is exactly why he isn't fucking coming with me.

"You can't go."

"What? I'm kidding."

"No, you're not—you're not kidding. And we need to be stealthy; you're far too reactive, and you've joked about killing this guy at least three times a day since we got here."

The truth is Tate wouldn't last long without someone like me or Noah taking care of him. Surely, he knows that, too.

"You're no fun," he pouts. "Guess I'll just kill Noah instead."

My eyes darken.

"Didn't like that one, huh?" Tate smirks before reaching for the top of the trunk to push it closed, but I stop him, closing a hand around his wrist. I pull his arm behind his back and move behind him, pressing my body against his.

"No, I didn't," I growl. "Tell me something, Tate—if you hate Noah so much, then why could I see your dick hard against your leg when she was crawling around the house earlier?"

"I'm always hard. You know that."

He isn't wrong. Tate is almost always hard, always horny. Most mornings, I wake up to his lips wrapped around my dick, sucking on it like I'm his favorite fucking pacifier, and I could let him and that tongue ring suck me dry all day. With my free hand, I unbutton his pants and take out his cock under the cover of the open trunk. Sure enough, it's hard as fuck.

He groans as I stroke it in my hand, twisting his arm tighter behind his back.

"You don't miss it, then?" I ask. "Noah naked on her back beneath you, her legs spread and her pussy bared, my cum all over her tits, bouncing while you slam your dick into her?"

"No…" he whimpers.

But his dick jumps in my fist. I rub my thumb over the tip, smearing precum all over the head. He's lying.

"You don't miss taking turns with her pussy and her mouth? You don't miss watching me fuck her and getting hard all over again?" I ask as I pump his cock in my fist.

"Oh, fuck. Don't stop."

"You never gave her a break, did you? You had her legs shaking all night, just like they were under the table at the bar yesterday. She was so relieved when you finally came; she looked like she was going to cry."

My own dick throbs at the thought. I picture Noah with her eyes watering and my dick in the back of her throat, Tate kneeling beside her. I picture the two of them licking me together, taking turns getting their throats fucked, and it twitches, begging to be sucked and fucked.

"She never asked for a break—she was a slut," he groans. "She couldn't get enough of it."

"Just like you, Tate," I say, releasing his arm and pulling his jeans down over his hips. I bend him over, and he holds himself up with his arms inside the car's truck. I spit in my hand and then rub it over the head of my dick before thrusting inside him.

"Oh, fuck. Yes. Fuck me…"

I find my rhythm, my hips slamming into his ass cheeks and rocking the car forward with each thrust. Tate whimpers, already on the edge of orgasm.

"More…" he pleads.

"You know, maybe you should go over there later…" I tell him through clenched teeth, grunting with every thrust. "You could slip your dick inside her tight little pussy while she's sleeping…"

"Fuck yes…"

I wrap my hands around his biceps, using them for leverage as I pound my dick into him harder and faster.

"Ahh…just like that," he says. "Don't stop. I'm gonna come."

"Show her what a good boy you can be when she lets you use her body to milk your dick. Make her scream when she comes—I bet she'll love you then."

"Oh, god," he moans, writhing against me, wrapping his hand around his leaking cock. He pumps it in his fist, whimpering and milking it until it runs dry.

My balls tighten as I watch, my dick throbbing as I slide it in and out of him until I explode, filling him while he clenches around me.

I hiss as I pull out of him, stuffing my dick back inside my pants.

"Do you feel better?" I ask.

"No," Tate says as he stands and adjusts his pants. "I'm still mad."

I laugh a little, shaking my head, and kiss him on the lips. This time, he doesn't complain that I taste like pussy. "Whatever. Lock the trunk and let's go inside."

Tate follows me into the motel, bolting the door behind us before lying back on the bed and turning on the television.

Well, he might claim he's still pissed, but he's subdued, at least. For now.

I shower and then take out my laptop, lie on the bed, and start researching how to discretely remove and replace side panels on car doors. I take notes on what tools I'll need, fairly confident I'll be able to get all of this done before the sun comes up.

Once I'm finished, I close the window and search for somewhere to eat, settling on a Mexican place a couple of blocks away. I pick up the motel landline and place two orders, one for pickup and the other for delivery, telling them I'll pay for both with cash when I get there.

"You ordered Noah food, too," Tate says. It's not really a question, but I respond as if it were, anyway.

"Yeah, I did. Why wouldn't I?"

He moves over, resting his head against my shoulder. "You don't need to hate yourself because of Noah and the food stuff," he says. "I shouldn't have said that."

I know that's the closest I'll ever get to anything resembling an actual apology from Tate. "Thanks, but…I actually do."

"You're still her hero, though, aren't you?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't feel like a hero. I'm going to go grab the food."

"I guess that means I can officially start drinking."

"What are you talking about?" I scoff. "You've been drinking since we got back."

"But that wasn't my official drinking," Tate says. "I've had a challenging day."

He's up to something; I narrow my eyes. "Do I need to be worried about you after I leave tonight?"

"Whatever do you mean?" he asks, grabbing a handle of whiskey and pouring some out into a coffee mug. He toasts to me and smiles before taking a drink.

Straight whiskey in a coffee mug. Very official drinking.

I love Tate. I love his unpredictability, and I know Noah loved it, too. It's what's always made being with him thrilling in a way that I've never felt with anyone else. The world has more color when Tate is in it, even if oftentimes, that color is red.

However, that same unpredictability—the same things about Tate that challenges me and makes life more exciting—is what makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

But a little oxygen depravation feels good, too.

"What are you planning on doing?" I ask. "Not killing Noah's boyfriend or anything, right?"

"Don't call him that," Tate hisses. "He's not her boyfriend; she doesn't even like him. That fucking nerd isn't even her type."

I bite back laughter. I don't want to piss him off again, but…sure. Tate's not in love with Noah at all. I hope he's done playing this fucking game soon, because I miss us—the three of us. I miss sleeping together with Noah in the middle, all our legs intertwined and smelling her hair as I fall asleep.

I want to take care of them both. I don't need money; I don't need fame or notoriety or anything like that. I just need a purpose. And that's my purpose.

"So, the nerd is safe, then?"

"He's safe as long as he stays out of my sight," Tate says. "I'll probably just hang out here. Maybe I'll go visit freckles later…you know, after she's asleep, like you said."

That probably wouldn't be a bad idea…for either of them, really. Maybe they can finally tear each other's walls apart, and we can all go home.

"Don't hurt her."

He puts his hands up innocently. "I won't. But could you leave me her keys and the phone when you go tonight?"

I shrug. I don't see why not.

"Yeah, I can do that."

seventeen

The Walking Almost-Dead Girl

Noah

I'm lying awake in the dark, tossing and turning, debating taking one of Jodie's pills and which one I should take, when my phone rings.

I prepare to hit ignore on what I assume is another spam call before I see UNKNOWN scrolling across the screen, and I wonder if maybe it's Tate or Silas.

Or—let's be honest—it would just be Silas.

I push accept. "Hello?"

"Hey, little runaway."

Tate. Drunk Tate by the sound of it.

"Hi, Tate."

"You sound disappointed," he says. "Why is that?"

"I don't know what you mean. I always sound like this."

"You—" He stops, laughing. I don't know what's so funny, and I never figure out what he was going to say because he switches gears. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I have something to tell you."

"Okay…what is it?"

"I did something…and I don't think you're going to like it…"

I swallow hard. "What did you do, Tate?"

"I hurt someone," he says. "I said I wouldn't but…god, Noah, you just make me so fucking angry. And, you know, this person—regardless of what you think or what fucking fantasy you've concocted in that malnourished brain of yours—this person doesn't care about you. It's important that you know that. Because if you're honest with yourself about that, then you can't really be mad at me, can you?"

"What did you do?" I ask again through clenched teeth. "What did you fucking do, Tate!?"

"I mean, if you think she would hesitate even for a second before calling the police if she found out who you were, you're fucking kidding yourself. She'd be terrified—no, wait—repulsed by you if she knew. Honestly, it's too bad that whoever tried to slit her throat the first time didn't do a better job, and then maybe we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Tate!" I shout into the phone. I sit up in bed, frantic. "You didn't. You didn't hurt Jodie. Did you? Did you hurt her?"

"Nah, I didn't hurt Jodie," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief before he adds, "I think I killed her."

"What?!" I can barely breathe. My heart pounds against my ribcage; I can barely get the words out. "What'd you do to her? Is…is she okay?"

"Mmmm, I mean, she was alive when I left her there, but she probably isn't alive now."

"Where? Tate, where is she? Is she at the house?"

"No…she's not at the house," he says casually. I can almost hear him absentmindedly playing with his lip rings, even though he doesn't have them anymore.

"Then where?!"

"There's a little graveyard," he says, "not far from your house. Do you know where it is?"

"The one behind the park?" I ask, my voice cracking. "At the edge of the forest?"

"That's the one," he says. "Anyway, she's in one."

"In one?"

"Somewhere, yeah. I don't really remember where. I mean, you know how it is—I just get…" He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is harsh, angry. He's almost screaming into the phone. "I just get so fucking mad, Noah, especially when it comes to you. And then I can't even see; I can't even remember where I am or what I'm doing because I'm so fucking mad. And so yeah, she's in one—I think—and she's probably dead by now."

I drop the phone. I don't even know if I disconnect the call, but I rush to the door, step into my boots, and run down the staircase and out into the pouring rain. It's cold—ice cold—and heavy enough that I can barely see more than a few feet in front of me, but I don't stop until I get to the graveyard. And by the time I swing the gate open, I'm soaked to the bone, every molecule of my exposed skin numb.

I stop, out of breath, my legs tired and throat sore from inhaling the frigid air, and drop to my knees.

"Jodie!" I wail into the darkness. "Jodie! Where are you!?"

I wait, straining my ears, hoping to hear something over the sound of the heavy rain and rustling leaves, but there's nothing. "Jodie!" I scream again.

Still nothing.

I pull myself to my feet, slipping in the mud, and drag my body on frozen legs through the rows and rows of graves. "Jodie!"

Nothing. No sign of life, no sign of a body aside from those interred long ago. I almost convince myself Tate made the whole thing up—that it was just a prank, but then…

I stop short, my heart dropping into my stomach as I just barely manage not to fall into an open grave with no marker.

"Fuck, that was close." I thrust my hands, shaking from a mix of cold, adrenaline, and fear, into the wet front pocket of my hoodie. It provides little warmth as I try to catch my breath.

But before I move on, I look down into that open hole and see…something.

I'm not really sure what it is at first—it's almost impossible to make out in the dark—but at the bottom of that muddy hole, floating just at the surface of the water pooling at the bottom, are waves of long, grey hair and a jacket I recognize as the one she got when her bowling team won the league championship last spring.

"Jodie!" I scream into the abyss. But of course, she doesn't hear me. Face down in the water, she doesn't move. "Jodie, please! Jodie!"

I don't know what to do, and if I wasn't so cold, so fucking terrified and traumatized and helpless all at the same time, I probably would have known better than to do this.

I jump into the hole.

When I land, my legs quickly slide out from beneath me, and I fall on my ass in about five inches of muddy water. As I pull myself up, I sink further into the muck. It's thick enough that I struggle to pull my feet back out.

"Jodie!" I call out again. Once I manage to move my feet closer, I kneel in that muddy water, grab her jacket, and attempt to flip her over.

But the jacket slips from her body with ease. "What…"

I hold it in front of me, watching the water drip down the white embroidered leather, perplexed.

I let it fall back into the water and feel around beneath its surface, and I feel….nothing. My eyes pool with tears as with shaky hands, I reach for the long, grey hair, and lift it out of the water—all the way out of the water—too.

It's a wig.

It was a trick. And now…

Now, I'm stuck in a grave. In a freezing cold, wet grave.

I'm going to die in here.

"Tate!" I scream, pulling myself back onto my feet, and then I throw the wet, muddy wig out of the hole and onto the surface. "Tate! This isn't fucking funny!"

I wait. Thunder cracks overhead and still…nothing.

"Tate, get me out of here!" I sob. "Tate, please! I'm sorry!"

I don't know what I'm sorry for, but I can't say that. And once he gets me out of this fucking hole, I'm going to kill him. I can't say that, either.

"Tate!" I scream, my voice more desperate this time. "Help! Someone, please, help me."

But there's nothing. No sign of anyone in the graveyard, no Tate, no Silas. Just the occasional flash of lightning in the distance and the sound of raindrops hitting the water pooling at the bottom of the open grave.

It's only getting colder. And deeper. I can't feel my skin. I can't feel my fingers; I can't wiggle my toes inside my waterlogged boots.

"Help!" I scream one more time. But this time, I barely try. I know no one will hear me. "Fuck!"

Desperate for warmth, I burrow into the corner of the hole, sinking down into the water and pulling my knees into my chest.

I'm so cold, so tired, and so utterly defeated.

They say hypothermia isn't a bad way to die. It's as easy and painless as falling asleep. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Tate did promise a merciful death that day in the car.

I drop my head onto my knees and close my eyes. I wonder how long it'll take. Hours? Will I still be alive in the morning?

But I can't fucking die in here. Because I'm going to kill Tate.

I pull myself to my feet and scream until all the air leaves my lungs. And then I attempt to climb out of this tomb.

Grasping the cold, wet earth in my hands, I futilely attempt to climb the wall, slipping and sliding down before I even get much of a start. And that mud in my fists? It just comes apart in my hands, and I fall back into the watery grave.

Again…and again.

I try the other side. I try the corners. Once, I even get close enough to grip the edge of the hole with one hand, and when I fell back that time, it hurt even worse.

Not in the pain way—in the soul-crushing way.

My arms are so tired, my body so cold, and to make it worse, I look up and realize one of my boots slipped off and stayed stuck in the wall of mud. Not that it really matters with my feet now unfeeling bricks of frozen flesh. And I'm the almost-dead girl in a fucking hole in the woods.

I wonder if they'll figure out who I am once they find my corpse and how they'll react. Jodie, Mason, and Zoey…they'll probably be disgusted, like Tate said. Everything I touched will suddenly seem dirty in a way they won't be able to get clean. Will they worry there's something wrong with them because they didn't see it?

They'll probably blame me for the finger.

But fuck, that was me, wasn't it?

I stay there at the bottom of the hole, staring at the boot. I don't even feel cold anymore; I feel nothing. I remember reading that shivering is something your body does to keep your core temperature up in the cold.

I've stopped doing that, too.

I lean back against the wall of my dirt crypt. If my body has stopped trying, maybe it's time for me to stop, too.

As the heavy rain slows, the sound of it against the water is almost calming. I'm calming. Sitting in the otherwise silent darkness, I begin hearing the beat to "Born To Die" by Lana Del Rey in the pattern of the falling rain and sing along before noticing I'm doing it, sobbing through the words before I get to the chorus.

And then once the entire song has played through, before I can start over again, I stare at that boot near the far corner of my watery grave. Still stuck. Still taunting me with how close I got.

Wait.

I scramble to my feet and pull off the other boot. Then I grip it hard by the heel, pull it back behind me, and scream, gritting my teeth as I drive it into the muddy wall about a foot higher than the other one with as much force as I can get behind it.

It sticks. I hammer it further into the wall with numb fists and then do the same with the other—just to make sure.

"Okay," I say aloud, swallowing a lump in my throat. "Here we go."

This is it. I know if this doesn't work, then…this unmarked grave will be my own.

I grip the higher boot in my muddy palm and use it to hoist myself onto the other, but I feel it sliding under the weight of me. I scream and push off my feet, reaching for that ledge, and once I have it in my grasp, I attempt to shift my weight onto the upper boot. As I kick off, the bottom one slips from under me and falls into the water.

But I made it. My god, I made it. My chin hits the grass and I risk moving one of my arms, stretching it forward and digging my fingers into the dirt. Then I move the other arm forward, and I get my elbows up onto the surface just as the other shoe slips from the mud and into the water below.

But it's enough. I have enough leverage to shift the weight of my upper body onto the ground and then I dig my toes into the earth, pulling myself out inch by inch. Stay calm, I caution myself. Slow, deliberate movements. That's how I'll get out of here.

I'm not sure how long it takes, but I get through another round of "Born To Die" in my head. And once I'm out—once I'm flat on my stomach on the cold, wet earth—I scramble on all fours away from the hole, as if it would suck me back in if I didn't. I don't stop until I'm up against another headstone.

I roll over onto my back and catch my breath.

And then…I just get up and start walking home. I don't look back at the hole in the ground.

I have no idea what time it is; I don't know how long I was in that hole, but once I get back to the main road, it looks like the bars are letting out. There's a bigger crowd than usual, many dressed in costumes even though Halloween isn't until tomorrow. Fresh out of a grave and still numb to my core, I probably look like an extra on The Walking Dead. If anyone even looks at me twice, I don't notice it, my focus on getting inside and dry. I drag myself across the street and then through the café parking lot to the stairs leading up to my studio apartment.

And Jodie's lights are on. Both her car and her boyfriend's truck are in the driveway. She's just fine.

Slowly, painfully, I make my way up the staircase and push open the door.

It's always kind of cold in here, and I'm always kind of cold because of my health issues, but when I step inside, it's like walking into an inferno. The air burns my ice-cold skin. After closing the door, I instantly start stripping down, hoping for some relief once I get the wet clothes off of me.

Even my underwear and bra are muddy. Before I remove them, I hear a voice coming from the other side of the room, startling me.

"Oh, shit. You did jump in the grave. I was wondering what was taking so long. Did you know she wore wigs?"

eighteen

I Like the Ones Where the Bad Guys Get Away

Noah

Slowly, silently, I look up. My eyes go wide when I see Tate sitting on one of my barstools, drinking my vodka while watching my television after I just spent hours in a cold, dark hole crying for him to save me. I grit my teeth, rage coursing through my veins.

There are no fucking words.

"Wow. You look fucking crazy right now," he says casually.

"I'm going to kill you."

He looks at me like maybe he misheard me, and maybe he did. My register is lower than usual, my teeth clenched and breath short.

"What?"

"I said…I'm going to fucking kill you!"

I grab the porcelain lamp from the nightstand, pull its cord from the wall, and hurl it across the room. Tate ducks before it can hit him, and it shatters against the cabinets and falls onto the kitchen floor. I look for something—anything else—I could use to hurt him. I grab the wooden coat rack from beside the door next, taking a few steps forward before I fling it across the room.

"Shit!" Tate yells, this time falling off of the barstool and onto the floor when he dodges it. And he laughs. He's fucking laughing by the time I reach him. I pick up one of the barstools and bring it down over his back.

"I hate you!" I shout before hitting him with it again. "I fucking hate you!"

"Stop!" he yells, grabbing the barstool by one of its legs before I can hit him with it a third time. "Fucking stop!"

We struggle with the piece of furniture between us until Tate pulls himself onto his knees, giving himself more leverage, and he flings me into the kitchen cabinets, forcing me to lose my grip. I hit my head hard, seeing stars behind my eyes as I fall onto the hardwood floor.

I rub the back of my head before pulling myself up onto all fours.

Tate stands quickly, tossing the barstool behind him, and holds out his hands innocently. "Okay, that was an accident," he says. "That was your fault. You came at me like a fucking lunatic; what was I supposed to do?"

But all I see is red. I reach over and grab a shard of the shattered porcelain, gripping it tightly in my hand. Then I pull myself to my feet and bring it back behind my head.

"Noah…don't. Don't make me hurt you."

I don't listen. I scream, lunging at him, and he attempts to stop me by grabbing my arms, but I have momentum on my side. I bury the tip of that shard into his shoulder, using as much force as I can get behind it while watching blood from the shallow wound soak through his grey t-shirt. I know it's not good enough; I know I didn't do much damage, but it's still so fucking satisfying, and I don't give up. We fight for control, and, realizing I won't be able to dig any deeper, I drag the sharp end downward, unfazed as it slices into my fingers.

"Fuck!" Tate screams. He's forced to release my left wrist, using both hands to stop me. With my left hand now free, I grab at his face, digging my thumb into his eye socket while he pulls the porcelain shard out of his shoulder and then tries prying it from my fingers.

"Stop! It's done, Noah!" he says, pushing my hand away from his face. "Let go! You're only hurting yourself."

"Fuck you!" I yell before sinking my teeth into his chest. Hot coppery blood fills my mouth, and there's no gag reflex this time. I'm going to bite off a piece of Tate, spit it in his mouth, and make him fucking eat himself.

"Ahhh! God fucking damn it!"

He shakes me off, and I fall on my ass beside the other nightstand. "What the fuck, Noah?!" he shouts before pulling his t-shirt over his head. The gash in his shoulder isn't too deep, but it's a few inches long and bloody, as are the teeth marks. It gives me a weird sense of pride. Tate is probably going to kill me, but before, he said I haunted him—that I was like a missing limb—and now, I've marked him. He'll have to see me every time he looks in the goddamn mirror. He'll have to know Silas sees me on his naked body every time they fuck.

How's that for haunted?

He wipes at the wounds with the t-shirt before tossing it aside, and I laugh.

"Jesus. Have you lost your fucking mind?!"

"Yes." I grab the other lamp, intending to smash it and use it as a weapon, too.

"No!" he yells, lunging for me before I can bring the lamp down on the hardwood floor. He snatches it out of my hands, tossing it aside, and it rolls across the floor behind him. "No more fucking lamp shivs!"

I scream, struggling against him as he pins me to the floor with a hand on each of my wrists.

"Get off me!"

"No! You need to stop, Noah. I'm bigger than you, I'm stronger than you, and you need to fucking stop!"

I fight for a couple more minutes—until my muscles won't cooperate and my body refuses to move—and then I finally give up. I turn my head to the side, bite my lip and blink back tears I refuse to let him see.

"I'm sorry," Tate says softly. "It was a good try."

I sniffle. "Thanks."

"You got me good with that chair, John Cena," he says. "That fucking hurt. In your next fake life, maybe you can join the WWE."

"It's not funny," I tell him. "You left me there—in that hole, in the rain—to die. You always…"

"What? What do I always do?"

I notice he's loosened his grip on my wrists and try again to get free.

"Nope," he says, shoving me back onto the ground.

"Just let me go or kill me, Tate."

"What do I always do, Noah?" he asks again.

I shake my head and look up at the ceiling.

Hurt me. All Tate ever does is hurt me.

"Why'd you leave me?" Tate moves his knees from my thighs and lies down on top of me, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Why did you run away from me?"

"You were going to kill me! You said you were going to murder me in my sleep."

"What about the first time?"

"You were going to kill me then, too; you were just doing it differently. The result would've been the same, though." I look away, fixing my gaze on the television over his shoulder.

"I wish you would have trusted me the way you trust him. Now, I can never trust you."

"I don't trust Silas, either," I say defiantly.

"You're lying. I can tell when you're lying."

"Yeah, well, I can tell when you're lying, too. That's why I don't trust you. You're always fucking lying!"

"I was good to you." He leans in, running a hand through my hair, his lips close enough to mine that I can feel his words against them. Blood drips from his wounds, mixing with the dried mud on my chest as gravity pulls them in different directions down my body. "You were happy; I saw it. That wasn't a lie."

"You made me feel worthless. And then you expected me to apologize for it."

"I made a fucking mistake, Noah. Jesus. You can't just abandon people who care about you after ten years because they make one fucking mistake."

"That's what Mia did to me."

"We weren't a mistake," he says. "We certainly weren't one mistake." He nuzzles his cheek against mine and presses a kiss to my jaw before trailing his lips onto my neck.

"Tate…" I pause, shrugging him off. "Don't."

"Why not? Let's just call it even for a minute, okay? I left you in a hole—fine. I'm sorry."

"I almost died in that fucking hole, Tate! I—"

"And you…" he interrupts. "You beat me with a barstool, stabbed me, and tried to eat me like you ate your fucking dad, so…that also wasn't very nice, Noah. You're not a nice girl. And it makes me fucking angry when you pretend you're a nice girl."

"Yeah, well, it makes me fucking angry when you pretend like you care about me! When you act like you care if I eat, and you feed me and sing to me or when you tell me we're what love looks like to you, and then you go and…" I can't even say it, so I don't. "You were always a manipulative fuck."

"Thank you," he says. "Yes, I am. But not to you, Noah. Never to you. The four of us…" He traces my jawline with his fingertip. "We were different; you know that."

"No. Not in the end."

In the end, we were just like everyone else. Selfish. Spiteful. Vengeful. Afraid.

I was afraid. And I'm so tired of it.

"We're even," he says. "Hey, look at me." He releases my other wrist and, with a hand on my cheek, guides me to meet his eyes. "Let's be even…just for now, Noah. Because I want to touch you and taste you so badly. You got me all muddy, and I got you all bloody. You can take another chunk out of me tomorrow if you want, but just not right now, okay?"

I nod. "Okay, Tate."

He sighs with relief, smiling slightly before pressing a kiss to my lips. "Thank you."

I let my eyes close as he trails kisses down the length of my throat, unconcerned with any mud or blood he's dripped onto my skin. He reaches behind me, and I arch my back so he can unhook my bra, feeling him hard against me when I do. Tate groans, rocking his hips from side to side, just as eager for more friction as I am.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he says, removing my bra from my body before sucking one of my nipples into his mouth.

"Don't…don't talk to me," I say breathlessly.

He sucks harder, letting the nipple slide through his teeth before he releases it, causing me to yelp. "I can't do that. That's not part of the deal, Noah." He kneels between my legs, his movements slow as if he thinks maybe I'll change my mind and start kicking and fighting again.

Maybe I should.

As soon as I think it, it's like he sees it in my eyes. He holds up a finger and says, "Don't do it. I'm tired, Noah, and it's not just from the blood loss and the vodka. Whatever's left of my soul…is really tired of fighting with you."

"I'm really tired, too," I tell him, choking on the words.

"Okay," he says, nodding. "It's okay."

Then he hooks his fingers under the sides of my underwear, pulling them down my legs and over my feet.

Still moving slowly, cautiously, he palms the back of my thighs, pulling them apart before lowering his body to the floor, keeping his eyes fixed on mine until he dips his head, straight, shaggy black hair falling in front of his face, and kisses my pussy.

He's soft at first—slow and gentle in a way that's unusual for him, but thorough. His tongue ring circles my clit, and I moan, lifting my hips off the ground.

It's then that I realize I've been fighting against him without realizing it. I unclench my thighs, relax my knees, and let my legs fall apart. Tate reaches under my knees and grabs my hands, lacing our fingers together.

"Mmmm," he moans against my clit. "There you go. You taste like heaven, baby."

He dives back in, flicking his tongue ring against me, increasing the pressure while I buck my hips against him, my head swimming. It's a high, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think his hand was around my throat because I can't breathe, I can't think. It was all just too much—this night, the emotions, the cold, the fear, the rage—it was too much and now this is too much, too.

It's him. He's too much.

"Tate…" I whimper, my body writhing beneath him. I squeeze his hands in mine and close my eyes, my breath heaving as that delicious tension coils even tighter in my core.

Tate reacts by moving in closer, his tongue working me faster until I explode, my back arching off the hardwood floor as the pulse between my legs takes over my body and pleasure shoots up my spine.

He licks me through it and then some, still running his tongue up and down my pussy, sucking my cum from me through the aftershocks and that too-sensitive feeling. It's almost a relief when he lifts his mouth.

"Baby, let go," he says.

"What?" I ask breathlessly, my mind post-orgasm mush.

"Just for a second. I need my hands."

"Oh…" I say, realizing I've still got a death grip on his hands and releasing them. "I'm sorry."

He smiles, laughing just a little. "It's okay."

Then he sits up, pulling his sweats down over his hips, and it's the first time I really look at him.

How is it possible that they both got even more beautiful? Tate has always had a lean build versus Silas, who is more muscular, but just like Silas, his shoulders and chest are broader, and he has more muscle and more defined abs. And the tattoos covering his neck, chest, and down his arms and onto his hands…those are beautiful, too. The bite mark and the bloody cut only make him more beautiful somehow.

"Where have you been?"

"All my life," he says as he fists his dick. My pussy clenches as I watch him, fully erect and hovering over me, holding the base in his tattooed hand.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"I think you mean, where have you been all my life? And I've always been with you."

"No, I mean—"

"I know what you mean, baby. Not right now, okay?"

I hold my breath as he slowly lowers his body, guiding the head of his cock to my entrance and pushing inside me.

"Tate!"

"Fuuuuuuuck," he groans, his jaw tight as he buries himself to the hilt. He grabs my hands again, pinning them above my head as he drives into me, and I lift my hips to meet his thrusts. "You feel so fucking good, Noah. You have to know you were made for me."

He leans in, flatting his tongue over my nipple and then sucking it into his mouth, toying with the hardened tip before moving on to the other one. I moan, squirming beneath him, desperate to have more of him on me, more of my body touching his, more of his dick fucking into me, but with my hands restrained by his, I'm…limited.

I whimper in desperation.

He looks up at me as he thrusts in and out of me, his face smeared with mud and his blood. "Greedy brat," he says.

Then his lips crash into mine; his kiss is hard and just as eager as I feel, and he changes his pace to match. I cry out, spreading my legs wider and hitching one around his waist.

"Oh, god…Tate…"

My knuckles rub painfully against the floors with each punishing thrust of his hips. And that's how it feels—like a punishment. Like a deliciously thorough, well-earned punishment.

My eyes run down his body, and I watch the blood mix with sweat and drip down his abs and onto my body. I watch his dick move in and out of me, hard, veiny, and slick with my arousal.

"You like watching my dick sink into your pussy?" he asks. "You better answer me."

"Yes! Oh, god," I moan again, my eyes rolling back in my head.

His wet dick slips out of me, and he almost roars in frustration, gritting his teeth together as he's forced to release my hands. He grabs his throbbing cock, running the head over my clit and down my slit before thrusting back inside me, picking up the same brutal pace.

This time, he grabs me by my ankles, pinning them next to my head, and my body picks up right where it left off, on the edge of orgasm, the head of his cock hitting me at just the right angle.

"Tate…fuck…"

"Are you gonna come on me now?"

"Y-yes."

Before I can finish the word, my legs are shaking and my pussy squeezing his dick while I come apart, writhing against his tight hold.

"Oh, god!"

"You are going to kill me," he rasps. "Jesus Christ, Noah. Fuck…"

He slows, pumping into me for a minute more, before he comes inside me with a loud groan.

And then he releases my legs and collapses on top of me with his head on my chest and his dick still inside me. He always liked that—staying inside me for a really long time. I wonder if he still does.

I wrap my arms around him and stroke his hair, the room now quiet aside from our labored breath and the television playing in the background. My eyes roam over his tattooed skin until bold serif letters beneath a small butterfly like the one on my shoulder etched onto his deltoid catch my eye.

NJB.

Noah Josephine Barlowe. Those are my initials. That can't be a coincidence, right?

I blink back tears again, hold him tighter, and kiss the top of his head.

I'm not sure how long we stay like that, but it's long enough that I start getting cold again. And fucking nervous.

"…Tate?"

He sighs, slow and heavy, before propping himself up and placing a hand on my cheek. "Stay right here, okay? Don't move."

"Okay…"

"Promise you'll stay there?"

I nod. "I promise."

He stands, pulling up his sweats, and then grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed and covers me before disappearing into the bathroom. Wrapping up in the blanket, I lie there on the floor while the intro to another episode of Unsolved Mysteries plays on the television. I hear the water running and assume he must be taking a shower.

He returns maybe ten minutes later, still dirty and bloody.

"Okay," Tate says, walking toward me from the bathroom. "I'm going to pick you up."

"Tate, no," I say, clutching the blanket as I sit up. "You can't."

"Pfft, be serious," he says before leaning down, scooping me up, and carrying me to the bathroom. The tub is filled, the lights are off and two candles near the mirror are lit. Steam rises from the water and my still-cold body aches to sink into it.

And I'm still filthy. My hair is caked in dried mud, my fingernails are disgusting. I hold them out in front of me and…

"I lost one," I say, looking at the bloody nail bed on my left pinky.

"Oh…yeah. You didn't know?"

"My hands were numb. I guess I didn't feel it. I must have gotten it caught on a rock or something when I was…" When I was trying to claw my way out of the grave you left me in.

"It's not a big deal," Tate says. "It'll grow back. Get in the water; you'll feel better."

I drop the blanket and climb into the tub. My toes and feet are still cold enough that the water stings my skin on contact. I suck in air through my teeth as I sink into the water.

"Is it okay?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "I was just…so cold." I lean back, soaking my muddy hair, and watch the water turn to a grey, foggy color, like dirty dishwater.

Tate, never comfortable in silence, plays music from his phone again and sets it beside the sink.

It's Lana Del Rey.

"Scoot over," he says, dropping his pants.

"I'm filthy," I caution as he climbs into the tub behind me. "The water is gross."

"That doesn't bother me. And I'm bloody," he says, rubbing my shoulders. "You stabbed me."

I almost apologize, but I'm still not sorry.

Tate wraps his arms around me while leaning over to kiss the side of my face and then reaches for my shampoo bottle. He squeezes some into his hand and takes his time massaging the shampoo into my hair. I let my eyes close, relishing the sensation of his fingernails against my scalp.

It's okay, I tell myself. It's okay to love this. What's the worst that could happen?

And that little alarm that's constantly going off in my head anytime he's around gets quieter, the same way it did that summer. Not silent—never silent—but quieter.

"I missed you, Tate," I whisper.

"You didn't have to," he says. "Seven hundred and eighty-six days, Noah. Is that a fair thing to do to somebody?"

"What?"

"That's how many days we missed together," he says, rinsing my hair. "It could have been like this, you know."

"You hurt me."

"I didn't mean to; it wasn't what I wanted. And you hurt me, too—you hold onto grudges just as tightly as I do. We're more alike than you're willing to admit, and now, I've got the scars to prove it—inside and out."

I lean back against his chest and turn, looking up at him. Tate is beautiful—it's how he gets away with so much. He looks so much like Mia, especially with his hair away from his face. Thick lashes frame bright hazel eyes, his cheeks full and smile impeccable.

He has dimples when he smiles.

"What if I did die in the hole?" I ask, not expecting a serious answer.

He sighs and pulls me closer, resting his cheek against mine. "I'd get smaller again, like I did when Mia died. Maybe it would be too much, and I wouldn't exist at all. Sometimes, I can't stand how small I feel without her. I didn't realize how much of me was her. I didn't realize how much of me was you, either."

I sigh, letting my eyes close again.

"I care about you," he says, trailing a finger along my jawline. "You mean so much to me—you know that. I was good to you, Noah."

I don't know how to answer that, so I don't. Tate really is good when he wants to be…the best, even. But I watched him manipulate others the exact same way our entire lives. And as I got older, I wondered how much of Tate was genuine and how much was just something he'd learned to do—like he'd read it in a book or seen something on television and decided to imitate it, thinking, This is how you people.

Then I fell in love with him, and I tried not to think about it anymore.

He used to draw hearts inside my palms while I slept. He let me drive his car when I was fifteen, and when I hit a telephone pole, he took the blame so I wouldn't get it in trouble; I never asked him to. People who don't really care don't do things like that, do they?

And he made me laugh, even when I didn't want to. It was always impossible to be sad around Tate until just thinking of Tate made me sad.

We stay there until the water gets cold, and then I help him bandage the gash on his shoulder. The bite mark isn't nearly as deep, so it should be fine, but it will leave a mark. Without thinking about it, I dip my head and press my lips to the same spot.

Like it's still just something we do. Like he's mine to kiss wherever I want.

He smiles, wrapping his arms around me, and holds me against his chest. "You're sweet, Noah," he says.

Early morning sunlight refracts from the chandelier by the time we leave the bathroom. I dress in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and crawl into bed beside naked Tate.

"True crime is an interesting choice for you," I say before I turn off the television.

"I only watch the unsolved ones. Or the cold cases," he says, spooning me. "I like the ones where the bad guys get away."

I never did. They scared me. Horror movies always scared me, too. When we were younger, Mia and I would stay up late watching slasher movies we had no business watching and scaring the shit out of ourselves. It was awful, yet somehow a good memory.

Or it was. Until I lived a horror movie.

He kisses the back of my head, and I let my heavy lids close.

"Some of them are really bad people, though, Tate," I mumble before I fall asleep.

"I know," he says, holding me tighter. "But I'm really bad, too."

nineteen

The Girl in the Gas Station Bathroom (Again)

Noah

The sound of footsteps across the floor wakes me later that day. But barely. I'm in one of those deep sleep/half-awake hazes where my head is still swimming with exhaustion and my eyelids are heavy and refuse to open. My limbs are heavy, too.

I feel Tate's warm body at my back, his breath against my skin, and then wonder if maybe I imagined the footsteps I heard before.

But then I hear them again, coming toward me from the other side of the apartment. Silas sits at the edge of the bed and slips off his shoes before slowly crawling under the covers beside me.

"Hi," I whisper.

"Hey, baby," he whispers back. "You don't have to get up because I'm here. You can go back to sleep. I'm glad you're okay."

I blink, and I'm in the hole again, holding that muddy grey wig in my hand. The volume on that alarm increases by a few decibels. But we're even…just for now. And he feels really good wrapped around me like this.

I don't have to be mad at the unconscious version of him, do I? Especially when this is the best I've slept in months.

"Did he tell you what happened?"

Silas nods. "I'm so sorry."

He moves in closer, and I wrap my arms around him and bury my face against his chest, calming myself.

They say olfactory memory is our strongest, purest form of memory. It's less likely to be tainted by outside interference than our other senses. Maybe that's why I cling to it so tightly—because I can't trust my other senses as much; I can't trust myself. Just as jasmine will always remind me of the place I grew up and of Mia's hair, and whiskey will always make me think of Tate, the smell of bergamot and the forest after it rains will always remind me of Silas.

Of the person I ran to when the world was a little too cruel, even if when my world ended, he was too cruel, too.

"Do you hear that?" Silas whispers into my ear.

I smile. "Yeah…nothing."

"Exactly…nothing. It sounds so good, doesn't it?"

"It's always better with you."

"Mmm…stop conspiring," Tate says. He reaches over me, putting a hand over Silas's face. "Ah, don't bite me!" He tries to jerk it back, but Silas grabs it and laces their fingers together. "I'm still traumatized by what Noah did to me last night."

"Did you really stab him?" Silas asks.

I press my lips together and nod.

"Told you," Tate says. "Silas thought you were a nice girl, Noah. He knows better now."

I shrug and scoot away from him and on top of Silas. "You get what you give. You don't deserve nice."

Silas laughs and holds me against him.

"Hey—no. You said we were even. You agreed."

Tate moves over until his body is against Silas, resting his head on his shoulder and throwing his leg around both of ours. His intense gaze meets mine before I break eye contact, wrapping my arms around Silas.

"He's not going to save you from me, Noah," Tate says, running his fingers through my hair. "You know that."

"Do I need to be saved from you, Tate?" I ask.

He smiles sadly. "Probably."

I don't know what to make of that answer, but my heart sinks a little.

"I miss this," Silas says, seemingly oblivious to the moment that just passed between us. "Oh, I brought you guys breakfast…even though it's three in the fucking afternoon."

"It's three?" I ask.

"Three-thirty now," he says. He kisses the top of my head before crawling out from under me.

I sit up in the bed beside Tate and watch Silas grab a paper bag from the counter. He pulls out two giant smoothies and hands them to us. "Here you go," he says. "There are eight hundred calories in that, Noah."

"Thanks," I tell him. "You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. I take care of the people I love. And I love you both."

He says it so casually, dropping back into that place beside me afterward and resting his hand on the inside of my thigh like it's the easiest thing in the world. But the air in the room has changed. There's tension between me and the person who spent an hour holding me in the bath last night. I can't quite name it, so I ignore it, sipping from my giant eight hundred calorie smoothie.

"It's too fucking quiet in here. I can't stand it," Tate says.

Silas and I exchange a look while he reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, selecting another episode of Unsolved Mysteries from Netflix.

"He likes the ones where the bad guys get away."

Silas laughs. "Yeah, I know."

I watch Tate stare at the television and drink from a matching styrofoam cup, a tattooed hand with black polished nails wrapped around it.

He used to paint them blue—a shade of blue that matched his blue hair. It was an OPI color called No Chips on my Shoulder, and sometimes, he'd paint mine to match. I'd worry that Mia would notice, and she'd be suspicious, but I liked having evidence of our secret, and she never did.

"What?" he asks, sensing my staring.

"Nothing." I decide to say fuck it to the weird tension, and lean over and kiss him on the lips. "I was just thinking about you. Or remembering you, I guess."

"Something good, then?" he asks.

"Mmhmm. Something nice."

"Are you admitting I was nice to you sometimes?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

He lifts my chin and narrows his eyes, searching mine for something, but I'm not sure what it is. "Hmm…" he says before kissing me. "Okay."

I'm confused, but he changes the subject.

"Did you bring the costumes?" he asks Silas.

Silas smiles widely, laughing a little. "Yeah, they're in that bag by the front door."

"What costumes?" I ask.

"It's Halloween, Noah. It's our favorite holiday. Did you forget?"

Honestly, yes. I've had little concept of day or time since the café closed.

Or maybe more specifically, since Tate and Silas came back into my life. The last thought has me worried about how much longer they will be in my life.

It's not really something I can ask.

"I guess I did."

"Don't worry," Tate says. "We got you a costume, too."

I frown. "Will I like it?"

"Yes."

"No," Silas says, laughing. "You won't like it."

"I don't know. It'll be a fun game. You might like it, Noah," Tate says.

"Another game?" I ask. "What kind of game?"

"You'll see."

"Will there be mandatory crawling?"

"No comment," he says, and Silas laughs again.

"Great. I'm going to the bathroom."

I climb off the bed and step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. After using the toilet, I wash my hands and splash water on my face while the two of them talk and laugh from the other side of the door.

It squeezes at my chest a little.

I end up turning on my straightener, intending to just run it over my bangs and be done with it, but instead, I straighten all of my hair and put on makeup while I listen to them laugh and speak in hushed tones I can't quite decipher over the television.

When I step into the main room, they're standing beside the bed, kissing. Tate is wearing the sweats he wore last night with one of my tops—the long-sleeved shirt I stole from the gas station the night I ran away from them all those months ago. It's tight on his shoulders and slightly cropped at the bottom.

I bite back a smile and watch them whisper for a minute more, unaware of my presence.

It's Silas who notices me first. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say, looking away to hide my smile. "I'm just…"

"Just what?"

Remembering again, I guess. When we were different. When this was us. It's comfortable.

"Nothing. I don't know."

"I took your shirt," Tate says.

"Yeah, I can see that. That's actually a trauma shirt for me, so you're welcome to keep it."

"Trauma shirt? What's a trauma shirt?"

"I'd rather not explain."

"Are you ready to see your costume?" Silas asks.

I sigh. "Yeah, I guess so."

Silas grabs the bag from beside the door and empties the contents onto my bed, first removing the masks they wore to the café that day.

"Still smells like tomato soup," Tate says, pulling the Ghostface mask over his head.

I make a face at him and then watch Silas pull something else from the bag.

I was expecting—I don't know—maybe something like what Zoey wore at the party the other night or a serial killer mask of my own. Instead, he lays out something that looks like fuzzy one-piece pajamas on the bed.

Fuzzy white pajamas with black spots. And then I notice the hood and the ears.

I'm not wearing that.

I don't say it aloud, but Tate, seeing the look on my face, answers anyway. "You have to wear it. It's part of the game, Noah."

"Well, what's the game, Tate?" I ask. "What do I get?"

"A tip. And the internal satisfaction that comes with knowing how happy you've made me."

"What if I'd rather be poor and make you angry?"

"I think you've done enough of that, don't you?"

"The limit does not exist."

"Trust me, Noah," he says, closing the space between us. "The limit exists. And you've been well past it for a while now."

"And what do I have to do in this dog costume?"

I watch Silas put on his own mask and pull a leash from the bag. I narrow my eyes and he laughs.

"I just want to watch Silas take you for a walk. That's all."

"A walk where? Like around the room?"

"No, like down the street. Personally, I prefer to think of you as a kitten or a bunny when I think of you as our pet, but we'd look pretty silly walking one of those down the road, don't you think?"

I frown, not bothering to point out the ridiculousness of that comment. "No. I'm not doing that."

"It's Halloween, Noah," Silas says. "It's no big deal."

"Plus, Silas is really excited about it. Don't let him stand there and act like it was all my idea."

"Are you, Silas?" I ask. "Are you really excited to walk me like a dog?"

"Yeah, Noah, I really am," he says, adjusting his hard on.

He makes his point. I feel a rush of wet heat between my legs. Maybe I should do it.

"Fine."

I pull on the jumpsuit, zip the front, and slip into my tennis shoes. Silas kisses me, and I smile against his lips, his beard tickling my chin. He wraps his hand around my throat, squeezing before slipping his tongue into my mouth and deepening the kiss.

My knees are weak by the time he pulls away. I half-expect him to say fuck it and throw me on the bed and tear my clothes off, but he doesn't. He pulls the hood over my head and gently tucks my hair inside before fastening a black leather studded collar around my neck, tightening it until it just digs into the skin.

"Make it a little tighter," Tate says.

Silas tightens the collar the smallest bit, but it's enough that I can feel a difference. A little bit of pain, a small imposition on my airway. Not enough to cause any issues, but enough to ensure I'm constantly aware of its presence and that someone else is in control of me.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't like that.

Silas clips the leash onto it and tugs hard once, taking my breath away. "How's that feel?" he asks, looking down into my eyes, his body mere centimeters from my own.

I swallow hard. "It feels good."

"Good."

He tugs at it again, twisting the collar until the d-ring is in the back. I whimper a little as it burns my skin, and he pulls the leash through a hole in the back of my hood.

Tate looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "You better stop, Noah."

"Stop what?"

"You know what," he says. "Making noises like that. He's going to tear you apart and ruin the game. Silas, you can't fuck her."

Silas laughs a little and lets the leash drop. "I didn't do anything," he says.

Tate opens the door. "Walk," he says, instructing me. "You can walk like a human until you get to the sidewalk, but then you have to get down on all fours and let Silas walk you."

I follow them down the staircase like a human. There are a few people out in town, but I only see a couple of costumes. Still, trick-or-treating will start soon. Last year, I handed out candy at the café, but this year, the building is dark, the door locked, and the parking lot empty.

I stare until Silas pulls on the back of my leash. "Hey," he says. "We're on the sidewalk now."

"Sorry," I say before dropping to my knees and crawling. Silas keeps the leash taut enough that I can feel it, and even though it is Halloween, I can feel the people on the streets and in front of store and restaurant windows staring, and my cheeks burn.

"I forgot to tell you, Noah," Tate says. "There's one more rule."

"What is it?"

"If anyone acknowledges you as a dog, you have to bite them."

"What? Why?"

"Because I think it's fucking funny, that's why. Okay, puppy?" he says, patting my head.

From where I'm sitting, he just acknowledged me as a dog. I turn to the side and dig my teeth into his forearm before he can move away.

"Ahh!" Tate yells, jerking his arm away. "Not me! Bad dog!" He slaps me hard on the ass, and Silas laughs. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you."

Downtown Winter Falls is small, but I'm also really, really fucking slow like this. It takes forever for me to crawl past the three blocks of restaurants and retail shops. We even pass the garage where Mason works.

I haven't heard from him since he saw me with Silas and Tate at the bar. I take extra care to keep my head down as we pass.

"My knees hurt," I tell them. "How much longer do I have to do this?"

"Until we get to the motel or someone acknowledges you as a dog," Tate says. "Now, stop breaking character."

"You should bear crawl," Silas says. "Dalmatians are tall. You're supposed to be a dalmatian."

I push up onto my feet. "This is more work," I grumble.

"Good girls don't complain," Silas says.

It is hard, but it is nice to give my knees a break. However, it isn't long before my hamstrings burn, and I find myself hoping someone will stop and acknowledge me as a dog so I can bite their ass and get this over with.

"She likes it," Tate says. "Noah always likes our games; that's why she does it. It's a lot more fun when she admits it."

Before I can snap back, I hear a familiar voice.

"Well, look at that," Betsy says.

This-cream-is-poisoned Betsy. You-and-your-friend-dress-inappropriately Betsy. You're-not-very-ladylike Betsy. And I think she's about to acknowledge me as a dog.

"You look a little old for trick-or-treating. I hope you're not planning on causing any trouble around here," she says. "That's a cute dog you've got, though."

I lunge at her, snapping at her ankles as she scurries back toward her front porch. Silas drops the end of the leash, and I chase her up the staircase, growling and barking. I latch onto her ankle as she reaches the door, and she screams.

"Get off me!" she shouts, attempting to shake me off. "You pervert! Get off me! I'm calling the police!"

Eventually, I decide that's enough and let her go. She slams the door behind her, and I get back on my feet and rush over to Silas and Tate.

"She probably is calling the police," I tell them. "We should get out of here."

"Good girl," Silas says. He bends down and gestures for me to get on his back. "Hop on."

I wrap my arms around his neck and climb onto his back, resting my head on his shoulders. Then I pull down his hoodie, inhaling before pressing my lips to his neck.

"Did you have fun?" Tate asks as we walk through the small motel parking lot.

"Yes."

"That's what I thought," he says.

"My knees hurt, but it was kind of funny. I hate that lady. She comes into the restaurant every Saturday, and she's always mean to me."

"Want us to kill her?"

"What? No!"

Silas sets me down in front of a first floor unit around the backside of the building.

"Is that the last game?" I ask.

Silas looks at Tate, who shakes his head slightly, but neither of them answers.

"Okay, so am I supposed to go home, then? Do I get my money now?"

"Don't be a brat, Noah," Tate says, ushering me inside with a hand on the small of my back.

The room is what you'd expect it to be—dated, dark, and a little sad. For whatever reason, whoever decorated went with a nautical theme. It's so out of place it makes the room seem worse than it is.

"I think my knees are bleeding," I say.

The guys remove their masks, and I slip off my shoes, unzip the costume, and shrug it off, letting it fall to the ground. Spots of blood seep through the knees of my grey sweats.

"Shit."

"Come here," Silas says, gesturing toward the bathroom. "I'll help you."

I follow him into the bathroom, and he pulls my bloody sweats off of me and hoists me onto the countertop. I wait there in my t-shirt and underwear while he takes out a first aid kit. "This will sting a little. Ready?"

I take a deep breath and hold it while he cleans the scrapes with alcohol and gauze.

I watch him in silence through the process. I watch his hands, his forearms and his lips when he bends down and blows on the cuts. I feel the light touch of his fingertips on the back of my calves while he bandages them.

I realize I don't feel the void anymore—and I'd gotten so used to it. I don't feel the empty nothingness at my core—the one that weighs me down and pins me to the bed every morning, the one that used to hold all the things that made me me before I lost them all.

I feel…important. Loved.

"Silas?"

"Yeah?" he answers, tossing the gauze into the garbage.

"I'm happy," I tell him. "Like…I think I'm really happy again. I want to stay with you guys. Please don't leave me. Don't hurt me. I don't think I can go back to…"

To what? Go back to what? But any of it, really. I think about the way I've been living, how lonely and sick I've been, and I don't really know how I've done any of it.

I mean, I knew I wasn't happy, but have I been in shock this entire time?

I place my hands on his shoulders. "I love you, Silas. And I do need you to take care of me—I need you more than you could possibly understand. Are you going to leave me?"

He presses his lips together, his brow furrowed. "No," he says, but his tone is unsure. "We won't leave you."

"Okay…" I whisper.

Silas leans in, quieting my uneasiness with his expert lips, kissing me slowly at first, toying with my lower lip before dipping his tongue into my mouth. I slide my hands down from his shoulders to his chest and then grip his hoodie in my fists, using it to pull him in closer until he's pressed up against me. I gasp when his mouth leaves mine, but then he reaches for the hemline of my t-shirt and pulls it overhead, tossing it aside. Then he reaches behind me, unhooking my bra and pushing the straps away from my shoulders, letting it fall onto the tile floor.

And the collar. I guess I've gotten used to it because I forgot it was there until he removed my shirt and I felt the leash against my bare back.

Silas runs his hands up the back of my thighs, wrapping them around his waist. His mouth finds mine again, his kiss more desperate and eager than before. I hook my ankles together behind him as he grinds against me, but it's not good enough. I reach for the button on his jeans, and he jerks me back with the leash, rolling it around his fist.

I guess he didn't forget it was there.

"I love you," he says.

A strangled gasp escapes me as he pulls at the leash again, a little harder this time, and he holds it there while he kisses me. His lips trail down my jawbone and onto my neck. My head is swimming; I close my eyes, seeing stars behind my lids while my swollen clit pulses between my legs.

But then, he lets go.

"Don't stop," I say as I gasp for air. "You can do it harder."

"Fuck, Noah," he says, running his thumb over my nipple. "You might regret saying that to me."

I shake my head. "No, I won't."

He winds the leash around his fist again and then throws me over his shoulder, carries me out of the bathroom, and lays me down on the bed. I watch as he pulls his hoodie and the shirt beneath it over his head, and then unbuttons his pants.

"Get on all fours," Silas says.

Tate watches from the only chair in the room just a few feet away, holding my eyes while I pull myself up. I watch his hand move to the bulge in his sweatpants, stroking the tip with his thumb.

Silas grabs the leash again, pulling it backward, and not expecting it, I choke loudly on air. He holds it there while he lines the head of his dick up with my entrance, my pussy clenching in anticipation until he pushes his way inside.

"Fuck, that's good," he groans, burying himself to the hilt. He holds it there, stretching me. I can feel it when his dick twitches inside me, and I whimper, a shiver running up my spine.

Then he adjusts his grip on the leash again and begins thrusting in and out of me. He fucks me hard, pulling the leash tightly, just like I asked. Each time his hips slam into my ass, rocking me forward, my collar tightens, and I choke and sputter, whimpering with each tiny, quick breath I take. Drool runs down my chin, but my body feels so good.

"You look like a slut," Tate says. I look over and see him standing at the side of the bed, naked and hard. He climbs onto the bed beside me. "Do you like that, Noah? Getting fucked like a slut? Does it feel good?"

I try to tell him yes, but I can't quite form the word. It comes out as a squeal instead, and I nod.

He shoves two fingers into my mouth, and I choke on those, too, until he pulls them out and trails them down my spine. "What about this?"

And then he pushes those two fingers into my ass.

Silas does the work for him. Every time he thrusts his hips into me and jerks on that leash, Tate's fingers fuck into my ass.

I'm so close to coming now, I'm yelping with every thrust.

"I think that's a yes," Silas groans. "I think she's going to come."

"Sil…Silas…" I manage. "God…"

"I think she has too much air," Tate says.

Silas pulls the leash tighter again while simultaneously picking up the pace. And I don't make any sounds between thrusts anymore. I fist the comforter and arch my back, trembling as he brings me over the edge.

"God, you feel so." Thrust. "Fucking." Thrust. "Good."

My eyes roll back in my head, and I silently come apart.

While my pussy is still clenching around Silas's dick, the leash goes slack, my collar loosens, and I gasp for air.

"Ahhhh!" I cry out. "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…fuck me."

Tate takes his fingers out of my ass and leans over, kissing my mouth, but I'm too breathless to kiss him back. He says something, too, as Silas slips out of me, but I can't hear him over my heaving breath and the ringing in my ears.

"What?" I gasp.

"Lie down, Noah," Tate says.

No problem. My knees are sore and my body is tired. I nod and stretch out on my stomach as Silas lies down next to me.

Tate grabs me and rolls me onto my side with my back against his chest, hitching one of my legs up and holding me open while Silas pushes his cock into me again, taking me in long, powerful thrusts.

"Oh, god…" I whimper.

"There you go," Tate says. "Let him in, baby. You'll let us use your body however we want, won't you?"

"Yes…" I wrap my arms around Silas's neck, clinging to him while he drills into me. "You can use me. I love it when you use me."

"Fuck, I'm going to come," Silas says.

"Not yet," Tate tells him.

Silas grits his teeth as he slows his pace, and I lean against his chest, still sensitive and spent from my own orgasm.

I gasp when I feel something cold and wet run down my backside. Something much bigger than fingers nudges at my back entrance, and my heart pounds.

Tate pulls back on the leash and kisses my neck before whispering into my ear, "Have you ever done this before?"

I shake my head. "No," I reply weakly.

"Good," he says.

He pulls my earlobe through his teeth as he pushes the head of his cock inside me, and I scream, squeezing my eyes closed and digging my nails into Silas's shoulders. "Fuck!"

"Relax," Tate whispers. He kisses my neck and reaches around the front of me, cupping my tit in his hand. "Will you tell her to relax?"

"Relax, Noah," Silas says. "Just breathe through it. You'll be fine."

He reaches his hand between us, finding my clit with his fingers, fucking me at the same slow pace while Tate thrusts into me from behind, and I moan from both pain and pleasure.

"It feels so good," Tate says. "I can feel Silas fucking you, too."

"I can feel it, too," Silas says. "You look so pretty like this."

I breathe through it like Silas said, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, and with the help of his fingers, it gets easier to take them both like this. My clit starts to throb, and then it's the only sensation I care about.

I moan into his chest, rocking my hips a little, moving my body with them.

"There you go," Tate says. "I knew you'd like this, you little slut."

He pulls on my earlobe with his teeth just as spasms rack my body, and I come hard, shaking between them—on both of them. I cry out, raking my fingernails down Silas's back.

"Oh, fuck! Fuck! Oh, my god!"

"Jesus, Noah."

I'd apologize if I could. I know it'll leave a mark, but my head is swimming, my clit throbbing, and Tate jerks on the leash again—not like Silas, but enough to make me feel it, and I gasp.

"You're tensing up again," Tate says. "I don't mind, but it's going to hurt more."

His hand runs down my body, stopping at my hip, and I focus on that touch while trying to relax, watching Silas move in and out of me.

"She likes watching it fuck into her," Tate says.

"Do you, baby? Do you like seeing your pussy juices all over my dick when I slip it inside?"

"Yes—ahh!" Before I can answer, Tate pulls the leash again.

"Shit," Silas says. "Do it again. I like the sounds she makes."

Tate pulls back again, causing me to whimper, just like he likes.

"Fuck." Silas picks up his pace, thrusting into me harder, faster. "I can't go easy on you anymore. I need to come in you. If you can't walk when we're finished with you, it's okay—I'll carry you."

Tate matches his pace, and I scream, my toes curling as I dig my nails deeper into Silas's flesh again, and he growls in response.

"You can take it," Tate says. "You can take it, baby. We're going to put so much cum in you, it'll be dripping down your legs for a week."

"Oh, god…"

"Fuck!" Silas roars before sucking air through his teeth. His dick jumps inside me, his thrusts growing slower, and then shorter, before he stills. "Jesus fuck, that feels good."

He pulls out when he finishes, rolling onto his back, and Tate tightens his arm around my waist, hammering into me from behind for a minute longer. I cry out every time his hips drive into mine until he finally comes, too.

I lie between them, spent and breathless, clutching the comforter in my fists, while he finishes inside me.

"You did good, baby," Tate says. He releases the arm around my waist and brings his hand to my face, using his thumb to wipe the tears from my eyes.

"I don't think I've ever come that hard in my life," Silas says. He pulls the sheet over the three of us before kissing me on the lips. "You okay?"

I nod before closing my eyes with Tate still inside me.

We lie there for a while, my body aching, my eyes still closed, before there's a knock at the door. I look up at Silas, who looks alarmed, too.

"Oh, I ordered pizza," Tate says. "That's what I was going to tell you before you guys came in all…well, you know."

Relief overtakes Silas's worried expression. I guess I'm not the only one who thinks every unknown phone call or uninvited visitor might be the end. "All right, I'll get it."

Silas climbs out of bed, dresses, and then grabs a wad of cash from a backpack in the corner of the room. He opens the door just enough to step through and closes it behind him.

"If I take you off your leash, do you promise to be a good girl?" Tate asks, kissing my shoulder.

"Yes."

I shiver as he pulls out of me, and then he props himself up on his elbow, removes the collar from around my neck, and tosses it behind him onto the floor.

"That's going to leave a mark," he says, rubbing my neck. "It did leave a mark."

"That's okay," I whisper.

Silas walks back inside with the pizza, and Tate sits against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to his waist, and turns on the television. "No Netflix at The Trash Bag Inn. Sorry, Noah."

I scoff and crawl under the covers beside him. "That's not what it's called."

"No, you're right. Do you know what it's called? Motel."

"Make room for the pizza," Silas says.

I move closer to Tate and he pulls me over until I'm sitting between his legs and reclining against his chest.

"It's not really called Motel, either," I say. "It has to have a name."

"Yeah, it is, Noah. And it has a name—I just told you the name. What's the sign say?"

"Motel…but—"

"You live here. If it's not called Motel, what's it called then?" He shrugs and grabs a slice of pizza from the box. "Oh, Scream marathon. Let's watch that."

"I don't know what it's called; I exist in a vacuum." He scoffs and takes a bite of the pizza. "But you're lying."

"No, he's not, Noah," Silas says. "It's really called Motel. It comes up as Motel on a GPS, and when I checked in, I asked the guy what it's called, and he said it doesn't really have a name, but they called it Winter Falls Motel when they answer the phone."

"Then that's the name. It's not just Motel."

"No!" Tate says. "No, it's not, because then, I asked the guy what his paycheck says, and he told me it just says Motel."

I sigh. "Whatever."

"You're mad because I'm right," he says.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Just admit it."

"No, she's mad because the motel doesn't have a name. It made me fucking mad, too; that's why I asked what it was called."

"Yeah, it does make me mad, and I refuse to accept it. If I stopped at a motel, and the person behind the desk told me it didn't have a name, I would break everything in there and leave."

"Well, your town doesn't have a lot of options," Silas says.

"This is the only option," Tate says.

"Well…where do you live?" I ask.

I wait, but neither of them answers. I look at Silas, but he's looking at Tate, and Tate isn't answering.

It scares me.

Tate threads his fingers through my hair and rubs circles behind my ear with his thumb. "You need to eat," he says, ignoring my question.

I glance at Silas again, but he's just eating and staring straight ahead at the television. He's not going to tell me, either.

"I can't eat that."

There are too many different textures and far too much cheese. Even cut into tiny pieces, I don't think I'd be able to stomach it.

"Hey, Silas? Can you get me one of those forks?"

Silas removes the wrapping from a plastic fork and knife and hands it to Tate. He uses it to cut the pizza into pieces and then brings the fork to my mouth.

"Eat," he says, rubbing my neck. "You'll be fine."

Why do I feel like he's always saying that to me? It's okay, Noah. You'll be fine, Noah. You're okay. But if everything is fine, why won't they tell me where they live or where they've been all this time?

I'm afraid to ask, so I push it down.

I let him feed me an entire slice like that. I only choke on the first couple of bites; my head is elsewhere, the way it is when I'm drunk, and I think that's why I'm able to eat.

They finish the rest of the pizza, and Silas tosses the box aside and moves over until he's shoulder to shoulder with Tate, resting his hand inside my thigh beneath the sheets. Tate kisses the top of my head, his fingers still entwined in my hair, and I listen to his heartbeat, calm and steady, while Scream 2 starts playing on the television.

"You're my Sydney. You know that?" Tate asks.

I shake my head before turning onto my side, pulling my legs into my body as I wrap my arms around him and curl into him.

"What's wrong? These movies don't still give you nightmares, do they?"

"No," I say softly.

"Well, that's good."

"Tate?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

It's quiet for a few seconds before he sighs and removes his hand from my hair. "Damn it."

"Tate?"

"That's not what this is, Noah."

I can't breathe. It feels like someone dropped a weight in the center of my chest, and it's crushing my ribcage.

I sit up, clutching the blanket to my body, and turn to face him.

"What do you mean?"

"Fuck, Noah. Why'd you have to do this?"

"What did I do?"

"I can't love you," he says. "You're untrustworthy; you're a liar, and when we leave tomorrow, you're not coming with us."

I search his eyes for some sign that he's lying, holding my breath and waiting for him to tell me it's just another one of his cruel jokes. Something else he said or did just so he could kiss it and make it better.

But his posture relaxes, and he casually takes a pull from a bottle of whiskey. When he sets it down on the side table, he just looks around me—no, through me—at the television screen, completely unfazed.

Well, he got me again, didn't he?

And I'm heavy again. I drag myself out of the bed toward the bathroom where I'd discarded my clothes, each footstep requiring an undue amount of effort, as if I'm trudging through water.

Silas is speaking, but I'm not sure if it's to me or to him. I'm not sure I can take any more, anyway.

I close the door behind me, lock it, and pick up my sweatpants from the ground. I'm not going back out there for my underwear. And after I dress, I catch my reflection in the mirror, and suddenly, I'm that girl in the gas station bathroom again. Alone, with no life to go back to.

I wonder where she dug up her will to live, her survival instinct. I don't think I have it anymore.

"You win, Tate," I tell him as I head for the motel door. "I give up."

twenty

Dead Eyes and Sad Goodbyes

Silas

"Iwas always going to win, Noah," Tate says. "You should have known better."

"Noah! He doesn't—"

I don't finish the sentence before she leaves.

"What is wrong with you? What are you doing?"

Tate shrugs. "What do you mean? I'm just being honest with her."

"Tate, you can't…"

"Can't what?" he challenges.

You can't do this to me again. I'm not exactly sure if I can say that—if it'll make things better or worse, so I don't.

Eggshells. It's always eggshells when it comes to Tate and Noah. I know she hurt him, but I know he loves her, too, and he's lying. Hasn't he hurt her back enough?

He looks away, unaffected, and pours whiskey into a dirty coffee mug while absentmindedly scratching at the stab wound on his shoulder. Like he really doesn't give a fuck.

"We can't leave her. You don't really want to leave her."

He turns, looking me dead in the eye. "Yeah, I do."

I jump off the bed and chase after her, shooting Tate a glare over my shoulder, but he shrugs it off like it's nothing. I catch up to her before she rounds the front of the building.

"Hey, wait a second," I say, grabbing her by the arm. It's not so much that she stops for me as it is that she gives up. And that's what I hear in her tone—resignation, like she's given up.

I back her into the side of the building, placing my hands on her shoulders, and find her eyes in the dark. "He doesn't mean it," I tell her.

She sighs, her eyes welling with tears. "Yes, he does, Silas."

"Come back inside. We'll talk, okay?"

"I'm not going back in there. I never want to see him again. I'm not letting him do this to me ever again."

"I'll talk to him. I'll tell him it's too much, and he'll…he'll tell you he doesn't mean it."

"Silas…" she says, shaking her head. "You're wrong."

"No, I'm not. Just stay here. Just for a minute, okay? Maybe five minutes. Don't leave." I take off my hoodie and pull it over her head, knowing she must be cold in a t-shirt, and rub my hands up and down her arms to warm her. "Promise you'll stay right here."

"It won't…"

"It's that, or I drag you back inside."

She wipes her own eyes with the heels of her hands. "Okay, Silas."

"Okay." I lean in and kiss her lips. "Thank you. Don't move, okay?"

Nervously, I leave her there, glancing over my shoulder before I step inside the room, attempting to gauge whether she's just going to leave when I close the door.

But she looks at me like she'll stay, and I know where to find her; I copied her house key. That makes me feel a bit better about pulling the door closed behind me.

"Tate…" I say cautiously.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "What? Can it wait for a commercial?"

I remember when we were on television. On every news station in every shitty motel. We didn't pay unless we had to; we mostly broke in or swiped key cards from cleaning carts, and no one noticed. They'd put our pictures up and call us psychopaths. They never talked about Mia or what happened to her, and if she was mentioned, it was only briefly and inconsequential, because you can't speak ill of the slaughtered, and so the people we slaughtered became saints.

We got to be psychopaths. It never bothered Tate, but it bothered me. I can't quite put my finger on why—it's just a word, after all, a spectrum of human behavior even. But it did, and I don't think I've ever googled a word as much as I did that one. I don't feel like a psychopath. I feel empathy. I know I love Tate. I love Noah, and I love my mom.

But she used the word once, too. When I broke that kid's arm in high school, she asked, "Are you a psychopath?"

And not out of anger, it was a genuine question that genuinely shook me to my core. So, I don't know. Maybe that's why I hate it so much. Because I thought I was a good son, and so she should know that I wasn't and that I loved her.

There was a lot of talk about Tate's eyes, too. They said he had dead eyes, but it was just that damn picture they chose. Nothing has ever looked more alive to me than Tate's hazel eyes. They're like the forest we grew up in—shades of dark green and deep browns and definitely alive.

They look dead right now.

"You have to apologize to her."

"Why? I didn't do anything; I just told her the truth."

"But it's not the fucking truth!"

"Why do you think I brought you here, Silas? You're the smartest person I know, so surely, you didn't think we were just here for money and guns that we could have gotten somewhere else."

"No, I didn't. I thought we were here because you missed Noah. Because we both missed her, and we're supposed to be together." I sit at the foot of the bed, and again, he just looks annoyed because I'm blocking his view of the television. "Because she's our phantom limb, and we can't live without her when we can still feel her. You said that."

"I said it was hard when I don't know where she is or what she's doing, but that won't be true for long."

"You said you weren't going to kill her."

"I'm not going to kill her," he says. "She's going to prison for the rest of her life."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "Well, it won't be long before they find out that missing finger didn't come from a packing facility and that it belongs to a missing hiker instead. After that, they'll find his blood in her locker, in her apartment and on some of her clothing. They'll find the rest of the arm in the dumpster behind the café. And then, they'll find out who she really is, and that will seal the deal. I won't have to worry about Noah anymore. I won't have to worry about where she is or what she's doing, because I'll always know where she is."

I sit there, dumbfounded. He's kidding, right? The finger and the other things—they were just tests to see if she was still loyal and if she was still our same lost girl, and she passed. So why is he doing this?

"You can't," I say, jumping up. I pace in front of the bed, my hands on either side of my head. "You're fucking with me, right? You can't do this."

"It's already done," Tate says. "I mean, unless the police here are complete fuck ups. I couldn't take it back if I wanted to."

"But I got her a passport. I—"

I did it a while ago. I planned this life for the three of us in my head, just in case. And it was a good one—one that was peaceful, purposeful, and worth waking up and living.

It was fate.

"Well, I didn't ask you to do that. Actually, I think it's a little fucked up."

"You think that's a little fucked up?"

Tate scoffs. "Don't do that. Don't act like you're not a fucking murderer, Silas. Don't act like you haven't always known who I am, either."

"I promised her we wouldn't leave her. I told her she wouldn't have to be alone anymore."

"Yeah, well, you should have fucking checked with me first."

"You love her! I saw you with her all week."

"I needed her complacent so she wouldn't try to run, or this wouldn't work."

"Tate!"

"What!?" he shouts back. "This solves my problem, and you have lived the vast majority of more than two years without her. You don't need her. We don't need her. She's untrustworthy, and she's a liar. Noah ran away from you when you went to buy her snacks, Silas. She ghosted you after a decade of friendship, and you spiraled into a months-long depression and an even more self-destructive behavior pattern than usual. And where was she?"

"She left because of you."

Tate ignores me, continuing. "She let her friends literally torture my sister to death and didn't even bother to go to her funeral…or my mother's. If you took the time to think about it, you'd probably realize you don't even love her; you just love the idea of her and a time when everything was a lot more simple."

"You know what? I think that's what you try to tell yourself. But you're wrong."

"Wow. That's deep. You should write one of your fucking poems about it."

"Fuck you, Tate."

I rifle through my backpack, and he jumps from the bed. "Hey…" he says, crossing the room and placing his hands on my shoulders before turning me to face him. His tone is gentle again, sweet even. His eyes have come back to life, and I wonder if they're real or not, too, or if it's always just been something he can turn on and off. "Look at me." His hands slide down my arms and take hold of my own. "We don't need her. We haven't needed her. And this will be fine—it'll be better than not knowing; you'll see. You'll always know where she is, and I bet the trial will even be on TV. She'll be safe."

"Prison isn't safe, Tate. She'll be miserable…and scared and alone. She isn't…" Isn't what? A psychopath? Isn't like us? "She's not even a killer."

"Yeah, tell that to the gash in my fucking shoulder."

"That's not fucking funny," I say, shrugging him off. I go back to digging through my bag; I know it's in here somewhere…unless he found it.

"I'm not trying to be funny!"

If he found it…if he knew what I wanted and what I was planning for and he still did this to her and to me, then I don't know what I'll do. I love him, but…

"It's too much, Tate. It's too far. You've done enough to her." My hand closes around the passport and driver's license, and I exhale a sigh of relief. "And she loves you."

"Well, that's her mistake. It's not my fault she's so fucked in the head that she doesn't know what love looks like."

"Yes, it is, Tate," I throw back before storming toward the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?" Tate calls after me. "Silas, I do love you. You know I love you. I would never hurt you."

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Red seeps into my peripheral vision, and I take a moment to squeeze my eyes shut and breathe. It isn't the first or second time rage has crept up on me like this, and I know if I don't get it in check now, I'm going to fucking lose it, and I won't be able to reel it back in until it's too late.

I can't do that with Tate. I can't do that with Noah, either.

One more deep breath before it recedes, and I push the door open.

She's still there. I don't see her at first; she's in the same place like she promised, but she slid down the wall and now sits on the sidewalk in my hoodie, hugging her knees to her chest.

Noah isn't my Sydney; she's my Eurydice. I guess this is what we both get for looking back.

Maybe she knows me well enough that she sees in my eyes, even through the darkness, that something is wrong. We've always communicated well in silence. Or maybe it's that I come back alone, and there's only one reason I'd be doing that.

"Noah…I…"

She looks away and drops her head to her knees. I sit beside her and wrap my arm around her.

Tate steps out, peeks around the corner at us, and then just goes back inside without saying a word.

"Noah, I'm so sorry. I have to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."

"Yeah, I know," she says.

"I don't think you do."

"He doesn't love me back," she says. "He doesn't want me, and I'm going to be alone again, aren't I?"

I can't even say it. I can't bring myself to tell her I lied to her. I lie all the fucking time. I'm good at it, too; I always thought it was funny. I mean, fuck, my entire existence depends on lies now.

But I've never lied to Noah.

"I think he does love you, Noah," I tell her, but I'm less certain than I was a few minutes ago. "But he's not good for you anymore. He's too…" Stubborn no longer feels like the right word. Selfish doesn't quite fit, either. Is there a word for someone who would gladly burn everything they care about to the ground and tear themself apart in the process just so they can say they were right until they die?

Maybe it's that other word—the one I hate.

"He did something to you." Noah looks up, but says nothing. She just looks at me and waits. "You remember the finger?"

She nods, and I continue. I tell her about the man we killed in the woods, and that Tate framed her for his murder. I wait for her to freak out—to scream or cry, to punch me in the face or storm back into the room and try to stab Tate with something else, but she doesn't. All the color drains from her face, and she just sits there. When I finish talking, she looks away from me, her vacant stare fixed on the forest in the distance.

"But…you'll be okay," I tell her. I hand her the plastic bag with the new IDs I made for her. "You can take these and leave tonight before they can get to you, and you'll be fine."

"How?" she asks, her dull tone barely above a whisper. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just do whatever you did before."

"You don't want to go with me."

It's a statement, not a question.

"It's not that I don't want to be with you. I love you. You know I love you." She scoffs, but I continue. "Noah, if I went with you, he wouldn't leave you alone. And he needs me more. You and I…we're good alone. He's not—he'll get himself killed. He'd get us all caught."

She drops her head to her knees and sniffles, and it tears me apart. "You're wrong. I'm not good alone. I need you."

"You did good here. You can go somewhere else, and with those IDs, you'll be able to get a job and a bank account. You can find someone nice, like that guy from the car repair shop or that girl from the café, and be happy."

"But I'll have to lie to them."

"That doesn't matter, Noah. You could have a normal life. You could be a mom if you wanted."

"I can't do any of those things. I don't even think I want to try."

"Yes, you can. Here." There's a pen in the bag I gave her; I remove it, take her by the hand, and then I push the sleeve of the hoodie to her elbow and begin writing. "When you get to a good spot, send an email to this address. Use the name on the ID, and I'll know that it's you. I'll send you enough money to get you through for a while, and he won't even know. But you need to leave tonight, okay? Go home, pack a bag, and get the fuck out of here. Don't take your phone."

Still, she says nothing. She doesn't move. Did she not hear me? She has to move.

"Come on," I say, pulling her to her feet. The bag with the IDs in it falls to the ground, and I bend down, pick it up, and stuff it into the front pocket of the hoodie. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No, I'm fine," she says. "I'll just go."

Noah turns to leave, and I stop her. "Well, wait," I say, pulling her into my chest. She doesn't hug me back, her arms hanging limp and heavy at her sides, but that's okay. I don't really blame her.

"I love you, Silas," she says.

"I love you, too. I'm so sorry, Noah. He'll leave you alone this time. I promise."

She pulls away as I kiss the top of her head, my own eyes watering.

"Tell Tate that…" She trails off, and then says, "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

I watch her walk away, fighting the urge to chase after her and make it worse. She moves so slowly—maybe it's just in my head because I'm panicking, but it's like she has to talk herself into taking each step before she can do it.

Once she disappears around the front of the building, turning toward home, I head back inside.

"You told her, didn't you?" Tate asks. "You're a fucking—"

"Don't talk to me right now. Just get your shit—we're leaving."

"What if she goes home and calls the police? Did you think about that?"

"She loves us. I'm not sure why anymore, but she does. She's not going to call the police."

"Silas—"

"No. We're leaving, or I'm leaving, Tate. I'm not going to let you go after her again. Maybe she'll get away, maybe your stupid fucking plan will still work, but she's going to get her head start. You hurt me, and you fucking owe me that."

"Fine," he says. "There's no public transit here; there are no planes, trains, or bus stops. I don't really like her odds for a head start, and she might call the police. We can leave after I shower; I don't want to have to smell her on me the whole way there." He nods toward the door. "You coming?"

"You're fucking kidding me, right? No."

"Fine."

Tate closes the door, and I toss the keys onto the table, sit at the edge of the bed, and lie back. After the water turns on, the door opens again.

"How did she take it?" he asks.

"You'll be disappointed. She just kind of sat there, like I'd just told her the fucking grass was green. I don't even think she was surprised."

"Hmm. Okay."

Tate closes the door again, and I turn off the stupid fucking television and just lie here, staring at the ceiling. I take out my phone a couple of times, barely resisting the urge to text her and ask if she made it home okay.

Like it would matter. Like it wouldn't just make it worse.

It's over—again. She's gone.

twenty-one

Final Girl

Tate

Fuck.

I shouldn't have told him. It was a momentary lapse in judgment; I blame the straight whiskey I'd been drinking, but it's been hard to keep it a secret. We don't do that, and I guess that's why he's mad, and it's been hard to do not just because we don't keep secrets from each other but also because I've been pretty damn proud of myself for this one.

I'll just…I'll tell Silas I forgot something, and then run inside and call the police from the motel phone. I'll give them an anonymous tip about "Lilah" and the guy who went missing. Just to make sure she doesn't get away in time. And then, we'll go.

I didn't have a plan when we first saw the video, but we had a long drive ahead, which gave me plenty of time to think of what I wanted to do with Noah. And killing her seemed too easy after allowing her to torture me for another fucking year.

Besides, she told me there were worse things than death. And every killer needs a final girl. Noah is my final girl. I think maybe I didn't understand the importance of that the first time around, but I do now.

That doesn't mean she gets to go live a normal life and fuck other people, though.

I pull the bandage from my stab wound, which has been itching like a mother fucker, step into the shower, and run my hands through my hair under the lukewarm water and shitty fucking water pressure. I don't know why I'd expect any better from a motel that doesn't even have a fucking name.

I laugh a little. God, she hated that so much.

Fuck. I need to wash her off and get out of here. I think too much when I'm in the shower. It's too fucking quiet. And right now I'm thinking about how nice it was to hold Noah against my chest in her bathtub last night.

But what I told Silas is true—I don't miss her, and I don't need her. I just miss the simplicity of that summer and how things used to be. Noah was still a fucking brat, always has been. But sometimes, she'd let her guard down, and I'd catch her looking at me like I hung the fucking moon, and it made me feel like I did.

I miss having a twin. I miss when my family was whole. But they aren't now, and I haven't been in a while—not since I became a killer.

I don't regret it. It's just, like I said, everything sure was a lot fucking easier. Noah embodies that time for me. Besides, I wasn't lying when I said that I couldn't take it back if I wanted to—not that I want to—but it's all done.

But I wish she hadn't told me she loved me. She sucked the air right out of the room with that one and all the fun out of my fantasy, too…the one where the three of us are still normal teenagers, and I hung the moon for the girl next door.

It caught me so off guard, I almost threw her off the fucking bed. It shook me to my core, and that's probably why I went off like I did.

Her fault. Not mine.

Still, something's bothering me. There's something gnawing at the back of my mind—something about what Silas told me about her reaction that just doesn't sit right.

I turn off the water, dry off, step back into the main room, and start getting dressed.

"So, what exactly did she say when you told her?"

"Oh, my god, I'm not fucking doing this. I told you…she didn't really say anything. She was really quiet and really still. I'm not going to go into more detail just so you can get off on it."

"That's not why I'm asking," I say. "I just think it's weird. Don't you think it's kind of weird?"

"I think it's fucked up that you did this behind my back. I think it's fucked up that you let us both think you loved her and that we were all going to be together. I promised her—"

"You didn't ask me before you made that promise."

"I promised her she wouldn't have to be alone. She said she couldn't take it anymore. So no, I don't think it's weird that after everything we—and especially fucking you put her through, let's be honest—she shut the fuck down. She's done, Tate. And I'm done talking about it."

"Well, did she text at all?"

"No," he says. "Why? Are you having regrets?"

"Pfft." I pull my shirt over my head. "Of course not. It's just—"

"If you tell me it's fucking weird again, Tate, I swear, I'm going to fucking lose it." He gets up, grabs his bag from the floor, and heads for the door. "I'll be in the car."

"Silas?" I call, softening my tone. "I am so sorry that this hurt you."

"Tate, I don't believe you."

"I am. I love you…so much. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Well, that last part I believe…"

"And it's not like I don't care about Noah at all. If I didn't care, then…" Silas raises an eyebrow and shrugs, waiting for me to finish the sentence, but I don't think he'd like it if I did. If I didn't care at all, I'd just slit her throat and be done with it. If I didn't care at all, I'd just go live my life; I wouldn't have gone to all of this trouble. I mean, surely, they both realize that. I care. If I didn't care, I would've just let her starve all week.

"Well, I can assure you, she's going to spend the rest of whatever life she has left thinking you do and always have hated her fucking guts. Don't you ever spend a fucking second doubting it. I saw it. That's my promise to you."

He opens the door, and I stare down at the old motel landline telephone. I'm not having second thoughts or regrets or whatever Silas said. After all, who would I be if I let this go? I'm not sure I have an answer for that.

It's just that maybe she's not even there, and maybe there's no point in calling them. If they're smart, they'll catch up to her whether I call or not.

But then she'll be lost again. That will be worse.

"Do you think she left town already?" I ask before he can leave the room.

"I don't know," Silas says. "She looked so tired…maybe not. She told me she didn't even want to try anymore. Maybe she's just going to wait there for them to catch her."

Scratch, scratch, scratch at the back of my brain.

"Tate, if you want to talk to her—"

I cut him off before he can finish the sentence. "I don't want to."

His expression falls. "Fine. But just so you know—that dirty, twisted feeling in your gut you're always talking about? That's guilt, Tate. It's not something Noah did to you, it's what you did to her. That's what's haunting you. It's what's killing you."

Silas finally leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and I stare down at the old telephone again. It's yellow, but I don't think it's supposed to be yellow. I think it was white or maybe cream colored at one point, but it's old and dirty, and it's been here for decades, and for at least a couple of those decades, I'm sure this motel allowed smoking inside. The plastic covering the buttons is chipped, and in some places, condensation has formed beneath it. You can't even see the nine or the three anymore.

My lip turns upward. It's off-putting. It's putting me off. On instinct, I try to suck lip rings that aren't there anymore into my mouth.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

I swallow a lump in my throat. It's not regret; the plan is perfect. I'll know exactly where she is forever. It's not guilt, either. I know what guilt is. So why can't I press the numbers?

Maybe it's just that the last time I called the police, it was…

I put the car in park and check my face in the rearview mirror. Another fucking fight. Another fucking black eye before the last one even got the chance to heal. Before my mom died, I would have put on makeup and tried to hide it so I wouldn't have to explain to my parents why my face was black and blue again.

There's no one left to care anymore. And my dad will know why, anyway. It was for Mia. It's the second time this week that it's been for Mia.

I'm not the biggest guy, but I am the meanest, and that's not necessarily a good combination.

Sighing, I get out of the car and head upstairs. Every day of this hell, I'm forced to walk past Noah's old apartment. It was empty for a while, but a middle-aged man lives there alone now. He let the number nine fall off the front door and just wrote it on the front with a sharpie—that's how lazy this guy is. He also leaves his full garbage bags outside of his unit until he feels like taking on the monumental task of walking downstairs and throwing them into the dumpster. One sits there now, and it's ripe as fuck. I'd kick it over if I thought there was any chance in hell the fuckbag would actually pick it up, but it would just become my problem.

I hold my breath as I turn my key in the lock. I open the door, but before I can step inside and close it, the cat runs out.

"Shit!"

I reach for him, but I'm not fast enough to grab him, and before I'm even past that rancid garbage bag, Mittens is down the staircase and darting straight into the woods.

"Fuck," I mutter. What am I supposed to do now? I can't find a cat in the fucking woods, and he's never done this before.

Even the cat doesn't want to be here anymore.

But cats come back, right?

I shake my head, muttering a stream of profanities, and step inside my apartment. My dad sleeps in the recliner with the blinds closed and the lights turned off. Beer bottles line the kitchen counter because, apparently, those can't be thrown out, either, and the sink is overflowing with dishes again.

"Dad," I say, shaking him awake. "You need to get up. I need help with the kitchen."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"With the dishes, Dad," I tell him. "There are flies in there. Has Mia eaten today? You said you were going to call the doctor; I'm guessing you didn't do that."

"Tate, I'm doing the best I can. If you've got a problem with the home I pay for, you can clean it."

"Well, you have to do better! Mia is really sick, Dad. She needs help. I can't do everything."

I already tried to file a police report against the people doing this to her, but she refused to be interviewed, so they said they couldn't help me. I tried to get the videos removed, but the sites said since she wasn't a minor, they weren't going to do anything. I tried calling a psychiatrist, but our shitty insurance doesn't cover it, and when I finally found one who would see her without insurance that didn't have a six month wait, they told me she had to call herself or it had to be a parent or guardian, and they needed a credit card to charge.

I gave him the phone number three fucking days ago. I know his wife died, but she was my mom, too.

He closes his eyes again. Just to piss me off.

I go to the fridge and take out a beer because why the fuck not? Look at him—he doesn't need another one, and what is he going to do about it? I twist off the top and toss it in the garbage can, noticing Mitten's empty food and water bowl when I do.

"Dad, when was the last time you fed the cat?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

"Dad?"

"She should have been more careful," Dad says. "Maybe this is a good lesson for her."

"I know you're not blaming my fucking sister for what those assholes did to her, right? Because if you have enough energy to have this fucking fight again, you can call the doctor, feed the fucking cat, and do the goddamn dishes."

He closes his eyes, pretending to sleep again.

I walk down the hall, push the curtain aside, and step into Mia's even darker room. She hung a comforter over the blinds to prevent light from getting in, and she's barely moved in a week.

"Mia?" I lie beside her on the bed. "Get up. Let's go get something to eat, okay?"

"I'm not hungry," she says. "Just leave me alone, Tate."

"Well, at least get up and come into the living room with me. Everyone was asking about you at graduation rehearsal," I lie. "People miss you. I miss you…a lot."

"I don't have any fucking friends, Tate, and you know that. No one has called or texted, except to make fun of me. I only had one real friend, and she left because of you."

"That's not true."

"It is true," she says. "Why'd you do that to me, Tate? You took my only friend away from me."

"I didn't take your friend away from you, Mia. You sent her away. You got rid of her; you can't blame me for that."

She rolls over, turning her back to me.

"Mia, if you miss Noah, you should text her. I bet she would come if you asked. I'll even leave if you want me to."

"I can't. I was too mean to her."

"It wasn't that bad."

"No, it was," she says. "You don't know about the things I sent to her. It was really bad. It's the same stuff they're sending to me. And she's friends with them now."

"With them? Who do you…" Does she mean her ex and his girlfriend? Surely not.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. It hurts too much."

"I'm going to make you something to eat, okay?"

"I don't want you to."

"Well, I'm going to do it, anyway. And you're going to come out and sit with me while I eat because I'm the needy twin, remember? And I need you. Do you need me to do anything else for you right now? Do you want some water?"

"No."

"Okay. I love you."

Before I can step back through the curtain, she stops me. "Actually, I do need one thing," she says. "Can you go get Mittens for me and put him in my bed?"

"Um…actually…"

She turns and looks up at me with the saddest fucking hazel eyes I've ever seen in my life. "What?" she asks.

"I can," I tell her. "I can get Mittens, but it might take me a minute because…he got out."

I bite my lip rings and wait for her to scream and throw shit at me, and tell me I'm the shittiest fucking twin in the history of the world. Maybe even get up and throw hands. That would be normal.

This isn't normal.

"So…my cat is gone, too?" she asks, her tone dull and emotionless.

"No, he just got out. He'll come back. Cats come back, and I'm going to go get him, anyway."

"Okay," she says before turning her back to me.

"Well…yell at me or something. Do you want to punch me? I'll let you get my good eye."

"Just…go away, Tate."

"Mia…"

"Go away, Tate. Please. I can't take it anymore."

"Okay, I will go away, but only because I need to go get your cat back, which I will do…right now."

After three hours of walking around the building and the surrounding woods shaking a fucking bag of cat food and calling his name, it gets dark, and I resign my fate, heading home without Mia's cat.

I am. I am the shittiest twin in the history of the world. What the fuck am I going to do?

If I can't get her into a doctor, maybe I can take her to the ER. They'd have to see her, right? They'd probably be able to give her something. Maybe they'd even keep her there for a couple of days and set her up with one of the psychiatrists who said they couldn't get her in for months and months after they explain to them just how sick she is.

But she could refuse care.

Fuck it. I just won't let her.

I put a bowl of food and water outside the door for Mittens, and prepare to drag my sister, kicking and screaming if I have to, to the hospital.

"Mia?" I call, pushing her curtain aside. I step into her bedroom and pull her covers back, but she isn't in her bed.

She's up. That's good. I didn't see her in the living room, though, and I'm sure she didn't leave. She must be in the bathroom.

"Hey, Mia?" I knock on the door, but she doesn't answer. I hear water running and try the knob, but it's locked. "Mia, we need to go to the doctor, okay?" Still, I don't get a response. I sigh, shifting my weight on my feet, my socks soaked from the wet carpet.

Wait.

Why is the carpet wet?

"Mia?!" I shout before ramming into the door. "Fuck!"

I rush to the kitchen, and with shaky hands, dig through the dish in the kitchen my mom always tossed loose change into. When I find a penny, I grab it and use it to turn the bathroom lock from the outside.

When I get the door open, my twin sister—my big sister by four minutes—lies in the tub under water stained red with blood.

I sink to my knees on the wet tile beside the tub and scream. "Dad! Dad, help!"

"It's weird," I whisper, still staring at the broken buttons on the old, yellowing phone. I run my finger over the number nine button, broken just like the one from Noah's old apartment unit. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears when I lift it from its cradle. It's so damn loud, I barely hear the dial tone.

I set it back down, leaving it off the hook, and then grab my bag and head for the door.

Silas paces behind the car, head down with a cigarette in his hand. He takes a drag before he notices me, and I hop into the driver's seat.

He says something about how he's driving, not me, but I can't quite make it out over the sound of my own heartbeat, my own blood pumping in my ears.

I start the car, and he pulls at the locked passenger side door. I don't wait for him to move before speeding out of the parking lot and down the block toward Noah's apartment.

He's going to be pissed. But he'll be even more pissed if…

It hasn't been that long, though, has it? I pull into the alley on the other side of Noah's place, park the car, and then run through the wooded area and up the staircase.

The door is locked. As I flip through the keys for the copy that unlocks it, I see myself standing on wet carpet again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking the image from my head, and then I turn the key, push the door open, and step inside. The lights are off, and the television is on. And she's there, in bed, her red hair sticking out from under the covers. She must be sleeping because she doesn't react to me coming in.

I sit at the edge of her bed, drop my head into my hands, and try to steady my breath. At first, it's relief. Then, it's anger because she fucking got me all worked up again for no reason.

But she's my final girl. I wouldn't expect anything less from her. It's kind of nice, really. I can say goodbye to her in a nice way, and even if she doesn't know it happened, I will. And then our last moment together won't be me telling her I don't love her and making her cry.

I'd better do it fast, though…before Silas runs in here freaking the fuck out and wakes her up, and then I have to explain myself.

I reach over and run my fingers through her hair.

"It's not that I don't love you," I tell her. "Not really, anyway. It's just that I can't, okay? Because sometimes, I love you so much that it crushes me, and sometimes, it hurts to look at you, and it fucking breaks me. Sometimes, I think of you, and I can't even look at myself in the mirror; it's too much for one person. So…Silas says that you're going to think that I hate you every day for the rest of your life. And I guess I'm okay with that. It'll probably be easier to move on from someone who hates you. It'll be easier to sit in prison thinking that someone who hates you put you there than it would be to sit there confused, wondering why someone who loves you would do this. But I'll never hate you. You'll always be a part of me, and there will never be anyone else—I can promise you that. And that will have to be enough."

I lean over to kiss her cheek, but before I do, I notice an email address in Silas's handwriting written on her forearm.

I sigh. Fucking Silas.

I guess we're even—I went behind his back, he went behind mine. Still, this isn't going to fly. It's a string of numbers and letters, so it's unlikely she memorized it. I just need to find a way to smudge it a little before I go.

Conveniently, there's a permanent black marker on the nightstand beside a bottle of vodka.

I lean over her to grab it slowly, careful not to wake her. And then I see something else written on her other arm in big, bold caps.

MY NAME IS NOAH BARLOWE.

Why would she…

"Noah? Noah, wake up!"

I place a hand on her shoulder and shake her a little, but it doesn't wake her, so I roll her from her side onto her back. Vomit runs down her chin and neck; it's on the pillow where she was lying.

The pills. Silas said she takes a lot of pills.

No.

She's pale—really pale—and she starts to choke a little. But if she's choking, she's still breathing, right?

I roll her onto her stomach over my knees and jam my fingers into the back of her throat. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, but I can't call the police, and I can't let her die. She gags on my fingers, but I don't stop—not until she vomits all over my hand, down my leg, and onto the floor.

"Noah?" I pound on her back until she stops choking. "Noah, wake up!"

But she doesn't move. She doesn't make a sound. My eyes fill with tears.

"Okay…it's okay, Noah," I say aloud, even though I know she can't really hear me. "You're going to be fine."

I pick her up, carry her to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Then I climb into the tub and under the cold water, fully clothed with Noah in my arms. "It's okay." I choke on the words, tears leaking from my eyes as I smooth wet hair away from her face. "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

I use my finger to find her pulse on her neck and count her heartbeat aloud. I don't know much about that, either, but I know it's slow and it's still there. I kiss the top of her head, close my eyes, and keep counting through the sobs. "Nine…ten…eleven…twelve…"

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Silas stands over me when I open my eyes. "What the fuck did you do to her!?"

"I didn't do anything!" I cry.

But that's not necessarily true, is it? I did this…again.

"Tell me what the fuck happened! Now!"

"I don't know. I think she took some pills. I didn't mean to."

He kneels beside the tub and places one hand over her heart and the other just under her nose. "She's not dead…yet. Get away from her."

"I don't want to."

"Now!" he shouts, turning off the water. "Get away from her!"

"But I—"

"She's fucking freezing. That's not going to help."

He turns to grab a towel, and Noah shifts in my arms. A small sound comes from her lips.

"Noah!" I say, tapping her cheek lightly. "Hey! Wake up, Noah."

Her eyes flutter open and closed for a few seconds until finally, she looks at me. "Tate?"

I smile through the tears. "Hi, baby."

"I'm…alive?" she asks, her lower lip quivering.

I nod. "Yeah, sweetheart, you're alive."

"And I'm with you?" She closes her eyes and starts to cry. "No," she says between breaths. "No, no, no, not again. God, I can't do anything right. No. This is hell."

"It's okay," Silas says. He wraps her up in a towel before easily lifting her out of the tub. "Come here, princess."

I follow him out of the bathroom and into the main room. She's out of it again when he lays her across the bed.

"There's vomit on the bed," I say.

And on the floor. And there was vomit on both of us, too, but I guess it's washed off.

"Fuck off, Tate," Silas says as he begins removing her wet clothes.

Stifling a sob, I walk around him to the other side of the bed, remove the vomit-soaked pillowcase, and flip the pillow over. There's some on the sheet, too, but not a lot. "I'll get some more towels."

"No," Silas says, his tone calm and even. "Tate, I am so fucking serious right now. You need to get the fuck out of here, or I'm going to lose it."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "I didn't want—"

"Doesn't matter," Silas says. "I don't give two shits about what you want right now. I don't care about anything except for Noah waking up, and she doesn't fucking want you here; you heard her. She saw you and thought she was in hell. So, get the fuck out."

I consider arguing. Arguing is my default setting after all, and I don't want to go. I need to be with her; I need to make sure she's okay.

And I saved her, didn't I?

But Silas is right. I hurt her, and she doesn't want me.

Our entire relationship could probably be boiled down to that statement. I hurt her and hurt her and hurt her, and now, she doesn't want me.

So, even though every cell in my body wants to stay inside the room—wants to be the one who gets to hold her under the covers instead of Silas—I know that isn't fair. My heart drops into my stomach when I turn the doorknob and leave the apartment. I walk down the staircase in cold, wet clothes, the very last of the late October wind painful against my skin, and remember I did that to Noah, too.

When I get into the car, I lose my shit. I scream, punch the dash, and hit my head against the steering wheel until I'm out of breath.

It's my fault. All of it was my fault.

twenty-two

Loved like a Threat

Noah

My head is killing me.

Except it didn't kill me. Because I'm still alive. Light seeps through the only window in my apartment. Silas is in the kitchen with his back to me. Other than the distinct sound of a spoon scraping against the side of a ceramic coffee mug as it's stirred, the room is silent.

My throat burns. The apartment reeks of failure. I'm not sure what happened, but I guess I must have fucked up somehow. I didn't take enough. Maybe I've been taking too many pills, and my body is too used to it. Maybe I called him at some point.

"Hey, baby," Silas says when he turns around. "You're awake. Here."

He grabs a Gatorade from the fridge and brings it over, sitting at the edge of the bed and twisting off the cap before extending it to me.

And I just stare at it.

"Sit up, Noah. You need to drink this."

I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is far too dry, and no sound comes out. I push myself into a seated position, leaning back against the headboard. Silas must have changed my clothes at some point, because I'm in a tank top and leggings now, the writing on my arms now just dark ink smears on my skin. Around me, the room turns onto its side. I retch, covering my mouth with my hand.

"To your left," Silas says. "There's a trash can."

I pick up the small bathroom trash can from the floor beside me, hold it between my legs, and dry heave until bile comes up my throat. From the looks of it, this isn't the first time.

Placing it back on the ground, I take the drink from him, closing my eyes as I drain at least half of it before setting it aside.

"I didn't want this to happen," I tell him. "You being here, I mean. I just wanted to die."

"Noah—"

"This wasn't some kind of trick…or Tate-esque manipulation. I didn't want you to save me and force you to take care of me. You can leave."

"I'm not leaving you, Noah," Silas says. "Ever again."

"That's not what I want. I don't want your pity."

"I don't pity you. I love you."

I check the clock on the wall. It's already four in the afternoon. I've been out for around eighteen hours. That's eighteen additional hours that the police have had to piece together the trail of the missing hiker Tate left for them, leading directly to me.

"They're going to come for me, Silas. You're going to get caught."

He sighs. "If that happens, I'll deal with it."

But I see the worry in his eyes. And I know what Silas means when he says that he'll deal with it. He'll either kill them or they'll kill him. And even if it's the former, he won't get very far leaving a trail of police officers in his wake.

"You look scared."

"I am scared, Noah. Last night was the most terrifying night of my life. I didn't sleep at all. I stayed up all night just to make sure your heart was beating and your lungs were working and taking care of you when you threw up."

"I didn't want you to. I was supposed to die."

A light knock on the door causes me to jump.

"It's Tate," he says. He kisses me on the forehead before moving toward the door.

"Silas, no," I say, my eyes filling with tears. "Please don't."

"He came over here after you last night. He stuck his fingers down your throat until you threw everything up, and he's been checking on you every hour all day and night, Noah."

"I don't care. I hate him."

He sighs, shrugging. "Well, he doesn't hate you."

When he reaches for the doorknob anyway, I turn so my back faces the entryway and curl into myself, staring out that kitchen window.

"Hey…how's she doing?" Tate asks in a hushed tone.

"She's awake," Silas says. "Like really awake this time. We were talking."

"Noah?"

But just the sound of his voice hurts. I don't want to answer; I don't even want to look at him.

I don't want his fucking pity, either.

"She doesn't really want to talk to you. You should probably just go back to the motel."

Tate lowers his voice again, as if I can't still fucking hear him. "Okay, but…we can't stay here. We need to move her. Every hour that we stay—"

"I know," Silas says. "But we need to wait until dark."

Tate groans in frustration.

"If you want to leave, then go ahead and leave," Silas says.

"I don't," Tate says. "I don't want to leave. Not without you and not without her, either."

"I can hear you, you know," I say.

"Well, good. I'm glad you can hear me."

"Do I get a say? Because I think you should both leave."

"You don't mean that," Tate says.

Footsteps move toward me. Tate kneels beside the bed and rests his hand on my hip. Suddenly, I'm eighteen again, and I'm lying in bed with Mia while Tate whispers in my ear and convinces me we're in love.

He was right. Not that we were in love, but that I'm forever eighteen. I stopped living a long time ago, and I can change my name, my hair, and try my best to become someone new, but I'll never be able to outrun that girl with the bloody lip and the broken heart.

The one who was too delusional to save herself. That's who I'm really running from. That's all I'll ever be.

"I'm going to pack your things, okay? Do you have a suitcase or anything?"

I roll away from him without a word.

It's a ridiculous question, anyway. I came here barefoot with only the clothes on my back. Most of what little clothing I have belonged to Jodie's daughter, or I bought it at the thrift shop over by the motel.

Of course I don't have a fucking suitcase.

"Tate, I doubt she has a suitcase," Silas says. He steps into the kitchen, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and takes out a garbage bag. "Here."

Tate takes the bag from him and begins emptying the contents of my dresser.

"I'm not going with you," I say.

"Yes, you are," Silas says.

"He doesn't want me," I tell him. "And I…" I swallow a lump in my throat. "I don't want him anymore, either."

Tate turns toward me, and I accidentally let him meet my eyes before averting my gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

"You don't mean that," Tate says. "It's okay, Noah. I say things I don't mean all the time, too. I'm glad you're feeling better enough to insult me, though."

He continues filling the bag like nothing is wrong.

"I do mean it. I hate you, Tate Riley. Knowing you—and your sister—ruined my life."

I knew that would get him. Tate freezes, and I wait eagerly for him to lose his fucking shit.

"Noah, don't," Silas says. "Just…stop, okay? You don't have to like it, but you still have to go with us because I won't leave without you. If you want to stay here and go to prison, then I guess we're going to prison. I'll make sure they know you didn't really hurt anyone."

"I'll fix it," Tate says softly. "I'll do better. I'll make you happy—you know I can make you happy."

"I don't want your guilt or your pity. I just want you to keep being the same piece of shit asshole you've always been."

He sighs, still refusing to take the bait. "I'm going to go put this stuff in the car."

"I'll take it," Silas says. "I'm going to go get some cash, too, just in case we run into some trouble. I'll fill up the tank and change the oil, then we should get out of here. Did you bring the hair dye?"

"Yeah," Tate says. "It's in the bag."

"You're leaving me with him?" I ask Silas.

He sets a plate beside the bed. "I made you a bagel," he says. "You should try to eat, okay? It's only for an hour—less than that, even. I'll be right back."

"Yeah, fine." I sigh, crossing my arms in front of me and looking up at the ceiling. "I don't care what he does to me anymore, anyway. Maybe he'll finally stop talking shit about it and just fucking kill me so we can all be done with this."

"Go ahead and drag me if it makes you feel better, Noah," Tate says, setting the bag of clothing next to Silas.

Just another sign of how small and meaningless my existence here is—everything I own fits in a garbage bag. And for every person in this town, the world will keep turning when I'm gone. Maybe Winter Falls will even become a tourist spot for true crime aficionados. The Poplar Café will become the place where one of the Multnomah County Massacre killers worked for a year, still killing, quietly sating her thirst for blood, until she accidentally served one of her victim's fingers to a customer and had to fucking bail.

Silas places his hands on my cheeks and presses his forehead to mine. "I love you," he says before he presses his lips to mine. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

I nod, and then watch him grab the bag of clothes and leave, closing the door behind him, leaving me in my failure-seeped apartment with the last person in the world I want to stew in that failure with.

I shoot daggers into his back with my eyes while he pulls rubber gloves over his hands and begins mixing hair color on top of my emptied dresser.

"It's too quiet in here," he says.

"I like the quiet. You should try it sometime…although, I admit, I can see now why it's such a problem for you. Alone with your thoughts all the time? I wouldn't want that, either."

"No, you probably wouldn't. Most of my thoughts are of you."

I scoff.

"They're not always good; I didn't say that," he says. "But they are mostly of you. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck while drunk and, unfortunately, didn't fucking die."

He sits beside me on the bed and reaches for my hair—slowly. So unnaturally slow, like he's waiting for me to recoil or fight him off, but I don't have the energy for that. He ties half of my hair in a top knot and starts painting the thick dark color onto my hair.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask.

"Did you look at the IDs Silas made for you?" Tate asks. "He changed your hair color to dark brown, so it needs to match."

"I'm just going to do it again," I tell him. "As soon as I get a chance, and I won't fuck it up next time. I'll get it right."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will. And you know what? Knowing it might actually hurt you—or at least bother you a little bit—makes it that much better. You say you always know when I'm lying. Tell me I'm lying about this, Tate."

He sighs. "No. You're not lying. But I'm going to make sure you don't. I'm going to take care of you. I won't let you go. Ever."

"You know what? That sounds fucking terrifying. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a threat."

"Yeah, well, who wouldn't want to be loved like a threat?"

I suck in a breath, holding it, grateful he can't see my face while I blink back tears.

"Do you want to know where we're going?" he asks.

"No."

"There's this—"

"I said, no!" I shout. "I don't want to know. I don't care because I will not live there, okay? So, just stop. I don't want to know anything about you or where you've been or what you've been doing. I don't care where you're going—not anymore."

He doesn't speak while he finishes painting on the hair dye, covering it with one of those plastic shower caps the box comes with when he's done.

"We'll wash it off in twenty minutes, and then Silas should be back. Do you want me to help you eat?"

"No. I want you to get the fuck off my bed."

"Okay," he says.

He leans over, kissing my bare shoulder. "I love you, Noah," he says.

"Stop! You do not get to say that to me."

"Okay." He climbs off the bed and moves to sit on a barstool. "But it's true. You know when I'm lying, too, remember?"

"No. I was wrong. I don't know you at all."

He shrugs. "Fine, Noah."

Tate takes an ear bud case from his pocket and pops them into his ears, too afraid to be alone with his thoughts, as usual. But I sit here with mine. They used to scare me, too. I took pills and alcohol to quiet them enough for me to sleep and so that if I did have nightmares, and most nights I did, I wouldn't remember them in the morning.

They don't bother me now.

I drink the rest of the Gatorade on the table, and then take a giant bite of the bagel.

"We need to rinse your hair now," Tate says later, breaking me from my haze. "Silas will be back soon. And it's dark."

"I can do it myself," I snap, stomping off toward the bathroom.

Tate gets his arm inside the door before I can close it and lock it. "Go ahead," he says. "But you're not closing the door."

twenty-three

Not All Heroes Wield Shovels

Tate

Noah takes her time washing and drying her hair, even though she knows Silas is waiting for us in the car, and I know she doesn't care what it looks like.

She does it just to piss me off. And just to piss her off, I do my best not to react and appear to wait patiently.

She finally sets the hair dryer aside, her formally blonde-turned-red hair almost as dark as mine now. It looks good on her; it makes her sad green eyes and freckles pop.

She looks as pale as she did when I rolled her over last night and saw the puke crusted onto her face and bruised neck. I've seen it every time I've closed my eyes since—a new mental polaroid to join the collective of still images that will forever haunt me.

I look away, trying to shake the image from my mind now, but I land on the tub and remember holding her against me under the cold spray of the shower instead of in the warm bath the night before, and the way she looked up at me, the despair in her tone when she realized she was still alive, and even worse, stuck with me.

And when I try to shake that image, I'm standing on wet carpet instead, and it's my sister lying under bloody water.

"Okay, let's go," I say, dipping out of the bathroom. "He's just going to come up here and drag you out if we don't come down soon."

"But you won't?" Noah asks.

"I don't want to hurt you," I tell her. "You said not to touch you, so I'm not touching you."

"Yeah, okay, Tate," she says, rolling her eyes as she brushes past me.

Like I'm lying.

But I'm not lying. I'm not touching her, just like she asked. And it's hard…because I really want to touch her. I want to hold her and kiss her, I want to run my fingers through her hair and comfort her.

I can make it better. If she'll let me. She always lets me.

"You can't bring your phone," I say as she grabs her purse. "Or any of your old cards or anything."

"Fine," she says, and tosses it onto the ground. "Let's just go then."

"I wouldn't have killed you, Noah," I tell her as she puts on her jacket and walks out the door.

"What are you talking about?"

"Last year. I wasn't going to kill you. I mean, I wanted to, but I couldn't. I don't want to live in a world where you don't exist."

"But you don't really want this either, do you?" she asks as we descend the staircase. "You want me to go to prison for the rest of my life."

I bite my lip, attempting again to pull nonexistent lip rings through my teeth.

"It's complicated." And I think I did okay explaining it to her when I thought she was just sleeping, but I'm not sure how to do that now. "But I do love you."

Forgetting I'd told her I wouldn't touch her, I reach for her hand, but she quickly jerks it away.

"That's not love, Tate," she says. "It's obsession, maybe, but it's not love. You told me yourself last night. When you love someone, you don't want them to hurt."

I consider arguing. Sometimes, you love someone so much, it makes you question who you are, and you need to hurt them—it's self-preservation. At least, that's what I thought before. That's what I thought both times Noah left, but I never really had to see with my own eyes how she hurt either time. I never saw Noah sad.

I saw her sad last night.

We reach the bottom of the staircase just as the older lady who owns the place comes out the back door and around the corner of the main house. I pull my hood up over my head before she reaches us.

"Is everything okay here?" she asks, looking the two of us over. Her hand hovers above her hip, and I get the distinct feeling that we must have missed at least one of her guns in our sweep.

"Yeah, we're fine," Noah says. "We're just going to get something to eat."

"Are you sure?" the woman asks. What was her name? Jodie, right? "You don't look fine."

"Yeah, I just partied a little too hard last night," she says. "I need some hangover food. We should talk tomorrow, though, I um…I've been meaning to call you and ask when we can get back to work."

"Well, I was hoping we'd be open tomorrow," Jodie says. "But I got a call from the police station, and it turns out that finger is a DNA match for a man who's gone missing not too far from here. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Noah?"

Oh, fuck.

She called her Noah. She knows. How the fuck does she know?

But Noah is too sick and tired to notice. And she's been hearing her name—her real name—for days now from mine and Silas's lips. "Why would I know anything about that?" she asks.

Just as quickly as Jodie pulls her handgun, I push Noah behind me and step in front of her with my hands up.

"Jodie, what are you doing?!" Noah cries out, still unaware of her mistake.

"Both of you…" Jodie starts. "Don't move. I'm calling the police."

She fumbles with her left hand to get her phone from her pocket without looking away from us and without lowering the gun. It's a difficult task; she's going to have to do one or the other sooner or later, and then I'm going to have to charge her. It's my only option.

But then I see Silas behind her, slowly creeping from the wooded area between the house and the back alley.

"Why would you call the police? I didn't hurt anyone; I swear."

Noah's shouting allows him to move a little faster, and I watch him grab a shovel leaning against the side of the house.

"She knows who you are, Noah," I say calmly. "She said your name."

"I did my research after the police called," she says. "I started looking for runaways in the Pacific Northwest around the time you showed up; didn't realize that I'd never really looked at you long enough to realize that you were Noah Barlowe. Of course, you were pretty beat up when you showed up. I didn't realize you'd been hiding him all this time; now that…that is a fucking surprise."

"I didn't—" Noah tries to step around me, and I grab her by the shirt and pull her back.

"Don't move!" Jodie shouts. "Don't fucking move, or I will shoot you."

She finally gets the phone from her pocket just as Silas closes in on her.

"Noah really didn't do anything," I say loudly to distract her. "She never hurt anyone, and she wasn't hiding me. All of it was—"

Before I can finish the sentence, Silas swings the shovel, and the woman drops to the ground in the gravel. Silas effortlessly lifts her and tosses her over his shoulder, the shovel in his other hand, and carries her behind the house and out of view.

"Silas, wait!" Noah shouts. "Tate, is she dead?"

"No, she's probably just unconscious," I say. "But she will be."

"Silas!" She races after him toward the house.

"Stop yelling!" I bend down and pick up the gun, tucking the discarded weapon into the back of my waistband before chasing after her. The back door to the house is open, and the woman lies unconscious on the living room floor.

Noah follows him around the kitchen, pleading with him, trying to catch his eye as he opens drawers and cabinets, searching for a knife. I have the gun, of course, but guns are loud.

Knives are quiet. And artistic. A personal touch matters; not everyone can do that.

"Silas, please!" she cries. "Don't kill her. You don't have to kill her."

"Noah," I say. "Baby, we do have to kill her. It's the only way we're going to get out of here."

"I'm not talking to you!" she screams back at me. "I'm talking to the person who actually gives a shit about me!"

The woman at my feet stirs, and I quickly pull out the gun and hit her over the head with it.

"Tate, no!" Noah screams as the woman slips out of consciousness, falling limp onto the floor again.

"What?"

I shrug, throwing my hands up. I really don't know what the fuck she wants from me.

Silas pulls a knife roll bag from the top of the fridge and unfurls it on the island.

I'm glad he's the one who's going to do it. She always forgives him. I'm sure he realizes that, too.

"Silas, no! Silas, please don't! Please!"

She drops to the ground and wraps her body around one of his legs. "Please, stop, Silas," she sobs. "Please, don't kill her. She took care of me. She was like…a mom."

"Tate, get her out of here," Silas says. "She doesn't need to see this."

I wrap my arms around her middle and pull her off him, but she screams and fights against my hold. "No, Tate! Let me go."

"I'm sorry," I tell her as I drag her backward through the door. She digs her heels in, still struggling against me, and headbutts me pretty good in the nose. "Fuck! We don't have any other options, Noah. This is the only way we'll get out of here."

"No, it's not," she cries, gripping the doorframe as I attempt to pull her back outside. "Tate, please. Please don't do this. Please don't let him. I won't forgive you. Ever. Not for this."

"Let go, Noah."

"You don't love me!" she yells. "I fucking knew it. If you loved me—even a little bit—you wouldn't do this. You wouldn't kill the only person on Earth who's shown me kindness. You fucking despise me." As Silas kneels over her with the knife in his hand, Noah finally gives up, sobbing as she releases the doorframe. "I can't wait until the day comes when you finally let me go."

Even Silas freezes.

"And you! You killed my mom, Silas."

"I only did that to save you," he says. "I'm doing this because I have to do this to save you."

"This isn't saving me!" she shouts. "This is killing me!"

"Fuck!" he yells back. "What the fuck are we supposed to do, Noah? Huh? We're kind of fucked here."

"We'll…tie her up," I suggest. "We could tie her up really tight and leave her here. Someone would find her eventually, right? But it would be a while; she lives alone. We'll be long gone by the time someone comes around."

Noah nods. "Yeah, she has a boyfriend, but he works nights. He'd probably find her tomorrow."

"Okay, so…I'll check the garage for some rope, and…you stay here in case she wakes up. Silas?"

"Yeah." Silas pauses, scratching the back of his head with the knife hand. "Yeah, fine."

"There are zip ties in the kitchen," Noah says weakly.

"Okay," I say. "That'll help. You go get some zip ties."

"Thank you," she says. But it's painful for her; I can tell. She hates thanking me, she hates that she has to be nice to me for this.

She just fucking hates my ass.

"See?" Desperate to touch her, I thread my fingers through her hair, rubbing that spot of smooth skin behind her ear with my thumb. Maybe it's manipulative; maybe I'm taking advantage of the fact that I know she wouldn't risk snapping at me right now for touching her, but I think she used to like that. I lean in and kiss her on the mouth, not really concerned with whether or not she hates it. "I do love you, Noah. I'm doing this for you, baby."

She says nothing, looking at Silas instead.

I could make her crawl for this. Would that be too much, given the gravity of the situation, or would she find it cute in the end? If nothing else, it'd be on-brand.

"We might get caught over this, sweetheart," Silas says. "We could go to prison for the rest of our lives. You realize that, right?"

"No," Noah says. "Not me. I won't go."

But she says it like a threat.

twenty-four

Out of the Woods

Noah

"You should grab one of those chairs, too," Silas says as I dig through the kitchen drawers for zip ties.

I know they were here. She asked me to run over and grab them once for the café.

Because she trusted me with a key to her house. She gave me a home and her dead daughter's clothes.

She called me sweetheart and darling, and I let a couple of murderers rob her house, and then one of them beat her with a shovel, and now I'm going to help them tie her to a chair.

I'm a bad person. I wonder if I was born this way—if it was always me, like Tate said, or if it was them. Maybe it was a disease, and I got infected somewhere else along the way, and now, it's burrowed so far into my psyche that I'll never be able to escape it. Because I'll never not choose them. Even when I don't want to.

I could have warned Jodie, but I didn't. There was a voice in my head telling me to stop Silas, that we all belong in jail and to just let it be over. But it was quiet.

It was loud when I first arrived here—beaten, broken, and terrified, the images from that night still vivid and fresh in my mind. It wanted me to go to the police. But slowly, those images faded, becoming black and white, and in grey scale, bloodstains and vacant eyes don't look so bad.

Now, the voice is so quiet, its presence so rare, I barely have to ignore it anymore. It just fades into the background the way it is now.

I finally find the zip ties and drag one of the chairs from the kitchen table into the living room, stepping around Jodie's feet and stopping in front of Silas.

I can't even look at her.

"Noah?"

"What?"

"I want you to know that we don't just go around killing people, okay? This is not what our life is going to be like," Silas says.

"Okay."

"Hey." He stands and grabs me by the arm, turning me to face him. "I mean it. It's going to be peaceful. And there won't be any more of this. I promise."

"Peaceful?" I scoff. "With Tate?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, right."

"You'll see, Noah. We belong together—all three of us. That's how it's supposed to be. We'll be able to rest." He wraps his arms around my waist. "I haven't been able to rest in so long."

"It's a nice idea, Silas," I say, shrugging him off. "But we're a fucking mess. I don't think rest and peace are in the cards for any of us."

He frowns. "We should start zip tying her hands and feet."

"This should help," Tate says with duct tape in one hand and rope in the other.

Yeah, I'm a bad person. I'm a really bad person.

Silas holds Jodie in place while I zip tie her hands and feet and Tate ties her arms and torso to the chair with the rope. Once I'm done with the zip ties, I grab the duct tape and wrap her limp limbs with that, too.

Realizing she's secured, Silas takes a step back, admiring our work.

"Maybe I should stab her a little," he says.

"What? No. You're not going to stab her a little."

"It might be a good idea to keep her weak, Noah," Tate agrees.

"No, Tate."

"Hmm…okay. I'll be right back."

I don't ask Silas where he's going, but I have a pretty good idea when he heads for the staircase.

Just as I rip the duct tape on her legs, deeming her efficiently secured, Jodie jerks awake, screaming.

"Help! Someone help me!" she shouts. Then she looks down at me. She tries kicking me, but her efforts are futile. "You evil little bitch! You're going to rot in hell for this!"

"Uh, can I get that tape, Noah?" Tate asks.

But I ignore him.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "You have to believe me—I never wanted to hurt you. We're just going to leave, okay? Someone will find you, and you'll be okay."

"Bullshit," she says. "You're a fucking serial killer! You took advantage of me. If I had any idea who you really were and what you did, I never would have shown you an ounce of kindness." She spits on my face, and I gasp, wiping it away with my shirt. "I should have shot you in the goddamn parking lot."

"You sure I can't kill her?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. My real mom shot me, too, remember? I can take it."

Still, it hurts. I spent a lot of the last year thinking if I'd had a mom like Jodie, I could've met someone nice like Mason, and I would have been different. Different things would have made me happy, and that version of me would have gone to the police at the carnival; she wouldn't have gotten infected.

And I loved her, too. I jumped into the hole for her. But that's something she'll never know or understand.

"When they catch you, I hope they shoot first and ask questions later. How could you do this to me!?"

"I'm saving you!" I yell back at her, realizing I sound exactly like them. "They were going to kill you, and now…" I shrug. "Now, you just get to sit in a chair for a while. And that's not that big of a fucking deal. I've been through worse."

"Mmm…true," Tate says. He sits on the sofa, props his feet up on the table, and fucks around with her revolver. "I've seen it, and I've caused it."

"Lilah…" She pauses before correcting herself. "Noah…" She grimaces, the name rolling off her tongue like a disease. "If there is any goodness in you, you will let…me…go."

I shake my head. "I can't do that."

"God, tape her damn mouth, Noah," Tate bemoans, rolling his eyes.

"Turn yourself in," she continues. "It's the right thing to do. You're going to get caught, anyway. And you deserve it. You know you deserve it. Do it for your dead mother."

"Eh, wrong button," Tate says. "Did you hear the part where Noah's mom shot her? She let her husband abuse her, too."

But she is getting to me…just a little bit. It's not that I want to go to jail. I just don't want to disappoint one more person. I don't want to be a plague on someone else's life.

"Is that true?" she asks, her voice softening. "A court will understand something like that, L-Noah. If you were being abused at home, and you were coerced into killing—"

"I didn't kill anyone!"

"You have to turn yourself in. You know it's the right thing to do. If they kill more people, that will be on you."

I shake my head. "Silas said they won't. He said they don't hurt people, and we'd just…live in peace."

Jodie throws her head back and laughs. "Oh, sure. If the other mass murderer says you'll live in peace, then it has to be true." Her words fade into laughter. Once she finally calms down, she adds, "You will never know peace."

My cheeks burn, and my eyes sting with fresh tears.

"Noah?" Tate calls. "He's not lying."

"Well…have you killed anyone else?"

"Just the hiker," he says. "And…one other man. That's the truth."

"That blood's on you," Jodie says. "You helped him get away, didn't you?"

I blink, sending thick tears down my cheeks just as Silas descends the staircase.

"Not exactly," I almost whisper.

"Fucking finally," Tate says. "I'm getting bored with this bitch. What'd I tell you, Noah? The second this woman found out who you were, she went after you with a gun. She doesn't care about you—she doesn't care about what actually happened. Don't fucking listen to her."

"I'm not going to turn myself in," I tell her. "I don't want to hurt them; I love them." I shrug. "I can't help it. They're my family."

"Get me the fuck out of here now!" she screams. "Help! Somebody fucking help me."

"Ugh, god," Silas says, taking the tape from me. "That fucking accent—it grates on my nerves."

"You're ugly, you know that?" Jodie says, spitting at me again. "Inside and out. You fuck them both, too, don't you? I bet your mama is glad she's dead; she doesn't have to see what a nasty little whore you are anymore. God will punish you! I hope you die…slowly and painful—"

Before she can finish the sentence, Silas tosses a few pills into her mouth and tapes it shut, wrapping it around the back of her head and through her hair before tearing it off.

"Let's go," Silas says.

Tate gets up from the sofa and moves toward the door, but I stay there, frozen, her eyes pleading with me to stay, to help, to do something that isn't just leave her here and run off with a couple of serial killers.

"Hey, baby?" Silas says, doubling back. He takes me by the hand and places a hand on my cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb. "Don't listen to her. You're beautiful, and there's nothing wrong with you. I'm going to take care of you now, okay? The way you deserve—the way I should have been taking care of you all along."

She's searching my eyes, perhaps hoping to find that fabled ounce of good. But Tate's right, too. When she learned my name, she came after me with a gun. When I saved her life, she spit on me and told me she hopes I'll die and rot in hell. She called me ugly.

Mia called me ugly. Too ugly to love.

And my mom did call me a whore.

There's a knock at the door. I look at Tate, standing in the back doorway, but it wasn't him.

"Jodie!" Raymond, her boyfriend, calls out. "Are you home?"

His fist pounds against the door again, and Jodie smiles beneath the tape.

"I'll get it," I say, glaring at her over my shoulder while I grab the knife from the coffee table.

She's not smiling anymore.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Silas asks, following me toward the front door. When I don't answer, he pulls another knife from the counter and stands close behind me as I open it.

"Hi, you must be Raymond," I say, smiling. "I'm Lilah; I live in the apartment over the garage."

"Oh, hi, Lilah," Raymond says. "I've heard a lot about you. What are you doing here? Is Jodie home?"

"Yeah, she's upstairs sleeping. I just came over to do some laundry. Come in."

"Oh, well, I worked second shift today, and she asked me to come by after work, but she wasn't picking up her phone. I guess that's why."

Raymond laughs a little, and I step aside, letting him pass me into the home. He removes his jacket, hanging it on one of the hooks near the door, and then he sees her.

And I drive the knife into his back in front of her…not so much for self-preservation as for revenge. Because I loved her, and I jumped in the fucking hole for her.

But there are only two people who would ever jump in the hole for me.

I pull the knife out and stab him again and again, stopping once he falls to the ground.

But he isn't dead. I must not be good at it.

"Help…" Raymond cries.

A sputtering sound comes from somewhere in the back of his throat as he pulls himself forward on his stomach toward Jodie, maybe moving a foot or two, before Tate takes the knife from me, pulls the man's head back by his hair, and slices across his neck deep enough to expose the bone.

I watch the blood run from his slit throat, seeping into the white shag rug beneath him. And I can't help it—I cry.

I did it. I finally gave in and became what they all already thought I was, anyway. In a way, it's a relief—only because I don't have to scream that it wasn't me anymore. I can just let it be.

"I knew it," Tate says. He releases Raymond's hair, letting the man's head drop onto the floor, and then beams at me like he's proud, but I ignore him.

"And that was your fault," I shout through tears to Jodie as she screams from behind the tape. Just. Like. Him. "Too bad you had to spend so much time running your mouth."

"Noah? Baby? Are you okay?"

I look at Silas, wiping my eyes with my wrists. "We should tip her chair over. I've seen movies where the person tips the chair over, it breaks, and then they get free."

"Okay." Silas walks around me and then tips the chair onto its side. "Wash your hands, baby. We'll get you changed in the car."

I walk to the sink, stopping to stare at a Fabio-esque crucified Jesus on the wall. "Don't worry, Jodie," I say, my tone just lifeless as I feel inside. "You're the good guy here. I'm sure god will save you."

I wash my hands in the sink, and then leave through the back door with Silas's hand on the small of my back. When I walk past Tate, he's laughing.

"I knew you were a killer," he says as we walk toward the car. "I fucking knew it. You're no better than us. I bet you feel better now, don't you, Noah? I bet you feel free. Do you feel like a god?"

"Leave me alone, Tate."

"Take off your clothes, and we'll throw them in the dumpster," Silas says, opening the trunk. "Then, we'll go. I'm driving."

"I've got shotgun," I say as I sift through the bag of clothing for something warm to change into. "I'm not sitting by him."

Tate stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. "That's fine, Noah. I don't need you to sit by me."

I can tell he isn't finished talking, but I ignore him and start stripping down; as I do, Silas takes my clothes from me and tosses them into the dumpster.

"I just need one thing from you," he says.

"Tate, leave her alone. Just get in the car."

"It's just one really, really small thing."

"I don't care what you want."

"I just want you to say that you're just like me—that's all. I think we'll both feel a lot better."

"Tate, she's not," Silas says. "She's not like us. And she's been through too fucking much for you to be doing this shit to her right now."

I pull my sweatshirt over my head and walk around to the passenger side of the car with Tate behind me. As I open the car door, he opens his fucking mouth again.

"Okay, but Noah? Can you just—"

"What?" I shout, whipping around to face him. "Can I just what?" I shove him hard in the chest with both hands. "What the fuck do you want from me, Tate? Huh? Do you want me to admit that I'm just like you? Fine." I throw my hands up in defeat. "Of course, I'm like you. You made me!"

He smiles. "Thank you."

"Fuck you!"

I scowl at him and get into the vehicle, slamming the door hard behind me. Tate gets in behind me, calm and quiet, closing his door softly.

Silas takes my hand, lacing my fingers with his own, and pulls out of the alley.

And Tate taps his fingers against the window. Tappity-fucking-tap. I don't know if it's just to piss me off or because he can't just fucking sit still and quiet, but if it's the former, it's working. I grit my teeth until Silas turns on the radio, drowning him out.

We drive like that for thirty minutes or so—Silas focusing on the road ahead, Tate with his incessant tapping and nearly constant shifting in the backseat, me with my thoughts and a splitting headache. And I'm exhausted.

I rest my head on the center console, Silas's hand still clasped in mine, and close my eyes.

I wonder if he's disappointed in me. Quiet is normal for us, but he's always put me on a pedestal. He babied me; he treated me like I was this shiny, new, innocent thing. I never asked for it, but he did it anyway.

I bring his hand to my mouth and press my lips to his skin, and then leave it there so I can smell him.

He promised me peace. But how the hell are the three of us going to live in peace? Last night, I was sure I didn't even want to live.

And if I'm honest, we'd probably all be a little better off if I didn't.

"You know, if you want to lie down, Noah, there's more room back here," Tate says.

"No, thanks. I'm fine here."

"Yeah, I get that," Tate says. "He's all big and muscly; makes you feel safe, right?"

I ignore him, but…yeah. Pretty much.

"Like a tiny little baby," he continues. "And he's sexy. Smells really good. Good kisser, too."

"Tate…" Silas laughs, shaking his head. "I don't think she wants to hear you talk right now."

"No, he's right, though," I say softly. "You do make me feel safe. And all the other things, too. Silas?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you still want me? Even though I'm…bad?"

"You're not bad, Noah," Silas says. "You're still a good girl. There's nothing you could do that would ever change my mind about you, okay?"

"What about me?" Tate asks. "Am I a good boy?"

"No, absolutely not," Silas says. "But I'm happy. I know I'm probably the only one. I know it's selfish, and you're not happy, Noah. I can feel it coming off of you, filling ever corner of this small space, so don't think I don't know it." He rubs his thumb against my hand. "But you told me you were happy last night. And this is how it's supposed to be—we're supposed to be together. We're a family. It will get better. This is the only way it can get better."

My eyes well with tears. I swallow a lump in my throat to stifle a sob, grateful for the radio right now, even though it's breaking into static.

"Don't do that to me again, Noah," he adds. "You have to promise."

I stay silent, unwilling to make a promise I'm not sure I can keep.

"You should get some sleep, Noah," Tate says. He leans forward, resting his head against Silas's arm, and runs his fingers into my hair. "It's a really long drive."

"You don't even want me here."

"Mmm…that's not exactly true. I think you know that. I'm not that good of a liar."

"Yes, you are," I whisper.

"Do you want to know where we're going now?" he asks.

I don't answer, so he continues, stroking my hair.

"There's a small community in the Northwest Territories. They're going to give us a house and let us live there as long as we follow their rules."

"Why would they do that? Do they know who you are?"

"No," he says. "They don't care who we are."

"They aren't giving us a house," Silas clarifies. "We're smuggling enough guns and ammo for the entire community to hunt through the winter in the walls of this vehicle. That's what they get out of it. That's one of their rules—everyone contributes."

"So, it's a cult."

"I think they prefer the term off-grid community," Tate says.

"You'll like it, Noah," Silas says. "It's peaceful. The people there live without televisions and the internet. There are no newspapers. No one will ever look at us twice."

"We're a biracial queer throuple wanted for murder. Are you sure we'll fit right in with the cult? I've watched a lot of cult documentaries; they never end well. Who or what are we supposed to be worshipping?"

"You called us a throuple. That's sweet," Tate says.

"Shut up, Tate."

"I'm sure," Silas says. "You think I'm unaware of who we are and how we look? I'd never put us in danger like that. And it's not a cult, Noah; there's no religion involved."

"Okay," I relent.

But I don't really believe him. I don't believe any of it. When I close my eyes, I don't see peace. I don't know how to see peace; I have no idea what that would even look like. I still see a body impaled on a wrought iron fence and my mother's dead green eyes when Silas stepped around her body on our living room floor, still open and following me out the door.

I see an open grave filling with muddy water, and now I see blood staining Jodie's white area rug and the look in her eyes when she realized I'm a monster.

But in grey scale—so it's not that bad. It's just enough to remind me that I'm not the kind of person who gets things like peace and quiet. Still, when I sleep, I don't have nightmares.

twenty-five

Runaways

Noah

Ididn't think we'd ever make it, but I was wrong. We drove for about thirty hours, only stopping for food, when I needed to vomit, and to use the bathroom when it was absolutely necessary. I thought I was going to throw up when we crossed the border, but they didn't ask us many questions. Silas gave them an address in Saskatoon that we very much wouldn't be staying to visit a friend named Jake, then they opened the trunk for a few seconds and sent us on our way.

Silas switched off with Tate only once to sleep for about seven hours, and I moved to the backseat until they switched back.

We arrived at our destination before the sun had risen and parked outside the locked gates of the community, the entirety of which seems to be interred in barbed wire.

"Hey," Silas says, nudging me, "wake up."

I open my eyes and lean my seat forward. It's later in the morning, and still, at this latitude, the sun is barely visible on the horizon. And it's cold—much colder here than it was in Washington. Bare trees and a thin layer of snow covering the rocky terrain indicate winter has already arrived wherever here is. The sign on the front gate cautions anyone who comes upon it that they're on private, surveilled property and warns trespassers to turn back.

Or else. It literally says, 'or else.'

A man jumps out of an old red Jeep and unchains the gate, nodding to Silas as if he knows him before waving us through.

Silas pulls in, waiting at the entrance while the man chains it closed again and approaches the window. He gives him directions to something he calls the big house about a mile down the road and to the right.

"Do you know these people, Silas?" I ask as he rolls the window up.

"We've been communicating," he replies succinctly.

A few minutes later, we pull up to what I assume must be the big house. It resembles an old ski lodge, though I can't imagine it was ever used in that way. As we approach, we're ushered into a garage off the side of the house. Two men manually roll down the door behind us, and suddenly, I feel uneasy in the dimly lit space.

"Silas…" I whisper.

"It's okay," he says. "Get out of the car. It's fine."

I nod, turning toward my door, but one of the men opens it before I get a chance, waiting with an impatient look on his face. Tate exits on the same side, and I quickly move until I'm right next to him, watching as Silas gives the vehicle's keys to another man. A third takes our belongings from the trunk and sets them on the ground.

Tate moves to grab his suitcase and backpack as well as my own garbage bag of crap, and I watch another man peel back the bottom of the trunk and start pulling out guns. I hear a cracking sound as the one who impatiently waited for me to get out of the car pops off the side panel.

Jesus. This is a lot more than what they took from Jodie's house.

"Let's go inside," Silas says, grabbing his own suitcase. He places his hand on the back of Tate's neck and kisses him before adding, "I'll take that, too," and then takes my bag of shit from him.

Inside, there's a large wood-burning stove, a very dated kitchen, and two long tables where a handful of people are eating breakfast.

"What do we do now?" I ask.

Before I get an answer, a woman in her fifties with tanned skin and piercing blue-grey eyes approaches us. She's dressed in camo pants and a long-sleeved shirt and has a rifle over her shoulder.

"You must be Silas," she says, using his real name. "It's nice to meet you. The guys said you got everything we needed and then some, so thank you for that."

It takes me aback. I don't like the idea of anyone knowing his real name. It doesn't feel safe.

"Why don't you grab some breakfast, and I'll get your keys and a map for you."

"Great," he says. "Thank you."

"I'm Wendy," she says to me. "What's your name?"

I stare straight ahead with my arms crossed in front of me. I'm not falling for it. I don't need a third mother figure to try to shoot me.

"Is she mute? Deaf?"

"Nope," Tate says. "Just angry and jaded."

I narrow my eyes at him. If I'm angry and jaded, then what the fuck does that make him?

"That's okay," she says. "We've had quite a few runaways. They always show up like this. Do you have any warm clothes? A real winter coat?"

Again, I refuse to answer.

"Noah…" Silas says, his tone reprimanding as he nudges me.

"No," I tell her. "I don't have a winter coat in my modest garbage bag of belongings."

"You're not here against your will, are you?"

"Not entirely."

"Noah, take this seriously," Silas says. "Please."

I sigh. "No. I'm not here against my will. Existentially? That's debatable."

"Veronica?" she calls out.

A smaller Black woman turns around, making eye contact with Wendy, and crosses the room.

"This is my wife, Veronica," she says. "Veronica, why don't you take Noah and let her look through the things Lorna left behind? She looks like she's about the same size."

"Sure," she says. "Follow me."

She takes a few steps forward, pausing when she realizes I'm not following her.

"Go," Tate says. "I'll go with you."

I follow her through the main room and down a hallway until she stops in front of a storage closet, pulling out a cardboard box with Lorna written across the front in cursive.

"What happened to her?" I ask. "Did she disappear because she didn't follow the rules?"

"She left," Veronica says. "People come and go. They're not prisoners; it's not uncommon for them to move on after a while. You should take these," she says, handing me a grey Carhart jacket and a couple of hoodies. "What's your shoe size?"

"Eight and a half," Tate answers.

"These are nines," she says, handing Tate the boots. "But they should work for her. She'll need to wear two pairs of socks out here in the winter, anyway. You should take these jeans, too, but they might be a little big."

"Thanks," I say.

"You're welcome," she says. "Go ahead and get something to eat. We'll give you a couple of days to settle in before we get you on the schedule."

"Schedule for what?" I ask.

"To contribute. Everyone has to contribute in some way. We are almost entirely self-sufficient and off-grid. This is how it works. We still need to do shopping runs every couple of months or so for clothes and pantry items, but that's pretty much the extent of our contact with the outside world."

"Well, where does the money come from for the other stuff?"

"We do contracting work for neighboring communities and sell extra food and crops in the summer."

"Don't you miss it?" I ask. "The outside world, I mean."

"No," she says. "The rest of the world is a dumpster fire. Last I checked, they were on the verge of World War III and the collapse of late-stage capitalism, racism and homophobia were on the rise, and a lot of them were foaming at the mouth to live in a religious dystopia. Does that all still sound accurate to you?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

"What's there to miss?"

She has a point.

"Grab a plate while you can."

Veronica walks away, leaving us in a fuller dining room than the one we left a few minutes earlier. There are even a handful of children here eating now. The food sits on large serving platters on a butcher block kitchen island where Silas stands with his back to us, filling a plate with some kind of meat and pancakes.

"Give me the clothes," Tate says. "I'll put this stuff in your bag."

"I can put it in my own bag."

He rolls his eyes and snatches them from me before walking away.

I sigh and step into the kitchen, grabbing a plate and looking over the food.

"I'll save you a seat," Silas says, nudging me with his shoulder when he walks past.

He's smiling, and I have to bite back a smile of my own. He really is happy about all this. Maybe I should try to be happy, too.

I grab a couple pieces of toast and a glass of orange juice and then sit down beside him.

"Is that all you're going to eat?" he asks, frowning.

"My stomach is still upset from…" From the pills, I don't say. "My head still hurts. I don't think I could eat anything else right now, even if I wasn't in front of all these people."

He takes my hand in his and squeezes. "I'm going to make all of this up to you. I'll make it better—I promise."

"The mystery meat is pretty good," Tate says, sitting across from us.

"It's deer," Silas says.

"How many people live here?" I ask.

"Twenty-seven," Silas says. "But that includes the kids, too."

"I don't like that she knows your name. It doesn't feel safe."

"It's mutually assured destruction," Tate says. "We're among our people."

"Wait…what? What does that mean?"

Silas lowers his voice. "Wendy and her wife are on the run, too. They're wanted for eco-terrorism in the U.S."

"They're what? We can't stay here."

Tate snorts. "Look who you're sitting with, Noah. We're the worst things in this place…probably."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

"They just want to live a quiet life and be left alone, like us. Just finish your food; it's probably better to save your questions for when we get to the house instead of whispering about them in a crowded room."

After we finish eating, I put on my new coat, and we walk another mile and a half in the cold, following a hand-drawn map Wendy gave Silas to a tiny cabin hidden from the main road. Behind it, there's a small river and an empty chicken coop.

"Come on," Silas says, holding the door open.

I step into the tiny cabin. There's a kitchen in the front corner, but there isn't much to it—no refrigerator, no oven. Just a table, a stovetop, a sink, and a few cabinets. The living space is sparsely furnished with an old sofa, a rug, and a couple of lanterns sitting on two side tables. Silas opens the wood-burning stove at the center of the room and tosses some logs inside.

"Home sweet home," Tate says, sinking into the sofa.

I walk around him to the back of the room, checking to see what's behind the closed doors. The two along the back wall lead to small bedrooms, both of which have beds with linens and fur blankets I'm pretty sure are made from real animal skins. The one off to the side leads to a bathroom.

"Do we have running water?" I ask Silas.

"Yeah, we have water," he says. "No electricity, though. We could get solar panels at some point. A snowmobile would be cool, too." He really is happy—he pauses to smile again before continuing. "There's a battery powered stovetop; I brought a radio and a ton of batteries. Wendy said I could take the car out this weekend, and I'll get us some winter clothes and supplies."

"So, we don't have the car anymore?"

He shakes his head. "It's a communal car now. They're going to paint it and change the plates. But that's okay; we won't need it."

I don't necessarily like hearing that, either. What if we need to run again? "Silas, we don't know how to live like this."

"Yes, we do," Tate says. "We've been reading about it for over a year now; we've been doing it, too."

"Both of you?" I ask.

Tate scoffs. "Yeah, I can read, Noah."

"But we realized pretty quickly that it isn't easy to do when you can't stay somewhere for very long, and you're doing it alone," Silas says.

"Well…can I read them?"

"Of course," he says. "They're in my suitcase. I'll get them for you after I get this fire started."

"Thanks. I'm going to go lie down. You can put them in my room."

Silas shoots me a puzzled look.

"Your room?" Tate asks. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll take the small one without a window," I tell them. "But I need my own room…for obvious reasons."

"They're not that obvious," Tate says. "I don't know the reasons."

"Well, then, to state the obvious—I can't be around you. I'll be in my room."

Shortly after I close the door and crawl under the blankets, Silas steps into the room with my bag of clothing in one hand and books under the opposite arm.

"I brought those books for you," he says, setting them on the nightstand. He looks around the room, opening drawers and the closet doors, even looking under the bed.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm worried about you. Are you feeling okay?"

"I've been worse."

"Do you still want to be here? On Earth, I mean."

"I don't feel like doing it again—not right now, anyway, if that's what you're asking. Not that I'd tell you if I was planning to."

"Well, that's not helpful."

"It's true, though. I kind of want to see how this plays out first; I don't think it'll be good."

Silas finishes his search and sits at the edge of my bed, running his fingers up and down my back.

"It's going to be great," he says. "Better, even—I know it will be. But if our potential demise keeps you interested enough to want to hang around for a while, I'll take it." He leans in, pressing his lips to my temple. "I'm going to get you some water; let me know if you need anything else. I love you."

He leaves the room, intentionally leaving the door wide open, looking back at me while he does it to make sure I understand it needs to stay that way before he goes.

Instead of sleeping, I grab a book on the science of sustainability in remote locations. It's filled with Silas's highlights and notes in his tiny, messy, left-handed writing.

It's my favorite part. Reading them makes me feel closer to him—like I'm catching up on who he's been all this time while he was gone, and I was alone, missing him.

Missing both of them, but I'm no longer willing to admit that.

And by the time we leave for dinner, I'm halfway through the book, wondering if perhaps there's something to this and if I have something to look forward to after all.

twenty-six

'No Chips on my Shoulder' Blue

Noah

Ispent most of the next week in my room, reading and learning how to live off-grid. Silas bought me a journal when he went out for clothes and supplies, and I've been taking notes, deciding what I want to plant once the ground thaws. I could even build a small greenhouse and get some chickens if Silas would help me.

I'm still avoiding Tate when I can. It isn't easy; we live together and eat together at almost every meal, but it is necessary.

Both breakfast and dinner are served at the big house every day. I was assigned the dinner shift, which is the busiest one, but it isn't much different from working at a restaurant, and the people who live here are always kind and grateful. And if I'm being honest, it feels nice to have a place to go and a purpose.

Still, I mostly stay quiet. I don't quite trust them, and a part of me is still afraid to get comfortable. I haven't been comfortable in a really long time.

"Do you need anything else before I leave?" I ask Veronica after I finish drying and stacking the dishes.

"No, that's it, sweetheart," she says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Sweetheart. That's what Jodie used to call me.

I nod, and then put on my coat, gloves, and scarf, and walk home in the dark alone. The first few times, it made me uncomfortable. I asked Silas to stick around after dinner to walk with me, but that meant Tate waited for me, too.

And then Wendy noticed and informed me that the punishment for violence against another member of the community was death, that all the men on the property were well aware of it, and there have been zero incidents. I don't feel afraid anymore.

I stomp the snow from my boots on the front porch and then slip them off before stepping inside and setting them beside the door. The house is dark, quiet, and warm, just like I like it. I take off the rest of my winter gear and fill the teakettle with water.

Tea before bed while I read in the lantern light has become a routine for me, and it's a better one than trying to get drunk enough to choke down a burger. That's gotten easier, too. I think there's something about cleaning the meat from the bone that bridged a gap in my mind I never would have thought I wanted filled in.

But it is true. We're all just meat.

Before I can turn the burner on, Silas walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.

"Hey, baby," he says, pressing his lips to my neck. "I missed you."

He licks and sucks on my throat, and I wrap my hand around the back of his head, laughing a little when his beard tickles my neck.

"Do you want me to shave it now?" he asks. "My face would be cold, but—"

"No," I tell him. "I love it."

One hand grips my tit through my shirt and the other slips inside my underwear, quickly finding my clit. I lean into him and moan.

"Where's Tate?" I whisper.

"He's not here," he says. "Ryder shot a bear. He's helping him out; he'll probably be gone for a while."

Thank fuck.

I quickly turn to face him, opening the front of his pants and taking his hard dick in my hand, pumping it in my fist while he brings his lips to mine. He buries a moan against my mouth and rips my pants down over my hips.

I kick them off as they fall to the floor and Silas lifts me from the ground, laying me down on my back on the small kitchen table, gripping the back of my thighs and spreading me wide before he thrusts inside me.

"Ahh!" I cry out.

He slams his hips into me, taking me hard and fast. The entire table rocks and moves across the room, and he groans in frustration before moving his hands to my shoulders to pin me in place.

"That's better," he says, satisfied with the lack of give as he thrusts inside me. I take every inch of him, clutching the edge of the circular table in my hands, the sound of skin against skin and my own cries every time he buries himself inside me reverberating off the cabin walls.

"God, you're so wet, Noah," he rasps. "You really needed to get fucked, didn't you?"

"Yes…" I whimper. "Oh, god, don't stop."

"All you've gotta do is ask for it, baby; you know that."

"Harder…hurt me. Please."

He pulls me further down on the table before pinning me in place again, thrusting into me hard enough that I'm pretty sure the goddamn table is going to snap in half, but I don't give a fuck. My pussy throbs around his dick, and he moves one hand onto my throat and squeezes.

"Oh, fu—" I start before my airway is cut off.

The hand on my throat takes over the role of pinning me in place while he slides his cock in and out of me. The other pushes my shirt up to my neck before squeezing my tit, his thumb running over my nipple before pinching it hard.

It sends me over the edge.

My back arches off the table, and I come hard, legs shaking and eyes rolling back in my head as he continues his deliciously brutal assault on my pussy.

"That's it, baby," he says. He moves that hand gripping my throat to my hair, jerking it tightly in his fist while I gasp for air. "Doesn't that feel good? I know what you need, don't I?"

"Yes…" I moan.

"I'm going to fill you so full of cum..."

"Silas…I don't…oh, fuck…I don't think you should come in me."

"Fuck that. I'm not pulling out, Noah. That's one thing you don't get to ask me to do."

"But—"

"No. You're mine. When we fuck, I'm coming in you. Say you understand, baby."

"Silas…"

"Say it…"

"I understand."

Silas goes stiff, his hips shifting, trying to force his cock in further, deeper, as he fills me with cum, just like he promised.

"I love you, Noah," he says, breathless.

He pulls out of me, watching his cum drip from my pussy before he pushes my knees together. He holds them like that, staring down at me, and then takes his fingers and seemingly uses them to push his cum back inside me.

"I love you," I tell him. "But, Silas—"

"I'll make your tea for you," he says, cutting me off. "Do you want some tea?"

"Yeah," I say softly. "Yeah, I'm just going to get dressed."

I gather my discarded clothing and put it in my laundry basket before cleaning myself up in the bathroom. Then I put on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt; our cabin is warm enough, but it can get pretty cool at night, and I still need to sleep in heavy clothing.

Just as I finish dressing, Silas steps into the room, a book in one hand and my tea in the other.

"This is what you like to do at night, right?" he asks, lying in my bed. "You like to lie in bed with your lantern, drink tea, and read."

"Pretty much," I say. I set the lantern in the middle of the bed, grab my book from the side table, and lie down beside him. "I like doing you, too, though."

"I like that, too." He laughs a little, then lifts my chin and kisses me lightly. "Noah?"

"Yeah?"

"You need to make up with Tate."

I shake my head. "I don't want to."

"He's trying so hard, Noah. He's really sad; he misses you so much. He spends all day trying to make you laugh."

I've noticed. But the truth is that just makes it better for me. I'm glad it hurts him. "Everyone has a breaking point. Mine should have been that time he tried to kill me, but here we are."

"You love each other. You can't stay mad at him forever."

"I can try. I learned from the best, after all."

"There's nothing to be scared of anymore."

Before I can tell him something along the lines of, I know there's nothing to be afraid of, because I'm not going to give him the chance to hurt me again, the front door opens and closes.

Great.

I sigh with dread as his footsteps cross the cabin toward my bedroom, stopping in the doorway. He still has his boots on, as usual, and I clench my jaw as I watch snow fall from them and melt onto the floor.

"Hey," he says. "What's up?"

Silas shrugs. "Not much. How was the bear?"

"Big as fuck," he says. "Hi, Noah."

"You're getting shit all over the floor again. You need to take off your boots at the door. I'm tired of cleaning it up."

"I'm sorry," he says sadly. "I'll clean it up. You don't have to do that."

He runs his hands through his hair and sighs before leaving the room.

"Noah…"

"What? Don't act like messes don't drive you fucking crazy, too, because I know they do."

"He's sad, Noah. When you threw out the flowers he gave you the other day, he fucking cried."

"All Tate does is make me cry." I turn off my lantern, return it to the side table, and pull the covers over my body. "I don't feel like reading anymore—I'm going to bed. Please close the door when you leave."

"You want me to leave?"

"I don't want him to come in again so, yes."

Silas sighs. "Okay, Noah. But you're hurting my feelings now, too."

"I'm sorry," I tell him before he closes the door. "I don't mean to."

"I know."

Silas pulls the door closed, and I quietly cry into my pillow, waiting for sleep.

After spending most of the night lying awake in the dark, I sleep in the next morning. Silas tried to wake me up for breakfast, but I told him I was too tired, and then went back to sleep for another hour before getting in the shower.

I wring out my hair, wrapping myself in a towel before walking to the kitchen to heat some water for coffee.

"Hey," Tate says.

"Jesus…" I clutch my towel to my chest. "You scared me. What are you doing here? Aren't you and Silas supposed to be hunting?"

"I got the day off because I helped with the bear last night," he says. "You missed breakfast."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Well, I brought you back some pancakes."

I ignore him and grab the kettle.

"I already made you coffee. It's on the table."

I set the kettle down and turn around. Tate stands behind me with his arms crossed in front of him, and sure enough, the French press is on the table, full of fresh coffee, right next to a plate of pancakes. Dumping it and making another would be too aggressive, so I grab a cup from the cabinet and fill it.

"Um…thanks, Tate. I'm just going to go get dressed now."

"I can help you with that, too, if you want."

"No, thanks."

"Noah, stop." He steps in front of me before I can pass, and I quickly look away before he can make eye contact.

"What?"

His hand closes around my coffee cup, and he takes it from me. "Set this down first," he says, placing it on the table. "Now, tell me what to do."

"What do you mean? I don't need anything from you."

"Tell me what to do to make it better. I love you, Noah. I miss you so much, and I hate it. If you just tell me what to do to fix it, I will. I promise I'll be good to you."

Tate takes a step toward me, and I take a step backward.

"You're a liar."

"Yes, I am. But I'm not lying to you right now."

He takes another step forward, and this time, when I try to move away from him, my back hits the wall.

I swallow hard, pulling the small towel wrapped around my body tighter. "I just need some time," I tell him, hoping he'll back off. "I need space."

"No," he says. "No more time. We've wasted enough time. And look around—there's no space."

I shake my head. "I can't—"

He cuts me off with his mouth on mine, his tongue pushing past my lips while his hands find my hips, and he closes the space between our bodies. Tate moans, digging his fingers into my skin while grinding the hard ridge of his dick through his sweatpants against my bare pussy, causing me to gasp.

"Tate…"

"It's okay," he whispers against my lips as he hitches one of my legs around his waist. "I promise, Noah. I'll be good this time."

He dives back into my mouth, pulling my top lip through his teeth as I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, tighter, while I rock my hips, rubbing my clit against his hardness.

"I want you so bad, Noah," he says. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

I reply with a whimper, and he spreads my legs wider, increasing the pressure against my clit. I grip his shoulders tighter, rolling my hips in circles against his cock.

"Tate…"

Fuck me. I'm about to come from grinding on him, and he knows it, too, because he smiles against my lips and picks up the pace. My spine grates painfully against the exposed wood beam behind me, and I gasp, arching my back.

It only makes it better. My toes curl, my fingernails dig into his skin, and he groans.

"See what you do to me?" he rasps. "See how fucking hard you make me? Go ahead, baby. Rub your wet pussy on my dick until you come."

"Fuck!" I scream as my clit pulses against his dick. "God fucking damn it, Tate. Fuck!"

"Let me fuck you," he whispers, tugging at my earlobe with his teeth while he grinds against my throbbing pussy. "I know you want it. I'll make you feel so good."

I'm still riding out the orgasm, still weak-kneed and weak-willed, and so I reach my fingers inside the waistband of his pants, but freeze when I hear a key turn in the lock.

I quickly shove Tate off of me, breathlessly clinging to my towel.

"Hey," Silas says when he steps inside. "What's…going on?"

"Nothing," I say far too quickly.

But I'm flushed and out of breath, and Tate is rock hard, his dick straining against his grey sweats with a big fucking wet spot on the front of them. It's pretty obvious what's going on.

I grab my coffee and dart toward my bedroom.

"Nice. Run away, Noah. It's what you do best."

I don't breathe until I close the door behind me. I dress and sit on my bed, drinking my coffee and staring at the wall, wondering how the fuck I let my guard down enough for Tate to dry hump me into an orgasm in the kitchen.

I listen to them speak in hushed voices for a while before the shower turns on, and then I grab my book and journal from the nightstand and start reading.

I stay in my room until I have to leave for the dinner shift, eating alone as soon as I get the chance and well before Tate and Silas get there. Once they do, I tell Silas I already ate since I skipped breakfast and easily fall back into my habit of pretending Tate doesn't exist.

"Do you want us to wait for you?" Silas asks when they bring their plates to the kitchen.

"No," I tell him. "I like walking alone."

Silas frowns. I know that isn't the answer he wanted; I know he wants me to make up with Tate, but I can't do it.

"You can't avoid me forever, Noah," Tate says. "We live together."

"Against your will," I say.

"You came all over my pants against your will this morning," he replies.

I shake my head. "Whatever, Tate."

"We'll see you at home," Silas says, taking Tate's hand and leading him toward the front door.

I sigh and get back to the dishes, finishing and arriving home about an hour after them. They're awake, but in the other bedroom; I can hear them talking. I'm quieter than usual while I make my tea and sneak into my own room.

Thirty pages later, there's a knock on my door.

"Come in," I say, assuming it's Silas coming to say good night. Instead, Tate steps into the room.

"Can't take it back now," he says as my face falls in disappointment. "I'm like a vampire. Once you invite me in, that's it. It's a forever pass."

"You're not funny," I say as he sits beside me on the bed.

"Yes, I am. Let me see your hand."

"Why?" I ask.

"Just give me your hand," he says again. "Please?"

I close my book, set it aside, and hold out my hand. Tate takes a bottle of nail polish from his pocket, unscrews the top, and starts painting my nails.

It's OPI's No Chips on my Shoulder blue.

"Where did you get that?" I ask, noticing his own nails are blue now, too.

"Silas got it for me," he says.

Of course he did.

"I only have nine nails."

"I remember; that's okay. You know," he says, looking at me through dark lashes as he works, "I was sorry. As soon as I said what I said to you in that motel, I was sorry. I was happy that day, too. I'm bad at apologies—you know that. And I don't like to change my mind because it feels like some kind of weird betrayal. Other hand, please."

I extend my other hand, and he takes it before continuing.

"I hurt you; I know that, and I'm so fucking sorry, Noah. I don't know how to be any sorrier, so if you want me to just leave you alone, then I guess I'll do it. I won't be happy about it, and, I mean, it'll be weird for obvious reasons, but I'll make it work, because I want you to be happy. I can't be the thing that makes you sad anymore—not when you used to look at me like…"

"Like what?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says. "It's stupid; it doesn't matter. Switch hands again, please. What are you reading about? I haven't seen that one before."

"It's stupid; it doesn't matter."

Tate narrows his eyes at me, and I let myself smile at him…just a little bit.

"I see what you did there."

I end up telling him about the book, anyway, which is about making medicines and antibacterial compounds, while my nails dry. It's only slightly frustrating, because I'm pretty sure he's not listening to a word I'm saying.

He's just watching my mouth move, relieved that I'm actually talking to him.

But I kind of like that, too.

"Anyway, it doesn't really matter right now because everything's dead, but I'm taking notes for when the ground thaws."

"Cool," he says.

"Yeah, it is. Um, I'm pretty tired, so…I should go to sleep."

"Can I show you something?" he asks.

"What is it?"

"Something I think you'll like. You'll just have to trust me."

"Tate…I don't—"

"Come on. Just this one thing, and then I'll start leaving you alone like I promised, okay?"

It's what I've been asking for, so why does my chest ache when he says it?

"Okay," I relent.

"Come on," he says. "Get your boots."

I slip on my boots and jacket and follow him out the front door, letting him take me by the hand and lead me around the side of the house toward the backyard.

I start to get nervous—because after everything, what if this asshole really just brought me out here to kill me?

"Tate? Where are we going?"

"It's easier to see from back here. I forgot your room doesn't have a window."

"See what?" I ask.

"Look up."

"Oh, my god," I whisper.

The Northern Lights.

Green and purple light paints the clear night sky. It's been on my bucket list since I learned about them when I was younger, but it was something I never thought I'd be able to tick off.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it, Tate."

"Remember when you did that presentation about them in seventh grade science?" he asks.

"Yeah. And I remember when Jordan Snyder started fake snoring, and you knocked his desk over."

Tate snorts. "Yep. No one messes with my girl."

"I wasn't your girl then."

He crinkles his nose. "Weren't you, though?"

I quickly look away and change the subject. "I wish I had a camera," I say. "God, it's just…it's better than it is in pictures. It makes me feel so fucking small and insignificant—in a good way, if that makes sense."

"That look right there," he says. "That's how you used to look at me."

"Tate…"

"Sorry, I'll be quiet now. I don't want to ruin this for you, so I'll just take a step back, and you let me know when you're ready to go back inside because like…there are wolves and shit, so I can't leave you out here alone."

"I appreciate that."

I stare up at the lights in the sky, feeling small and insignificant in a good way for a few more minutes, and decide to go back inside once I realize the only thing I'm feeling is Tate's eyes.

"We can go now," I tell him.

We trudge back through the snow to the front door. Tate makes a point to stomp off his boots and take them off on the rug, and I fight the urge to praise him for the common courtesy before doing the same.

"Good night, Noah," he says. "I'll give you your space, and if you need anything…well, you'll probably just ask Silas, but I'll be here, quietly loving you from a distance. And okay, I do kind of hear it now—that everything I say sounds like a threat—but I don't mean it in a creepy way this time."

"Good night, Tate. Thanks for painting my nails."

"You're welcome. Anytime."

He smiles sadly before closing the bedroom door. My heart drops into my stomach; I can't breathe, and I barely get to my own bedroom and close the door before the tears fall. I bury my face in my pillow, hoping it stifles the sobs enough that they can't hear me.

Once my eyes run dry, and I can't cry anymore, I get out of bed, cross the cabin to the other bedroom, and push open the door. I tiptoe across the room to Tate's side of the bed and stand there, debating whether I should wake him up or just go back to my room.

"Noah, I'm awake," Tate says after a couple of minutes pass like this. "I can see you standing there."

"Oh…sorry."

"Are you okay?"

I bite my lip, shaking my head in response before realizing he probably can't see it. "No," I say, sniffling. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Yeah, of course," he says, pulling the covers back. "Come here."

I crawl into the space in the middle of the bed, rest my head against his chest, and wrap my arms around him. And I feel…relief. Giving in is such a fucking relief, I want to cry all over again.

"I love you, Tate."

"I love you, too."

He kisses my forehead before threading his fingers through my hair, his thumb rubbings circles against the skin right behind my ear, and I feel like, for the first time in days—maybe years—I can breathe again.

"Noah," Silas says, stirring beside me. He throws an arm around my waist and kisses the back of my head. "Are you happy, baby?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "I'm happy."

twenty-seven

Peace

Noah, almost two years later

"How about right here?"

"That's fine."

"Are you sure you're not going to be mad at me? It's going to be really short."

"I said it's fine, Tate. Just cut it."

"Okay…"

He pulls my hair tight in his fist and cuts through it with the kitchen shears.

"There," Tate says. "It's done." He drops the fist full of dark brown hair into the small garbage can beneath the bathroom sink.

I shake out my chin-length hair in front of the mirror. There's still a bit of brown in the front near the ends, but for the first time in years, it's blonde again. My cheeks are full again; there are no bags under my eyes. I have color back in my face. The freckles I spent so many years hiding under makeup are on full display, deeper and more plentiful than ever, thanks to a summer spent outdoors. Not that it gets particularly hot—but with about twenty hours of sunlight, the days are long, and the sun at this latitude can be intense.

For the first time in years, I'm looking at my reflection, and the girl staring back at me is someone I recognize.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Good," I tell him. "I feel really good."

"You look good. You look happy."

I wrap my arms around the back of his neck. "I am happy," I say before bringing my lips to his. "Your hair is longer than mine now."

"Do you want to cut mine, too?" he asks.

"No way. Never."

"Yeah, I don't think never is going to work for me."

"It works for me, though." I pat his face lightly before leaving the bathroom.

I slip on my shoes and walk out the front door, rounding the side of the cabin toward the backyard.

My happy place.

I have a decent-sized garden of root vegetables and leafy greens, two chickens in my coop, and even a cellar we built where we store our homemade berry wines and whiskey, grow mushrooms, and make other medicinal items for our community.

In a way, I still grew up and became a mad scientist, after all. And I did grow up—I'm not stuck at eighteen anymore, I don't have nightmares. I dream of Mia sometimes, and it's always pleasant. Sometimes, it's a relief, and I wake up grateful that my subconscious still remembers her face.

I barely remember my mom's face.

"I can get that for you," Tate says as I pull open the door to the cellar.

"I don't need your help."

"I know you don't," he tells me, opening the other door, anyway.

I smile a little before walking down the staircase. It's funny—I knew I wasn't healthy before, but I really had no idea how weak I was and how much pain I was in until the day I realized I didn't feel it anymore. I'm stronger than I've ever been.

I finally started getting periods again about a year ago. I've been tracking my cycle naturally and staying away from Silas a few days out of the month. While I'm not saying never, I am absolutely saying not right now, which he says he respects but also admits he's been too obsessed with the idea of getting me pregnant for too long to be trusted in the moment.

I realize there's something about that I should find creepy as fuck, and I probably would if it were anyone else, but not when it's him. For whatever reason, when it rolls off the tongue of the guy who killed my mom and forced me into cannibalism, it's sweet.

Like my wines. Like everything else he says.

My ankle still bothers me when the barometric pressure is high, and it's high today. I roll it out when I reach the bottom of the staircase.

The cellar is a small space, and just deep enough for Silas to stand without needing to duck. I run my fingers along the green glass bottles lining the shelves, stopping when I find one of my blackberry wines.

"Hey, get me one of those, too."

I frown. "You can't get mean!" I shout up the staircase. "Last time you drank wine, you got mean."

"I'm not going to get mean."

Sighing, I grab two bottles and head back up the staircase.

"Here," I say, handing him a bottle. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

"Well, I wouldn't ever say that."

"Thank you."

"You give me a headache…regularly. A lot of anxiety, too. Historically, you've contributed to my own self-loathing and a violent mental breakdown."

I scoff. "Okay, well, I take it back then. No, thank you to all of that."

"I'm kidding, mostly." He grabs me by what's left of my hair and pulls me into his side. "You know I love you."

He kisses my cheek and wraps an arm around my waist.

"Yeah, I know."

We take our wine back inside, leaving the front door open so the cool summer breeze fills the space. Tate turns on the radio and sits on the couch.

He's gotten really into AM radio shows over the past year. And even though he's used to it, he still doesn't love silence or sitting still. I wonder what goes through his head these days when it gets quiet, but if he's bothered, he doesn't tell us. And if he's still haunted, he doesn't show it.

I sit on the floor between his legs and drink from my wine bottle.

"Silas should be back by now."

"You always do this. Silas is the last person you need to worry about out there."

"Well, you're the only people I really care about. Why would I worry about anyone else first?"

"You know what I mean," he says, combing my hair with his fingers. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Maybe I have abandonment issues."

"Maybe you're the one who needs to cut back on the wine," Tate says. "You need to relax. Why don't you come sit on my lap?"

I take another swig from the bottle and set it on the coffee table.

"Why don't you come down here and make me?"

I smile, waiting, and when I feel him shift, I quickly scurry away on all fours. I scream when he grabs me by the ankle and pulls me to the ground. He climbs on top of me, pinning my thighs to the ground with his knees, and pulls my tank top over my head, leaving my chest bare.

"You knew how this was going to end." He removes his shirt and tosses it aside, revealing a lean, muscled chest and torso, covered in black ink.

Tossing the shirt aside, Tate lies on top of me, his lips engulfing mine while his right hand runs up my thigh, hitching my leg around his waist. He rolls his hips, grinding his hard cock between my legs while his tongue tangles with my own and his fingers toy with my nipple.

I reach between us, opening the front of his jeans, and take him in my hand while he thrusts against me.

"You are so fucked," he says against my lips.

"I want to taste you," I tell him.

I roll until he's the one on his back and then I pull his jeans and boxers down his hips. His dick springs free, and I pump it in my fist, watching precum leak from the tip before I lick it clean and take him in my mouth, hallowing my cheeks around him as I work him from base to tip.

"Fuck, that feels good." He grabs a handful of my hair, gripping it tightly while thrusting up into my mouth. It takes me off guard, and I choke a little. Tears leak from the corner of my eyes.

"I can't help it," he says. "It feels too good. And you look too fucking pretty when your eyes water, baby."

I look up at him with the same watery eyes, squeezing my thighs together as I suck and swirl my tongue around the tip.

"Fuck…" he groans. "You're gonna make me come."

"Couldn't wait for me, huh?"

Silas kneels shirtless behind me, leaning over to stroke my cheek while I take Tate in my mouth. Between the open door and the radio, I didn't even hear him come in.

I let the tip fall from my lips, and Tate groans in frustration. "You're late," I tell Silas.

And I missed him. He leans down and kisses me on the lips.

Love doesn't look the same for everyone. This is what it looks like for me. And I don't really care where that came from anymore or if it was ever wrong. I finally let myself get comfortable, and we live in peace, just like Silas promised we would. Nothing else matters anymore.

"Too horny to wait," Tate says. He uses his grip on my hair to guide my mouth back to his dick. "Open. Don't stop." I do as he asks, taking him back in my mouth, and he moans. "There you go."

"How many times do you need to get your dick sucked and fucked in a day, Tate?" Silas asks.

"At least twice for my health," he says. "But more is always better."

Silas grabs the back of my head and pushes me down hard on Tate's cock, holding me there while my eyes water again. "I'm living with two sluts," he says. "That's a good look for you, baby. You should slow down; I want him to last a while." He grabs the waistband of my shorts and underwear and pulls them off of me. "I want to watch him squirm while I fuck you."

I slow my pace as instructed, eagerly waiting on my hands and knees for his dick, my soaked pussy bared and legs spread.

"That's a good girl," Silas says. "Suck every inch of it, nice and slow. Look at how he's clenching his teeth. You should play with his balls, too."

I cup his balls, and Tate hisses through his teeth.

Finally, I feel the head of Silas's dick against my pussy. He teases me with it, running it over my clit and through my wetness, and I arch my back in anticipation.

In one swift motion, he pushes inside me, my entire body humming with pleasure as he fills me.

I cry out, the sound buried around Tate's dick, vibrating around him.

"Fuck!" Tate shouts, thrusting into my throat again.

"None of that, Tate," Silas says, rocking his hips into me. "Let go of her hair. God, you got so fucking wet sucking his dick, baby."

I moan again, and he settles into a rhythm I use to set the pace with my mouth. And Tate does squirm beneath me on the floor; he's fighting the urge to use his hands on my head, and it's driving him fucking crazy.

"I need to come," Tate says. "I'm so close."

"What do you think, Noah?" Silas asks, picking up the pace. "Has Tate been a good boy?"

I curl my toes and dig my nails into Tate's thighs, my own orgasm within reach. "Mmhmm," I say around the tip of his cock.

"You can suck him all the way off, then, baby."

I pick up the pace, bobbing my head on Tate's dick with each quick, brutal thrust of Silas's hips. Tate lifts his hips and thrusts into my lips again, moaning while I suck him. I taste salty cum on the back of my tongue as his cock jumps, and he grabs me by my hair again, holding me in place while he fills my mouth.

"Oh, fuck! Oh god, you're a slut."

"A good little slut," Silas says as he drills into me from behind. "You take all that cum in your mouth, baby."

After he's empty, he lets his cock fall from my mouth, tilts my chin up, and says, "Show it to me."

I whimper, my pussy pulsing, and open my mouth to show him. Cum drips down my chin and lips, and he scoops some of it out with his finger. "Swallow now."

"Stick out your tongue," he says to Silas.

Behind me, Silas licks Tate's fingers clean.

"Silas…" I whimper. "Silas, I'm gonna come."

I hear the two of them kissing before Tate slips his hand between my legs, rubbing my clit while Silas pumps into me.

"Oh, fuck!" I scream, exploding on contact. My clit throbs and my pussy clenches around Silas's dick while I come hard, attempting to dig my nails into the wood floors.

Silas groans, tightening his hold on my hips until his fingertips dig into my skin. I gasp, falling onto my elbows.

"Look at you," Tate says, running his fingertips down my spine. "Still coming, aren't you? You know what? I'm getting hard again. And you know how he likes to see you full of cum."

"Fuck…" Silas rasps.

"What?" Tate asks. "You like the idea of me fucking your cum further inside of her when you're done?"

Silas groans loudly, losing his pace and fucking me in short, slow bursts while he comes. He finally stills, sucking a breath through his teeth as he pulls out.

"Lie down on your back," he says. "Keep your knees together."

I lie back and watch Silas take Tate's dick in his fist, pumping him until he's fully erect again.

"Put it in your mouth," Tate says. He sits on the coffee table and spreads his legs, holding the base of his dick. "Suck on me."

Kneeling in front of him, Silas lowers his mouth onto Tate's cock. I watch his head fall back, his jaw slack and eyes half-closed in ecstasy as Silas sucks him.

"Oh, fuck yes," Tate says. When he starts fucking into Silas's mouth, he pulls away.

"Nuh uh," Silas says, wiping his mouth with his wrist. "You fuck my cum into her like you promised. I want to see it."

Tate kneels on the floor in front of me. "Open your legs now, baby."

Beside him, Silas strokes his wet dick in his hand, hardening as he watches with anticipation.

I spread my legs, and Tate holds me by the back of my thighs while he thrusts his dick inside me. My toes curl, goose bumps run down my spine as he slides his cock in and out of me. I close my eyes and moan, my jaw going slack.

"Jesus, that's wet," he says. "Hope you have the mop ready—she's going to be dripping everywhere she goes once we're done with her."

"Not if she can't walk," Silas says before I feel his cock against my lips. "Open wide, baby."

It's going to be a long night. My favorite kind.

And after, when we finally lie down, we all sleep in my room, because the sun is still up, and I don't have a window. I'm tired and sore, but somehow, after everything, whole again.

I guess I like the ones where the bad guys get away, too.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I feel it's important to acknowledge that this book was written at a time when I was low, and that Runaways exists because of those who reminded me that even when everything else feels heavy and bleak, storytelling is still important.

The truth is sometimes I need writing like I need air, and I really, really needed to breathe when I wrote this story. So, thank you.

Thank you to Nancy, my PA, for everything you do. I am so lucky to have you.

Thank you to my beta team for giving your time and your feedback to help make this story what it is. And to my Angsty Babes, especially the OGs, for sticking with me through it all.

Thank you to Melissa Smith Editing for your precision and Suzi Antoinette Designs for my beautiful cover.

And to all of my readers—for every review and book recommendation—as always, thank you. I'm still here writing because you're still here reading.

About the Author

Known as the (mostly benevolent) Queen of Angst, Elle Mitchell writes new adult contemporary romance ranging from shades of grey to morally pitch black with a hint of taboo. A mix of plot and spice, her books follow flawed, relatable characters as they rage against the machine or struggle against the darker parts of humanity and themselves. They’re messy—like real life—and emotional.

She can’t promise that all her books will depict what a healthy relationship should look like at every turn. She rejects purity themes. The best she can do is promise an eventual HEA when it’s all said and done.

When she isn’t reading or writing, it’s unlikely you’ll find her anywhere. She’s probably at home with her family, minding her own business.

Find her on IG and TT: @ellemitchellbooks

Also by Elle

Pretty Poisoned (Gods of Tomorrow #1)

The Road to Ruined (Gods of Tomorrow #2)

Carved in Scars

The Pieces We Leave Behind (Lost Hollow #1)

The Pieces We Try to Forget (Lost Hollow #2)

A Little Unstable

Broken People (Broken #1)

Broken Apart (Broken #1.5)

Broken Reverie (Broken #2)