MAKE ME

ALINA MAY

Copyright © 2025 by Alina May

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 alinamaybooks@gmail.com.

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. This story is not meant to be used as a guide to sexual expression.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-964979-06-9

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-964979-07-6

Book Cover Alexandra St. Pierre

Cover Model Photography: Daniel James, PaperbackModel

Formatting by Occult Goddess

Illustrations by Lulybot

Editing by Deliciously Dark Editing

This content only suitable for 18+

For those who never got justice: I see you

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I went to therapy so I could write this story. Please check the content before reading! Not only is it full of fucked-up relationships, but the themes are also extremely dark. It touches on religious trauma, homophobia, scenes where the characters do not consent, childhood abuse, and more. A full list of warnings can be found on my website. They are not listed here so I don’t get removed from distributing on Amazon.

This book is also part of a shared world with Alexandra St. Pierre. Its sister book is The Mercenary and the Mortician and certain characters will cross over. I fucking love Alex’s book. It’s full of humor, angst, sex appeal, and funny hoodies. However, you do not need to read either book to understand the other as they are interconnected standalones.

This story and its characters are very close to my heart. While it has been changed for fictional purposes and does not reflect any person, living or dead, it does reflect the way the criminal justice system in the United States handles cases, particularly those surrounding child victims.

If you’ve ever been victimized and the justice system has failed you, just know that I see you. I see you, I believe you, and I stand with you.

So here’s to a world where the heroes don’t look much different than the villains. How else are you gonna beat them unless you play their game?

-Alina

PLAYLIST

Heaven Was Full (I’m Headed Straight to Hell) - TX2

Blood Runs Cold - Rain City Drive

Control Freak - New Medicine

In Over My Head - grandson

Talk to a Friend - Rain City Drive

The Emptiness Machine - Linkin Park

Carnivore - STARSET

Somebody Told Me - Motionless In White

Sailor Song - Gigi Perez

Something in the Orange - Zach Bryan

Collapse - Fire From The Gods

Hole In Your Head - Ekoh

WWIII - grandson

Sinner - Of Virtue

Dance With The Devil - Breaking Benjamin

Holding Me Down - Picturesque

Hush Now - VIOLA

Zzz - Diggy Graves

KEEP EM SCREAMING - Pyrrhic

Fight Fire With Gasoline - Self Deception

Voodoo - VOILA

HELLBOUND - Autumn Kings

Raging on a Sunday - Bohnes

Despicable - grandson

break me! - Maggie Lindemann, Siiickbrain

ASHES - Witchz

Sleepyhead - Jutes

If I Killed Someone For You - Alec Benjamin

We Did It!!! - grandson

The Therapist - Foreign Air

I Hate Everything About You - Three Days Grace

DARK - WesGhost

Below the Surface - Griffinilla

I Should Have Stayed at Home - Ryan Mack

You’ve Created a Monster - Bohnes

I’m Only a Fool for You - Dybbukk Covers, Dybbukk, Domingo Morales

Tchaikovsky: The Nutcracker - Dance of the Mirlitons (Reed Pipes) - Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Mariinsky Orchestra, Valery Gergiev

Swimming Pool - Diggy Graves

Spoiled Dogs, Sleeping Belly Up - Warlord Colossus

I’m The Sinner - Jared Benjamin

Fuck Away the Pain - Divide The Day

how could u love somebody like me? - Artemas

Obsessed - Jutes

Apologize - grandson

DON’T SAVE ME - TWENTY THREE

Y.S.K.W. - Catch Your Breath

roses red - Jeris Johnson

Either Way - Tawnted

Devil Himself - LaLion

Off The Edge (with LUNA AURA) - VIOLA, LUNA AURA

Falling Apart - Papa Roach

Monsters (feat. blackbear) - All Time Low, blackbear

PRAY 4 ME - LaLion

Habits (Stay High) Rain Paris

Red Vineyard - Diggy Graves

I miss you, I’m sorry - Gracie Abrams

WAR - Phix, Call Me Karizma

Detonate - G2, Jeris Johnson, YONAKA

Boy In The Bubble - Alec Benjamin

Sacrifice - Nevertel

Swimming Pool - Diggy Graves

Grave Bell - Diggy Graves

Psycho - Puddle Of Mudd

Make Believe - Memphis May Fire

POISON - Arankai

CONCRETE JUNGLE - Bad Omens

MAKE ME CUM - Witchz, a calmer place., Erika Sirola

I Might Run From U - Tawnted

POSSESSED - Witchz

Inside My Head - Until I Wake

NOTHING AT ALL - LaLion

Real As Ever - Jack Harris

NJ Legion Iced Tea - A Day To Remember

Before You Go - Lewis Capaldi

ONE

Heaven Was Full (I’m Headed Straight to Hell) - TX2

Killing a person is remarkably easy. It feels wrong how easy it is. All those memories, favorite meals, bad singing, family vacations—gone in an instant.

Well. I try to make it longer than an instant. It’s more fun that way.

I slam my brass knuckles back down into the face of the man in front of me. He’s on his knees in the dirt, trying to get away, but there’s nowhere to run. It’s midnight in the middle of a nature preserve.

I hit him again and again, following the man as he crumples to the ground. Every time I hit him, it sounds like punching a wet bag of rice. I hit him everywhere except the eyes. I know the rules.

I don’t bother wearing gloves. The instant the brass knuckles cut through the rubber, I get grossed out by the blood squishing between my skin and the glove.

Excitement buzzes right under my skin. I feel it, tingling up my arms and into my palms. The chill from the spring air hovers on top of my skin, unable to get to me.

Nothing can get to me. Not right now. I’m in control.

I slam my boot into the man’s torso. He’s twitching. I must have knocked him out. Whoopsie.

Not enough. It’s not enough.

I heave for breath, pacing in front of his prone form, waiting for him to wake up. My knuckles are warm and sticky. Like I dipped them in pancake syrup right off the warmer.

Fucking gross. I did not need that image. I hate sticky things.

I shake my hands to get rid of the buzzing right as the man groans.

“Oh, hello, sunshine!” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. In the dim light from the moon, I see the fucker twitch. He’s old. Sixty-four, to be exact. With long, white hair that goes down to his shoulders and crazy eyes. Eyes that are still intact. Can’t say that for the rest of his face.

I lean down, sucking in a breath, smelling the spring dirt, the coppery blood, and…pancake syrup? I shake my head. Fuck. Can’t get that out of my head now. I have a way of ruining things for myself. Call it a special talent.

I roll him over. The man is wheezing for breath. It sounds wet.

I lean into him, gripping his hair and yanking him to me. Once he’s close, I whisper a message into his ear, then drop him to the ground.

True fear enters the man’s eyes. Something about the pleading look snapping into the realization that I am his god makes a tingle run down my chest and straight to my dick. I grin.

“It’s time, Summerman.” I grab the insert from the bulletproof vest I brought with me and toss it on the ground by his head. I kept it from when I was a cop. And by kept, I mean I stole it when I quit.

Hey. We can’t all make our parents proud.

I grip Summerman’s head and yank it over the body armor. Then, I grab the pistol from my waistband and jab it into his mouth. The power makes me feel heady. I smile down at the man. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Then, I pull the trigger.

It’s messy but not as bad as you’d expect. Hollow Point bullets are designed to expand and break apart as soon as they hit the body, causing as much internal damage as possible. But, being that this is a contact shot and my pistol is a 40 cal, the bullet does go out the back of his head. Hence, the bulletproof insert. I don’t want to go digging for the bullet, especially not in the woods. Getting dirt under my nails bothers me. Also, if I were to lose that bullet or the casing, things could get a little dicey. I don’t need the cops running forensics on them, getting my gun, and finding a match.

I stare down at Summerman’s body. His mouth is open, blood seeping out of it, and his right eye is a bloody mess.

“I knew it!” I whirl. “Pirate eye! Mark me down for a win.” I gesture at my bag. “Gonna need an eye patch, ey matey?”

The woods are silent. Victory runs through me. It’s always the best right after I kill them.

I suck in a breath. The woods remain quiet and dark.

I want to yell. Get someone to celebrate with me. Or fight me. I want to bring Summerman back to life so I can do it again. And again and again and again.

I dart to my bag, realizing that my stuffed highland cow is on top of the bottle of Hydrofluoric acid, and my hands are covered in blood. I grab my cow with my elbows, carefully putting him to the side, then snatch up the bottle.

I’d been watching Summerman for days, waiting for a chance to get him alone. If you want to get away with killing someone, doing it alone is the key. Well, a few other things, too, but for the love of god, don’t do it in front of anyone. So when Summerman came out to the woods alone at night? It was my time. There wasn’t another car in the lot, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t meeting someone. I mean, this area used to be known for gay hookups. Old church-goers would meet here after service and jack each other off. The cops got enough complaints that the sheriff’s department put up trail cams and caught them doing it. I used to work two counties over—don’t murder where you eat, or however the saying goes—but the deputies still enjoyed showing me the videos of men jacking each other off. And I couldn’t look away. I was horrified that they would do that. I mean, why? The sheriff’s department even put music over the video so their hands were moving on beat.

Fucking gay.

But that happened years ago on the other side of the park. Right now, I won’t look a gift murder in the mouth.

I dart back over to Summerman’s body, yank the vest out from under him, and grab the bullet. It went right through him and into the vest. I dig it out, and it takes me a second to grab it because it’s so slippery with brain matter.

The casing takes a hot second to find. I don’t have my phone with me, so it’s hard to fucking see. I spend a fucking annoying length of time running my hands over the dirt, trying to see in the dark. The cold starts to seep in, making it past the numb buzzing.

It always works this way. The heat goes away faster than before. I swear it’s faster every time.

As a rush of wind moves over me, the hair on my arms sticks up. I freeze, eyes locked on the dirt.

Suddenly, I realize that the forest is oddly silent. Is it too silent? I stop breathing, trying to listen. There’s the rustle of branches as the wind moves through them. Nothing else.

I shake my head. I’m being dumb. It was this silent before. It’s a fucking forest in the dead of night. Of course it’s gonna be quiet. Finally, I brush up against the casing and snatch it up. I drop it and the bullet in my pocket. I’ll destroy them elsewhere. Metal takes longer to dissolve than flesh.

It takes a few trips back to the car to get all the acid I need. I also put on gloves and lug a water trough out. It sucked getting into the backseat of my Honda Civic, but not as bad as a bloody body. Have you ever tried to stuff a full-grown body into the backseat?

As a former cop, I’d advise you not to answer that question.

Dissolving a body in acid is wildly inconvenient. But it’s one of the only solutions I have available at the moment. Pigs were another option, but I’m not friends with any pig farmers.

Clearly, I need better friends.

I yank my respirator on. I can’t get Summerman’s whole body in the tub at first, so I start with his head. While his body is soaking, I strip—which is quite annoying with the respirator—and toss my clothes and shoes in with him. His blood is all over them, so I change into my spare set of clean, evidence-free sweats and a hoodie.

The heat is gone. The vibration running under my skin is almost out of reach, and I feel empty.

I toss a stick at the tub. It bubbles but does nothing to bring the high back. I need a drink. I need a drink and a fucking shower.

Fuck. When did it get so cold? The wind changes, and I’m not sure if it’s the temperature or me, but a shiver runs over me again.

It takes longer than is convenient for Summerman’s body to dissolve. It’s not fully done by the time the trough gives way. Which is fine. With gloves on, I bury the rest of him. With the damage done to his flesh and bones, it’ll be hard to determine a cause of death. Other than death by human bath bomb.

It takes even longer to bury the tub in a separate location. I can’t make things easy, as my ex would always say. By the time I walk back to the car, I swear I feel eyes on me.

I whirl, but there’s no one there. Fuck. I’m being paranoid.

I fling my backpack into the car and slam the door. I barely hear it. The numbness is creeping in, and along with it, cold.

But I can still feel one thing. Dirt. I have dirt under my nails. Under my fucking nails. I fucking hate that shit.

TWO

Blood Runs Cold - Rain City Drive

By the time I make it back to my apartment complex, the sky is turning gray, casting a dim light over my town. It settles over the nursing home, soybean field, and cluster of lackluster businesses I live next to.

Ah yes, fucking Ohio. The seedy gas station of the United States. Ugly but annoyingly necessary for industry and human-grade corn. And meth, if you count that as a business—which it is. How in the fuck did I get stuck here anyway?

I park outside, quietly shut my doors, and walk into my building. My place is on the second floor—a fact I hate to no end. It means I have to leave through our shared hallway to go anywhere, which means people who have the potential to see me leave and come back. Which means my alibi that I’m “sick at home” gets shot in the foot.

Which, by the way, is a stupid fucking metaphor. Why would you just shoot someone in the foot? To just leave them alive to tell on you? Unless you enjoy the idea of prison? Smooth gray walls, no privacy, maybe an inmate or a guard to shove something up the ass? No, thank you.

Anyway, the lack of control makes my skin itch. I need a shower. Badly. I drop my backpack on the dining room table and hang a quick left to the bedroom, passing a few pictures on the walls. Pictures of my family that I hung before going to the police academy and I lost all of my faith in the world.

I was embarrassingly naive, and that thought makes anger run through the numbness that has crept in.

Moving to the kitchen, I down three shots of tequila before ripping my clothes off and jumping into the shower. I crank it as hot as it can go. I want the water to burn my skin off.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t burn my skin off. Instead, I just get more numb. Which probably means I’ll be able to sleep without the persistent nightmares. But all I can focus on is the loss of rage. I’m fucking tired. Exhausted. Instead of the alcohol giving me a buzz, it’s putting me to sleep. And now I just want the bed to swallow me whole. I want to sleep for weeks.

I feel like that thought should make me restless. I can’t sleep for weeks. I have another body to my name. I absolutely cannot get sloppy.

I flop down in bed, naked and hot and restless. Something isn’t right. Oh fuck, I forgot Buffalo. I shoot up, dizzy a little at my sudden movement, and dart to the dining room. Snatching the stuffed cow out of my backpack, I move back to the room. Buffalo is a highland cow with soft tan fur and curved horns. He has kind, wide-set eyes, although he’s anything but kind. I notice a glob of blood in his mohawk.

“Fuck!” A stab of emotion pushes through the numbness, and I rush to the sink to wash him out. “I’m sorry. I tried to keep you farther back this time!”

Silence.

“Fucking hell.” I scrub until Buffalo’s hair is rough in my fingers. There’s nothing but the sound of running water and my fingers gritting over his hair.

I failed. I got blood in Buffalo’s hair, and now he’s mad at me.

I let out a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s more high and manic. Fuck, maybe that tequila did go straight to my head.

I bring Buffalo back to the room with me, close my eyes, and wait for the noise to start. Wait for the voices to tell me what a failure I am. To harp on all the ways I left clues at the scene. To tell me to do more, more, more.

But there’s nothing. I got blood on Buffalo, and now he won’t talk to me. There’s nothing but the hum of distant noise in my mind because, of course. I wanted to get drunk, but the buzz died inside me like a dick at the sight of a meat grinder. Although it’s been so long since my dick has gotten action, who knows? Maybe a little pain would turn me on. Physical pain, not emotional. My ex liked to try the emotional pain, and it didn’t work.

Pro tip? Never fall for someone you work with. Especially if she’s a smoking hot cop who likes her ex’s dick more than yours. Mind you, there’s nothing wrong with my dick. At least, as far as I can tell. No diseases, no lumps, and it’s a decent size. My ex used to compare it to her ex’s dick, though. Of course, that motherfucker had a giant cock. Because, of course, he did.

My phone dings, and I jerk up. The phone is right where I left it—on my nightstand. Huge fucking pro tip: don’t ever take your phone with you on jobs. It’s easily tracked, and by easily, I mean a pleb straight out of the police academy could write a search warrant for it, and wham bam, thank you, ma’am, you’re getting railed in prison for the rest of your life. Wham bam, thank you, sir.

The text is from my sister, Ember. She’s a few years younger than me and blind. She’s also my current alibi.

Ember: Hey, bro. Hope you’re feeling better. Let me know if you need me to Doordash you some meds.

The words blur together at the end, and I groan. I’m drunk without the buzz, and Ember is being too nice. She thinks I was home sick all night ‘cause that’s what I texted her so I’d have a solid story. I left my phone on the nightstand so the GPS would only plot here. But now she’s worried.

Way to make me feel bad about using you to get out of a murder. Because, of course, she would.

I’m not a good brother. Never have been. Sure, I took most of the beatings at home, but I was also a fuck-up. Ember was always great. The family favorite. Charming, social, and smart. Never talked back. Fucking annoyingly good at everything. Except seeing. That was the only thing I was better at. And look at me now (not talking to you, Ember. I know you can’t “look”). Now, I’m unemployed, with only enough savings for the next four months and then not a plan in the world. Probably dead. Or in prison.

I scrub my eyes. There’s no way I’m falling asleep now. I grab my phone and scroll through the news. I wonder if fuckface has been reported missing yet. I doubt it. He wasn’t loved. Alienated his whole family and then ran from his problems while living in his car.

I scroll across a news article about a murder in Cleveland. I sit up straighter. “Man Found Dead in Silent Hollow, Brutally Murdered.”

Did they already find me? I blink away the blur, reading the article. Nothing is familiar, and confusion runs through me. Then, I follow the article to a few more, all of which are linked to more dead men. Dead men whose cause of death isn’t listed, but Reddit tells me there was damage to the eye. Like someone stabbed their eyes out with something.

But I didn’t do any of those kills.

My heart beats faster. The eyes are my thing. Mine. Is someone copying me? Terrible copy because get it right. I don’t stab the eye; I blow it out from the inside. The eyes are the softest part of the head, so with the increased pressure from a bullet, they sometimes blow out. But to an untrained person, it could look the same as stabbing their eyes out.

Suddenly, my hands are clammy. Is someone sending me a message? Did they see me?

My phone buzzes again, and I look down. It’s an unknown number.

Unknown: You took my mark, Ronan Carter.

THREE

Control Freak - New Medicine

I stand in front of the sink at the tattoo parlor, washing my hands. I try to focus on the water, the coolness of it washing away the sweat and the rubber smell from the gloves. But instead, all I can think about is that man.

Ronan. The man who, after a brutal murder, walked out of the woods like a ghost straight from my past. An older, taller, more muscled version of my past, with ash brown hair and ripped abs, but still a ghost.

My hands start sweating, and my heart rate picks up. I feel like I’m trying to catch my breath underwater.

Fuck. I rub my hands harder.

“Logan!” Micah’s voice floats around me.

I turn to see him leaning against the wall. Micah is my coworker and occasional fuck buddy when I’m bored and need to shove my dick down someone’s throat. Very, very bored.

“I said…” Micah narrows his eyes. “That dude was totally staring at your dick the whole time.”

I blink at him. Was I seeing things last night? Am I dreaming?

I stare at Micah. He looks normal right now. Shorter than me, covered in tattoos, with light blond hair. I dry my hands and slide my rings back on.

“Logan.” Micah frowns. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” I blink. Fucking hell, focus. This is a bad episode. I rub my eyes. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Well, duh.” Micah tries to stuff down the jealousy, but I see it in the way his mouth narrows. “Surprised you didn’t care. Hot jocks are usually your thing.”

No, straight boys are usually my thing. Straight boys who can’t stand the way I look at them and who want nothing to do with me. Unfortunately for me. And unfortunately for Micah, who wants everything to do with me.

I finish washing up and dry my hands on the towel. The clamminess is still there, clinging to me like an extra skin. I haven’t slept. Not since him. Not that I was sleeping before that. This episode has been bad.

“You seem stressed. Need me to take a load off?” Micah pushes off the wall and approaches me. He’s always wanting something. Always wanting me. Doesn’t he know there’s nothing left of me to give? Never has been, never will be.

“No.” My tone is harsh.

“C’mon.” Micah bats his eyes. “You can be rough with me. Take what you need.”

I look down at him. His pupils are huge, and he looks up at me like he’ll do anything for me. Like he worships the ground I walk on. But he can’t handle what I count as a good fuck. Not that I’ve ever fully fucked anyone. But I like the transactional nature of forcing men to their knees. I like the tears that fill their eyes when they realize they can’t breathe. I like the desperation of their nails in my thighs, ripping bloody paths that remind me I’m alive, although barely.

I like things that are the farthest from sweet. Last time, Micah asked what we were after I nearly choked him to death. And that’s what makes me wrong for him. Because we’re nothing. I will never be anything for anyone again.

“No,” I say again, pushing past him to grab my stuff. The shop is still open, but I finished my last appointment today. I shouldn’t have even come. I don’t remember what I tattooed. All I remember is the feeling of the phone in my pocket. The burner phone I never use. The phone I texted him on.

I’m still not sure the man is real. I mean, I watched him fucking shoot my mark, dissolve him in acid, and drive his shitty-ass car back to some apartment a few towns away. I watched him. Then I researched him. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding shit online that’s a little outside of my pay grade. Whoever this ghost was, he didn’t use plates registered to his car's make and model, which dug me into some deeper research, ultimately finding Ronan Carter, age 29, a former police officer of six years.

Yeah. No way an ex-cop was out there blowing holes in people’s heads. I fucking hate cops, but that would just be stupid. Cops don’t do that. They get on their high horses and chase men like me. Chase, but don’t catch. I’m too good at what I do.

Which just verifies that I’m seeing things.

I need a distraction. I need something. Anything. I throw myself into my 67 Mustang and take off down the road. The familiar scent of old cars and leather seats both calms me and makes the phone in my pocket feel ten times heavier. Will it go off?

I don’t want it to, I tell myself. Sure, if there’s no text, then maybe I just made it up. I made up this person who met my mark before I could, killed him violently, hid what remained of his body, and then went home like nothing happened. Right. Made it up like I’m dying for a grippy sock vacation. Like I want to see the inside of a mental hospital and never end up leaving.

I’m not sure where I’m going till I end up in the parking lot. Leaves aren’t quite on the trees yet, and the lot to the city pool is abandoned. The pool isn’t open yet. I swallow, staring up at the entry to the park. How the fuck I ended up here, I’m not sure. I haven’t been here in fourteen years. Not since…everything.

This is the sign. The sign that I’ve lost it and I need to go home so I can have a mental breakdown in peace.

But I don’t. I pull my keys out, then walk through the lot, up the three flights of stairs, and to the glass doors. They’re locked, of course, and I no longer have a key, but everything looks the same. Through the doors, I can see the empty pools beyond. It looks like summer. Like my childhood.

Like something I’ll never get back. And that makes me angry.

Before I knew it, I’d walked along the fence line so I could see better. There’s a strange mix of rage and nostalgia running through me. I remember the sounds of the pop music over the speakers. The kids’ screams. The towels and sunscreen.

I hover there, unsure if I need to see him again or if that’ll make it worse. I know how to see him. His picture is on the inside of my baseball hat, the one that I’m wearing backward. The one that I always wear. And that I always avoid looking in.

Seeing that picture triggers me. It triggered this most recent kill. Well, the one I was supposed to kill. The one that I didn’t kill.

Fuck! The rage hits my system again, and now I’m shaking. The same rage that made me text Ronan’s number in the first place. How dare he? How fucking dare he?

I yank the phone out of my pocket and stare at it. There, on the screen, is a text from Ronan, and it reads:

Ronan: Who the fuck is this?

FOUR

In Over My Head - grandson

The wind whistles in my driver’s side door, rushing around the car as I floor it through the country roads. I only have one key, which means I’ve picked the lock enough times that it doesn’t fully seal now. The wind is loud, its white noise filling the car, filling my head and rattling it like a magic eight ball.

Someone saw me. Someone saw me.

‘You’re getting sloppy.’

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap.

It’s early morning now, but no one is out on these roads. They’re just used by the farmers and locals to get between towns. I picked them for that very reason.

‘The cops are probably there already. Did you leave any underwear out?’ The voice is dry.

“I said,” I grab Buffalo and toss him in the backseat, “shut up!” I hear him bounce off the seat, then the voice says, ‘Jesus!’

Immediately, I feel a flash of regret. I shouldn’t have thrown him. I’m still buzzing a little.

In my sober moments—or my hungover ones—I know a stuffed cow isn’t talking to me. It’s just not a thing. We live in the real world, and I’m no Disney princess. But ever since I quit my job two months ago, this voice hasn’t left my head, saying all kinds of shit. It scared me at first. The voice is real. It sounds like a man talking right next to me. He sounds like me. He’s probably my subconscious (I’d rather call it that than a psychotic break or some shit), but in my drunk moments, I assign the voice to Buffalo.

‘You drive like shit,’ Buffalo gripes. ‘Slow down, someone will call you in.’

“Who?” I start to crank the window down, forcing me to slow down a little as I heave to get the window open. “No one will know.” But I’m worried someone will. I chuck the last shoe out the window, getting slammed in the face with cold spring air. I destroyed my clothes while on scene with Summerman, but the ones I changed into could still have trace evidence. I don’t have any acid left, so I’ve thrown them out on these random roads to get lost, worn down by the elements, and rot into the grass.

I can’t get my heart to slow down. How in the actual fuck did someone see me? No way someone saw me. We were in the middle of the woods. We weren’t followed. So this fucker is just trying to scare me.

So who is he? Is it a coincidence that someone is out there copying me, and now this?

‘Saw you,’ Buffalo chimes in from the backseat.

I’m careful! I’m so fucking careful, for fuck’s sake. No way this fucker knows who I am. No way this mystery person was talking about Summerman. If he was, he’d call the cops.

My leg shakes, and anger rolls through me. Still, I’m cleaning up every last bit of evidence in case the cops do show up.

I reach the end of the road, forced to pick between a left and a right. But I don’t know if I’m leaving or if I’m going back. I swing the car to the right.

‘Running is for cowards.’ Buffalo’s voice is slightly muffled in the wind.

I blast the music, cranking it up so I can’t hear him, although I’m sure he’ll still find a way to annoy me. Sweet Home Alabama plays in the background. I’m not running. I’m covering my ass in the only place without cameras. Whipping the car to the side, I pull out the floor mat under me and throw it out, too. Just in case my shoes had blood on them.

I left my phone at home, but the message is burned into my mind.

You took my mark, Ronan Carter.

Who is this fuck? Is this a copycat?

No way. No fucking way. That’s just…crazy.

I get back in the car, slamming the door and heading down the road again. Fine. I mutter, “He wants to call the cops? Go ahead. Call them. I’m good. I have nothing on me.”

‘Nothing except drunk driving your murder car.’

Fucking Buffalo. I’ll fucking toss him out the window too. Only I won’t. And he knows it.

When I get back to my place, I don’t see any cops outside. The lot is silent, with most of my neighbors gone to work. I can’t help but look around in the parking lots and businesses surrounding me. No cops. No mystery texter.

I grab Buffalo, get out of the car, and stalk up to my door. Then I slide the key in and go inside. It’s silent, but I still stomp through my house, checking everything. The more I find everything normal, the more upset I get. This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit. This guy wants to start something with me? Good. Let’s play.

I pick up my phone, type out a text, and then hesitate.

I need to be strategic about this. If this is someone who knew about Summerman, then I need to play things very carefully. If it’s someone who sympathized with him, they would have called the cops already. Or they will soon. And if they do, I’ll be fine.

Regardless, I start sweating.

Nah, I’m good. I’ve taken care of the DNA. They can write a search warrant for my place and my phone. There were no cameras in the woods. It’ll be their word against mine. That, plus my alibi and the lack of evidence, puts me in a solid spot. So long as any number of other things don’t happen.

Like some stranger doesn’t swear he watched me kill him.

Fuck.

‘Pirate eyes?’

I glance up at Buffalo, who’s on the kitchen counter. I realize that he’s talking about playing our game with the mystery person. I glare at him. “Can’t exactly kill someone if I don’t know who they are, Buff.”

‘So find out.’

“Why are you always so violent?”

But the thought is already taking hold. I can’t let someone run around who knows about me. Or even hints that they know about me. They’ll stop me.

And I have to keep doing what I’m doing. The world needs me. As fucked up as I am, the world needs me.

I’m the clean-up crew. I sweep the trash away so no one has to see it. So it can’t poison anyone else. And I can’t do that if someone else is gunning for my spot.

Which means it’s time for mystery texter to go.

FIVE

Talk to a Friend - Rain City Drive

SIX MONHS AGO

“Is that a buffalo?” The girl in my interview room shifts on her seat and points at one of the stuffed animals on the table.

“That’s a highland cow.” I reach across the table to bring it closer for her. Caroline is five, which is not my favorite age for forensic interviews because it’s so distractible, but she’s sweet.

“Buffalo!” She grabs the toy and squeezes it to her. “I have one at home. His name is Ben.”

“You have a Buffalo?” I smile. Caroline has blue eyes and wild, curly hair that is barely pulled back into a ponytail.

Caroline frowns at me. “No, Tim is a dog.”

“Oh.” I chuckle, and for a second, I just want to freeze time here. Caroline is in here for allegations that her grandfather, Ken Summerman, was touching her and her six-year-old sister, Morgan. Her sister is being interviewed by one of my coworkers in another room. I don’t want to make either of them relive the horrors they’ve been through. But I have to.

Every forensic interview is the same. I say the same things to the kids—mostly open-ended questions about their family and their lives. Then I ask if they know why they’re talking to me. Then we talk about good touch and bad touch. Then it’s over. Every interview is the same but heartbreakingly different.

While she colors, Caroline talks about how Morgan spends time with their grandfather. About how they’re scared of him and how they run from him and pile toys against the door so he can’t come in. Then she looks me dead in the eyes and says, “He’s a bad man. You’re a cop, right?”

She waits. I look at her and nod.

“So you can get him. Cops get the bad guys.” She turns back to the table and picks up a crayon.

My chest feels tight. I know how often we get the bad guys, and it’s not often.

Caroline rambles on about her toys at home and how she had to get a new bike. Her attention span is only about twenty minutes, which is good for her age. She makes no obvious disclosure.

Morgan takes a little longer, but soon, they’re both back with their mother. When we’re done, I convene with my boss, who interviewed Morgan. He’s an older man with a beer belly and a goatee that’s ugly as hell.

My boss sighs. “Digital penetration. Months ago. You?”

I clench my jaw. “Just that she’s scared of him. She said he was a bad man and asked me to get him.”

My boss shakes his head. He knows as well as I do that there’s no physical evidence we can get from months ago, and that without a witness, things are hard to prosecute. And that six is too young to testify in court. Even if she was old enough, it would be Ken’s word against hers.

I’ve worked in the juvenile sex crimes division for a year. I know how rare confessions are. It makes my stomach turn. I talk to kids all the time, and it’s always the same: it’s the abuser’s word against theirs.

I drank heavily that night. When I come back the next day, I sit in my roller chair and stare at the phone. No one knows where Summerman is, but I have his phone number. I should call. I know I should. But I know how it’s going to go. Denial, denial, denial. Which will bury their case.

So I avoid it. I dust my desk. There isn’t much on it except the decorative fountain I bought to try and bring some life into the space. Ha. As if. This is where life goes to die.

I eat the chicken noodle soup that I packed for lunch. Then, I clean the interview room. The stuffed cow Caroline played with is still lying on its side on the table, with a little pen on its nose. I bring it to the bathroom by my office and clean it off, then take it with me to dry. In my office, I fuck around even more. I even knock out a report that I’ve been putting off.

Suddenly, I remember a piece of advice an old cop gave me: sometimes you have to get on their level.

I swallow. I already know Ken will deny it. Why not try it out?

Finally, right before noon, I make the call. To my surprise, Ken picks up. I don’t start heavy on him. I’ve learned that never works. So I talk to him like I’m his friend. And in all my years in law enforcement, I’ve learned that some people are more lonely than you’d think. They’ll talk to you for hours if only to get things off their chest. Ken is one of those people. He talks about how he’s been living out of his car. I gently press him to tell me about his granddaughters.

“Yeah.” Ken’s voice is scratchy with age. “They like to dance in the toy room with me.”

I hum, “That’s cute.”

“Yeah,” he trails off like there’s something else he isn’t saying.

“Tell me more about the dancing.” I stare at the stuffed animal lying on my desk.

“Well, Caroline is…Morgan is different. She loves to dance. She puts on all these skirts…”

Summerman trails off.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “So Morgan is different. What about the skirts?”

“Yeah. Like she…likes to dance. Like, to get my attention.”

I nod again. “You know, some people mature faster than others, and there’s nothing right, wrong, or indifferent about it; it’s just a fact. It sounds like Morgan has maybe matured faster than others.” I swallow. The words feel bitter coming out of my mouth.

Summerman makes a small sound of denial, but it’s half-hearted, which piques my attention.

So I press further. “Everyone has a speed at which they mature, and maybe Morgan is faster than other kids her age. Maybe she wants to explore herself and the way she’s feeling. And she’s testing it out with the people she loves and trusts.”

I stare at the stuffed animal’s caramel-colored hair.

Summerman makes a sound like he agrees.

I press on. We talk for a while about the girls and how they spend their time with him. How they’ve walked in on him going to the bathroom and how he’s told them not to, but the door doesn’t lock. Every time Ken tries to explain away the behavior, I justify it. I tell him he told the kids not to come in, and maybe Morgan was just trying to explore. He agrees that she was just trying to explore.

“Tell me more about Morgan trying to explore, Ken.” I shift in my seat. I can feel the pit stains on my shirt.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t like to talk about it.”

I don’t let him back out. “Well, I don’t think this is something that you need to be ashamed of or that she needs to be ashamed of. She’s exploring her body, and there’s nothing wrong with that. And she’s doing it in a healthy way with the people she loves.”

“Yeah.” Summerman sighs, and the line is silent.

“Tell me more about how she explores.”

“Well, sometimes, she was a lot. I think…you know, sometimes I thought she was, maybe, coming onto me.”

I make a hum and check the digital recorder I have plugged into the phone line. It’s still going. “Sure, I can see it. Tell me about what made you feel that way.”

“She’d, I don’t know, sit on top of me.”

“Mhmm.” I hear voices outside of my office.

“Yeah,” Summerman starts to trail off.

Nope, I won’t let him stop now. “What would she do when she’d sit on top of you?”

“I don’t know. It was like she…I’m not sure, but maybe grind into me a little.”

The voices stop at my office. “Ronan, lunch!”

I give my coworkers my back and keep talking to Summerman. “Okay, so she was exploring with you. Tell me more.”

“Well, it was hard for me. I didn't want to….I didn’t cross any lines.”

There’s a mix of guilt and relief in his voice. Like he’s been needing to talk about this for so long. I try to lessen the moral blow for him so that he keeps talking. “Okay, well again, you love her, she loves you, I don’t see the issue.” My body feels hot, I feel nauseous, and a bunch of saliva pools in my mouth. I hate playing this role. I hate every word that’s rolling off my tongue.

“Right. Well, after, I’d have to…I’d go to the bathroom to…you know…” he trails off.

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know, I don’t like to talk about it.”

Oh fuck no, we’re so close. “You know there’s no judgment here, Ken. This is just human bodies doing what human bodies were meant to do.”

“Well, my wife had left me, and so I was…Morgan was tempting me, so I’d…you know, relieve myself in the bathroom.”

I nod along. “Sure. Of course. You’d jack off in the bathroom. You have needs, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. So tell me more about crossing lines.”

“Well, you know…” he drags a breath out. “I didn’t want to…I never did it cause…there would be blood. You know, she’d sit on me…down there…but I never crossed that line.”

“All I hear is that you’re a loving grandfather who doesn’t want to hurt his granddaughter.” I glance at the stuffed cow again. It looks back at me with its little marble eyes, and in that minute, the stuffed animal looks…kind.

“Yeah, I do love her.”

“But I’m hearing that with all this temptation…you know Ken, we’re all human. You’re human. There’s only so much a person can take before they give in, you know?”

“I never did…that.”

The silence is full.

“So tell me about what you did do.” I lean back in my seat.

The line is silent, like he’s thinking about it. I fill the silence, “Remember, Ken. You’re human. She’s human. You guys are just doing what bodies are meant to do, and you weren’t trying to hurt her.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“So tell me about what you did.”

He sighs. “This is hard for me to talk about.”

I lean forward in my chair. “Tell me about what you did, Ken. Tell me about how you explored.”

So he does. He tells me about how he slipped up and put his fingers in her. About how it was a mistake, but he never put his dick in her. He said it happened multiple times a week since Christmas.

I can feel my body humming.

By the end of the conversation, Summerman acts like we’re friends. He gets my number so he can call me if he forgot anything, and we hang up.

I sit in the chair, sweating. My pits are cold, and my muscles hum with energy. I glance over at the cow that’s still sitting on my desk and mutter, “I’m gonna be sick.”

Later, the prosecutor agrees on thirteen counts of rape for a victim under 12. A single count would land Summerman in prison for the rest of his life. That high keeps me going for a bit. Finally, finally, I’m seeing justice. I may have had to do a shitty thing, but I’m seeing justice.

But, months later, I check my mailbox on my way back from the microwave. I balance my hot chicken noodle soup and grab the sheet of paper from the prosecutor’s office.

Summerman’s charges have all been pleaded down.

Meaning he no longer has a life sentence.

Meaning he has the possibility of parole to get out and do it again.

Meaning he won’t be labeled as what he is: a rapist.

Meaning that all Morgan will see is a system that doesn’t believe her and doesn’t care.

SIX

The Emptiness Machine - Linkin Park

“Can you all just stop killing each other for two fucking seconds?” I throw my phone down on my bed and scrub my hand down my face. Fucking hell, this is the second time this week I’ve gotten called into work on my time off.

Apparently, there’s another body. A hiker found it in the park. It was close to the county line but still ours.

“For the love of god, can you walk another two hundred feet and dump it there?” I throw on my glasses, khaki pants, a black shirt, and my holster.

We’ve had a string of murders in the last few months that have only gotten worse as time has gone on. It’s not unusual for people in our county to get stabby or to shoot some holes in each other. What is unusual is the sheer amount of bodies filled with holes. Specifically, the bodies with the eyes stabbed through with a tattoo machine. The lab keeps finding traces of tattoo ink in the victim’s brains, or what’s left of their brains, after a nonconsensual scramble.

I stalk down the stairs of my split-level home and slam the door, locking it. Of course, the media has gotten ahold of our “first serial killer” and is up our asses for answers. They’re so far up the chief’s asshole I’m surprised they can get back out. Of course, shit runs downhill, so the detectives are getting reamed for not finding him.

Him. I’m not so convinced it’s just one. There have also been men turning up missing from a few counties over. No bodies, just poof. Gone. The only thing they have in common is their gender. And they’re all adults.

I get in my car and grunt as my gun hits the seat belt, jamming into my ribs. Fucking hell. Stupid fucking gun.

I get to work, grab my things, plus some more evidence bags they asked me to get, and then head out to the crime scene deep in the park. The small parking lot is full of cruisers and detective vehicles, and I have to park on the street.

“Bout time you showed up, K-K-K-Kota.” My coworker meets me at the car.

I glare at him, rehearse what I’m going to say once, then get out, “Joke never gets old.” I’ve worked at the department for ten years, and they’ve had the same joke every time, making fun of my stutter.

I don’t stutter all the time. Mostly when I’m nervous or trying to say a word that starts with an L or S for some reason. Doctors aren’t sure why. Say there must be something scrambled on the left side of my brain where speech is formed.

It’s awesome.

Mark laughs and smacks my back. “Got you a ripe one.”

I roll my eyes, almost saying ‘let’s get this over with’ but readjusting to, “Okay.” I refuse to stutter right after that joke.

We hike out into the woods for a few minutes till we meet up with the rest of everyone.

I frown, pulling my gloves on. “Not a normal dump spot.” Usually, the bodies show up inside their own homes.

And then I see what makes this one different. This body is…gone. Most of the fleshy parts, anyway. The person is just a skeleton, with most of the head missing. It looks like it’s been….dissolved, almost like a dead coral reef that’s been crumbled to hell by the waves.

Well, this is…interesting.

“Yep.” Mark scratches the back of his neck and then takes the evidence bags I brought over to our boss. “He got another, or we got another.”

Yeah, no. This isn’t what our one suspect does to bodies. It’s nowhere close.

Fucking hell. We might have another killer.

I go to run my hand down my face, then remember I have gloves on. Jesus Christ, I’m never gonna get another day off, which boils my fucking blood.

But after about thirty minutes, the anger dulls, and I find myself actually paying attention. I’ve never seen someone killed like this. Or were they killed a different way, and this was just how they ended up?

Fuck, I may hate this job, but there’s a reason I’m in it—‘cause I’m fucking good at it. I may not excel at the talking part, but I recognize patterns in human behavior pretty fucking quickly.

And these shits just took away any last bit of free time I might have because, apparently, we can’t keep our fucking hands to ourselves.

Guess it’s my turn to teach them what not to do: kill someone on my watch.

SEVEN

Carnivore - STARSET

I should leave Ronan Carter alone. And I will. I just need to figure a few things out. Which is why I’m currently sitting in the nursing home lot next to his apartment complex. People come and go from this lot often, making a new car not unusual.

I lean back in my seat, grabbing another french fry. If there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s sit anywhere for a period of time without snacks or something to chew on. If I’m bored, I need something in my mouth. I don’t fucking know why. Micah says it’s an oral fixation. Says I was breastfed too long or some bullshit. Only, I wasn’t breastfed. My moms adopted me when I was a year old since both my bio parents were crackheads and definitely weren’t putting titties in my mouth.

Titties in my mouth? Even thinking about it now makes my stomach turn. No thank you. I’m a dick man through and through. Well, dick and abs. And pecs and the Adonis belt.

I know Ronan has an Adonis belt. I saw it when he changed after killing Summerman. His body was smooth and toned, and I could see his muscles moving as he changed. I feel my dick start to get hard.

Ronan looks just like him, only older. Immediately, a bolt of anger shoots through me. How dare he make me remember?

Logically, I know Ronan can’t be Greyson. Greyson died 14 years ago, but every time I look at Ronan, I’m thrown right back into the past with fresh pain. It’s always fresh. Why is it always fresh when it’s been so long?

Damn Ronan. Damn him for doing this to me.

I check the time on my phone. I sent an email to Ronan’s landlord today from the higher-ups saying we’d gotten multiple complaints from the neighbors that strange smells are coming from apartment 3A, that there’s loud music at 3AM, and that it frequently sounds like someone is “humping the walls.” I requested that they please speak to the resident ASAP to resolve said issues.

But here it is, 11 AM, and Ronan hasn’t left yet. Maybe I’m losing my touch? I know the email didn’t go to spam. I made sure of that.

I toss another fry in my mouth and grimace at the soft, soggy texture. Then, I take my ball cap off and put it back on. I live with permanent hat hair, but I’ll take it. Not that anyone sees me with it off. I’m always called a surfer dude with my blond hair, hat, and tattoos. I’m still working on my blackout sleeve on my right arm.

I didn’t answer Ronan’s text from yesterday, and I know he’s stewing. I can feel the energy on this side of the line.

Why in the fuck is this fucking look-alike going after my kills? I found Summerman on my Letters To Santa website. Whenever things get hard, or I accidentally see the picture of Greyson in my hat, I scan the back pages of the website for filtered letters with trigger words. Letters that contain questionable requests or disclosures of abuse. I used to troll those letters and hunt the pedos attached, but I found they all had one thing in common: a judge had let them off easy. So, last kill, I went after the judge. In his own home. Which was a shitty idea ‘cause I’m pretty sure he had security that spotted me. Since then, I’ve downgraded to the pedos. It’s too much to do on my own.

So we’re back to the small fries. The letter I found this time was from a five-year-old girl, Caroline Summerman. She asked Santa to take their grandpa away because he plays grown up with her sister and makes her cry. So I tracked him down, played the role of a prepubescent girl, and then arranged a meetup in the woods. Then my mark was stolen right from under my nose and brutally killed by a tall, hot, slightly unhinged man who talks to himself.

What the hell.

Suddenly, the door to the apartment building opens. I flick my gaze to it and out strides the man himself. I’m struck again by how attractive he is, even from this distance. He’s big, almost as big as me, but has no tattoos that I can see. He has brown hair, nice cheekbones, and pale skin. He looks like my childhood all grown up, and I swallow harshly.

Ronan glances around, scanning the lot and the businesses beyond. As his gaze brushes over my lot, I drink in his fear. Ronan’s posture while looking for me sends a rush of blood to my groin. He knows he’s being hunted, but he can’t do a damn thing about it. Tingles of energy run through me.

Ronan hesitates for the briefest second, then steps toward the office building, which confirms one thing for me: he doesn’t have cameras set up. If he did, he would have done his scan before leaving. I watch him walk away.

I figured he didn’t have cameras. Everything I could find about Ronan online spelled one thing: paranoid. His social media accounts are highly private and don’t contain any face pictures. He has his friends private on social media and doesn’t share any personal details. And if he’s out here murdering people, then I’m going to assume he doesn’t want cameras on his place or on any of the neighbor’s places. Cameras can be seized, and search warrants can be written.

This makes my job a hell of a lot easier. I’m across the lots and to his building in no time. I stroll up the stairs, confirming by sight that there are no cameras.

Ronan’s door is locked, but I’m pretty proficient with picking locks. If someone asks, Ronan is downstairs getting something from his car, and I’m from a local hardware store. But no one asks, and it doesn’t take long.

And then I’m in.

The apartment opens up to the dining room and the kitchen straight ahead. The first thing I notice is that it's clean. It smells fresh, like lemons, and I can see the vacuum lines in the carpet, which surprises me.

I’m not sure why I expected the apartment to be full of horrors. I hate that this pleases me. This cheap copycat asshole doesn’t get to please me.

I stalk farther in. The apartment opens up to the master bedroom on the left and the living room straight ahead. Everything is decorated in cringe, mass-printed decor that screams cheap. There’s a huge print of some sort of cow over the couch that literally every middle-aged person who shops at Target has. But it’s still decor, which is usually a lot more than my one-night stands have.

I do a quick sweep to make sure no one is here, then slow down.

Ronan’s phone is on the dining room table, next to the same stuffed cow I saw the other night. I frown. Does he have a kid? And does he make it a habit to leave his phone when he goes somewhere? That’s unusual.

I’m glad I brought my tools. I grab my Graykey device out and hook Ronan’s phone into it so I can unlock it. Then, I sweep back to the bedroom, which I’m most curious about. I can’t help myself. What does the room of a fucking thief look like? Ronan’s room is pretty fucking basic, apparently. A bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. On the nightstand are headache medication, nausea medication, and a phone charger.

Does my boy have a sensitive tummy?

I snort. My boy. Sounds like I want him. I mean more in a he’ll-be-mine-when-I-drain-the-life-out-of-him kinda way.

I find the answer to tummy issues in the kitchen. Ronan has five different kinds of tequila on the counter and an empty bottle in the trash.

Oh, so he’s a lush. Drinking his problems away.

I can’t help but find myself getting even more interested. What can I say? The tortured poets get me every time.

I fucking hate to admit it, but his kills are poetry. He’s not sloppy, and he’s wildly efficient at getting rid of evidence. If he wasn’t my enemy, I’d be tempted to be impressed. But he’s still made a fatal flaw. He got me involved, and he wormed his way under my skin.

That’s not allowed to happen. When that happens, people die.

I pass by the pictures on his walls and can’t keep myself from looking to see if he has any by a pool. Any from over a decade ago.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. I’m losing my mind.

By the time I’m back in the dining room, Ronan’s phone is unlocked. Sometimes, it takes hours, days, or weeks to unlock a phone, but clearly, this one didn’t take much. Makes me wonder if it was even locked to begin with. Which is fucking weird.

I mess with the phone, downloading my cloning software, which takes a few minutes. I’ve only been here for a few minutes, but I need to hurry.

The thought that Ronan could come back and catch me here sends a thrill through me. It lights up my whole body, and I feel…fucking alive. My body hums with adrenaline. I’d love to see Ronan’s shock as it turns to horror, then anger. It’s what he deserves after fucking everything up for me.

I search for a place to put the tiny camera I brought as my program is working its magic. Ronan is paranoid, so odds are I won’t be able to get a spot that will see him. I settle on under his bed, up by the headboard. An unexpected thought catches me off guard: maybe I’ll catch the sounds of him jacking off, grunting as he gets himself off, his muscled body tense and deliciously tortured.

Christ. Blood rushes to my dick again. Where the hell did that come from?

I wonder what kind of porn he watches. I’ll find out when I go through his phone.

My dick is stiff and fucking painful, and I rub it through my pants. How dare he remind me of everything and then just prance around like he’s done nothing? I’d like nothing more than for Ronan to come back now so I can put him on his knees and shove my dick down his throat before I kill him. I’m sure he’d fight me, which would make things even better.

I’m throbbing. Fuck it. I yank my dick out and stand by Ronan’s bed, thinking about him tied down under me. The hatred he would spew at me as I jacked off over his face. The angry, dangerous killer at my mercy, watching my dick throb and get off to his helplessness.

I jerk myself harder, already on the edge, feeling the tingling thrill run through my groin. I’d come on Ronan’s face. It would be so satisfying to watch the cum bead up on his flushed cheeks. If he was there, his dick would be hard, and I’d edge him. I’d touch him while he was helpless and hating me, making him harder than ever. Swollen. So swollen and practically begging to come.

And then I’d leave him. Angry and wanting and completely unfinished.

I feel my balls tighten up, and pleasure shoots through me. At the last minute, I yank Ronan’s pillow away and come on his sheets. I spurt hot ropes over and over, coming harder than I have in forever. I mark Ronan’s bed. This is mine now. He’s mine now. Everything about him is mine. I toss the pillow back over my cum.

Ronan is mine to break. Mine to torture. Mine to play with. And when I’m done making him pay for reminding me of what I can’t have, he’ll be mine to kill. I’ll kill him as he looks up at me with those hate-filled, familiar eyes. Eyes that should be dead. Eyes that will get him killed.

EIGHT

Somebody Told Me - Motionless In White

I have never in my life been asked if I hump my walls before. Gonna add that to the list of 'what the fuck, why me, please never again' things that I have going on my notes app.

I do keep a list. Why? I don’t know. I like to remember each embarrassing moment so it’s crystal clear. Plus, if I ever want to have an existential crisis—maybe I’m craving a good night where I stare up at the ceiling for hours—I know right where to go.

I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I have no one to laugh about it with, so screaming it into the tech void makes me feel less alone.

Couldn’t be that.

At least the apartment manager didn’t call the cops. That’s the last thing I fucking want.

I get back to my apartment, turn on the TV to drown out my thoughts, and pour myself a glass of tequila. It goes down smoothly—just like nail polish remover.

I down a few more, but I still can’t dull that restless feeling. Everything has gone wrong on this kill. Fucking everything. I didn’t even jack off after killing Summerman. Killing fuckheads usually gets me off.

Fuck. Is there something wrong with my dick?

I adjust myself and think about pulling the trigger on Summerman. About the helpless look in his eyes when he knew he was mine. When he knew I was in control.

Was someone watching me while I did that? Did I fuck up that badly?

Fuck. No, focus. I close my eyes and picture hot women. Their tan bodies, big tits, and soft lips.

Barely a twitch.

Fucking hell?

I’m sure I’m fine. It’s just the alcohol.

I stare at the TV, trying to distract myself from the sense that everything is wrong. This kill, the copycat, my dick.

No. My dick is just fine. I just need to watch some porn. I snatch up my phone and open a porn browser. I’m pretty new to the porn world. My parents were ultra-religious, and I went to a religious college that blocked all porn access. Not that I tried to get into it. Big titties and fake moans were….I don’t know. I just hadn’t tried porn till my ex got me into it.

I try a few videos that pop up, but they’re not catching my interest. Trying some amateur ones, I find “He Rails Me Till I Come - Loving Boyfriend.”

Absolutely fucking nothing. Dick isn’t even remotely interested.

Every once in a while, I used to watch these hotwifing videos with my ex. I guess she loved to see a bull coming in and banging the wife while the husband watched. There were some videos where the bull gave a handjob to the husband while he fucked his wife.

I made her turn those off. I’m not fucking gay. Maybe her ex is. I’m pretty sure my ex wanted me to have a threesome with her ex, aka the guy she left me for. He looks like he could be fruity, the soft fucker.

But still, I find nothing. I find myself scrolling to the hotwifing couple. The bull is much bigger than the husband. He’s heavily muscled, with tattoos running across his chest and arms. He takes hold of her like she’s his to do with what he wants.

There’s a twitch in my dick.

Fuck yes! Back in business. I pull it out, stroking it. The more I focus on the woman though, the more annoyed I get. She’s just so…fucking not it. She’s annoying and loud.

Just as I’m about to switch videos, the bull reaches out and grabs the husband. He yanks him closer while the woman is lying on her back in front of him. I watch in horror as the huge man traces his hand down the other man’s chest, then down further to his dick. The other man moans, tipping his head back.

“That’s right. You’re gonna be a little bitch and get off to me taking your wife.”

My body feels hot. I realize that I’m fully hard, my dick throbbing against my stomach. I stroke myself, pleasure instantly shooting through me. The tingles are powerful, rushing up and down my body as if my dick wasn’t asleep two minutes ago.

The tattooed man has started stroking the other one. I try not to look, focusing heavily on the woman. She gives out fake moans and grabs her tits.

“Fuck.” One of the men grunts, and my gaze moves involuntarily toward them. It’s the husband. He’s tense, gripping into the other man’s shoulder, and he’s being aggressively jacked off.

I shouldn’t be watching this.

“That’s right. Be my little bitch and come already.”

And the man does. He spews all over the big man’s hand, letting out guttural grunts.

I rip my eyes off them, trying to ignore both of them. The pleasure curls around my dick, and I feel it stiffen even further. I brace myself, then blinding pleasure races through my body. Hot spurts of come shoot up onto my chest, pulse after pulse. The orgasm is powerful, locking my muscles up. I let out a soft moan, stroking the last bit of pleasure out of it.

Finally, my muscles relax enough for me to let out a soft breath. Fucking hell.

The moans continue on my phone, and I rush to turn it off.

Fuck. I try to ignore what I just watched. That’s not important.

I clean up, then get back to whatever was on TV. The restless energy is slightly appeased, and in its place is mind-numbing fatigue. I could fall asleep right now.

I grab Buffalo to sit with me and look around the apartment. Everything looks normal. I have my gun on the end table by the couch, pointed at the door. I’m a fast shot. No one comes through without my permission.

I spent hours at the library yesterday using their computer, researching everything I could on the copycat. I also called the records departments of the agencies handling the murder investigations, which turned out to be only one: Silent Hollow Police Department. I requested all 911 calls, which are public record, and of course, they told me it would take a few days. I got what I could from the reports, which wasn’t much. Just the addresses of the places where the bodies were found. When I looked them up, they were homes. Residential homes. He’s killing them in their own homes and getting away with it.

Although, a huge part of successful murders, or any crime for that matter, is luck. You can plan out the perfect murder, but if someone comes around the corner and watches you off someone, you’re fucked. Also, if you have to leave before your mark is entirely dead, you’re fucked. If you drop a fucking hair and the cop finds it, you guessed it: fucked. Endless things could go wrong.

Which is why I don’t have any plans for the next few months. I’m gonna kill until I’m forced to stop.

But it sure as fuck won’t be by this asshole who thinks he can kill better than me.

I think I doze off when I hear my phone vibrate on the table.

Buffalo sounds excited, ‘Oh, I bet it’s him!’

I sit up straighter. If it is, I put software on my phone to track numbers. I stumble over to the table and pick up the phone.

Unknown: Interesting porn selection.

What the absolute fuck? I blink slowly, glancing around. I know I’m alone. I’ve been alone this whole time. No way he can see me.

I type out a response:

stop hiding from me, coward.

Unknown: Do you moan when you come?

Adrenaline rushes through me. I grab my gun and shove it into my waistband. I check the peephole, then outside. I don’t see anyone.

Unknown: Why don’t you be a good boy for me and show me?

‘Oh god, I love him.’ Buffalo sounds absolutely thrilled.

Rage boils in my blood. How fucking dare he?? I press the call button. As the phone rings, my hands shake. The phone rings and rings until it goes to voicemail, which isn’t set up.

Unknown: Need my voice to make you come? Kinky. Maybe if you’re good.

Ronan: What the fuck do you want?

Unknown: Summerman was mine. You took that from me.

Dread fills me. There’s Summerman’s name, sitting on my phone like damning evidence. I worked so hard to keep this phone clean. It has to be clean.

Immediately, I check the tracking software.

Nothing. His phone’s location is pinging all over the world.

Fucking fuck! This man is prepared. Which is the worst-case scenario. I go to my phone’s settings and hit factory reset. The phone goes black.

I breathe heavily. That will wipe this phone, but text history with the phone company might stay. I know they said they don’t keep texts, unlike social media messaging platforms, but what if they do?

My thoughts are running scrambled. This person knows about Summerman. Knows his name. Knows I was there.

‘Hey dog, this man has your number. In more ways than one.’ Buffalo cackles.

“Shut up!” I pace back and forth, back and forth. This man has a drop on me. He knows who I am, and I have no clue who he is. Even with my research, all I know is that he’s a copycat going after the same man.

I power the phone back on. As it loads to the genetic background, a text pops up.

Unknown: Rude.

Unknown: At this point, I won’t even accept a BJ as an apology.

Pure rage flashes across my vision. Who the fuck does he think he is?

Ronan: I’m not gay, faggot.

Unknown: Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?

Unknown: Fuck me.

Ronan: I said no, disgusting fuck.

Ronan: Get out of my life before I call the cops.

Ronan: Bet they’d like to chat.

Unknown: You’re cute when you get mad. Puff up your feathers to look bigger.

Unknown: You and I both know you won’t call the cops.

Ronan: Already called.

Ronan: Stay the fuck away from me. Or you’ll have the same fate.

Unknown: Fate? What a dramatic word.

Unknown: ‘You’ll have the same fate.’ LOL

My face gets red, and Buffalo cackles. I’m gonna kill this fuck. I’m gonna fucking kill him. But while I think that, fatigue hits me hard. I feel so exhausted—like I’m moving through cement. I need to sleep. And I will. After I make sure it’s safe. I heave myself up and move into action, barricading my front door with chairs and pulling the couch in front of the sliding glass door to my deck. That takes just about all the energy I have, and suddenly, I feel sick. Fucking alcohol. Gets me every time. I use my last energy to grab my gun, my phone, and Buffalo and stumble to bed.

The next time I check my phone, there’s one text waiting:

Unknown: I’ll be seeing you. *winky emoji*

NINE

Sailor Song - Gigi Perez

16 YEARS OLD

My toe catches on something, and I go down hard in our living room. With a crack, my palms slam into the floor, which just makes me tired and pissed.

“What the hell?” I glance back. I tripped on a keyboard. One that hadn’t been there last night.

“Fucking Christ.” I yank myself up. Our trailer is always a disaster. It’s not dirty—I make sure of that—but it’s always cluttered. I just can’t keep on top of my moms. I’ve tried, but it’s too much. They always bring back new things—and old things—and promptly forget about them. I swear they can’t see the piles of shit.

I shuffle to the fridge to grab something to eat. The trailer is silent except for the hum of the fridge. Both of my moms are at work, like usual.

The cool air feels good against the heat in the trailer. I have a window unit, but it really can’t keep up. Snatching a cheese stick from the fridge, I eat it in the silent kitchen. I can’t even hear the clock ticking. I glance at it. It’s frozen. It must have run out of batteries. Now, where are they at? I know we have extras. I rack my brain, trying to figure out where I last saw them. Was it in the bathroom or in that pile of things by the door?

When I’m done, I pour a bowl of cereal, wolf that down, and then grab a bag of pretzels. Every move I make feels so loud in the silence.

With a bit of excitement, I remember I beat my game last night. It had been one of my favorites, with stunning graphics, cowboys, and a storyline that kept me guessing. Just remembering it makes me realize that it’s over now.

That realization comes with an empty feeling, and I stare at the bag of pretzels. I wish I had someone to talk to about it.

The fridge hums. I suck in a breath and get ready for my shift. I work as a lifeguard during the summer. It’s fine, I guess. There are some people from school who also work there, but they don’t really talk to me. It’s like they think being gay is contagious, and they’ll catch it if they talk to me for too long. That, or the girls try to bag me as the “gay best friend,” and the boys think I want to fuck them. Which is gross. I do have standards, and I wouldn’t fuck anyone from school. The few people who are okay I don’t hang with often ‘cause I refuse to have people over to my place. I’m not embarrassed—I know my moms can’t help it—but I don’t want to add more fuel to the Logan’s-a-weirdo fire.

When I make it to work, the day is awful. The kid pool has to be closed multiple times for brown torpedo sightings, aka shit, and the parents yell at me about it. It’s hot as balls, and no matter how much sunscreen I put on, I feel the sun searing away at my shoulders. Minute by minute, the shift ticks by as we listen to super loud, terrible pop music. Finally, to top it off, when I’m doing a last walkthrough to make sure everyone is gone at the end of the day, I find a kid in the locker rooms. I scare him so bad he pukes on the floor before running off.

Oh. Awesome.

“Logan!” Sammy calls for me through the locker room door. At least, I think her name is Sammy. She hasn’t given me the time of day.

I drop my head against a locker. “Just go. I’ll lock up.”

“You sure?” I can hear that she wants to go.

“Yep.” I have the keys. Screw it.

It takes me another twenty minutes to clean up the vomit. By the time I’m done, I’m sweaty, in a foul mood, and fucking hungry. I lock up and march down the steps. The parking lot is shaded by trees, which immediately take some of the heat away. Most of the cars are gone, except a van parked a few spaces away from mine.

I’m searching for my keys when I hear something over the buzz of cicadas. It sounds like music…like strings. It’s…a fucking guitar? I look around. I don’t see anyone. The notes are crisp and clean, playing a haunting tune.

As I look around more, I see a van parked by itself by a large tree. Behind the tree, a leg sticks out. I move closer, seeing that someone is sitting with his back to the tree, playing the guitar.

And then whoever it is starts singing. His voice is clear and…burdened. As I stand and listen, I realize it sounds like he’s lived multiple times and gotten let down every time.

I’m drawn closer.

As soon as I see the singer’s face, the world slows. I don’t know him, but I recognize him as one of my coworkers, and he’s beautiful. He has ash-brown hair, clear, pale skin, and pouty lips. The sunlight dapples across his face and hands as he picks at the instrument. He might be the prettiest person I’ve ever seen.

Then he looks up, and I’m met with stunning hazel eyes. A ring of caramel brown on the outside fades into light green by his pupils. For a second, his eyes look haunted, like I caught him before he could put his guard up. They look..lonely. Just like me.

Then, he jumps. “What the fuck?”

I’m startled out of my staring.

“What are you doing?” He grabs his guitar, and his eyes shift to guarded.

I search my memory for his name. “I was just locking up. Thought everyone had left.” What the hell was his name? I had only seen him briefly at orientation, and he was always on the other side of the grounds than me.

“Okay?” He’s glaring at me.

I blink. “Greyson!”

He frowns more. “Yeah…?”

“That’s your name.” I grin.

Greyson puts the guitar down. “Do you need something?”

“No, I just thought…that was pretty. What were you playing?”

Greyson cocks an eyebrow at me but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear I’ve made him uncomfortable. He wants to get away. To run from me.

Which piques my interest. What is he hiding?

“Sorry.” I raise my hands. “Didn’t mean to spy. Just didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

Greyson starts to put his stuff away. Which immediately makes me want to keep him with me. “You don’t have to go.”

He ignores me, packing up his stuff, putting it in the van, and shutting the side door.

Before he can get to the driver’s side, I move to lean against his driver’s door. Greyson’s eyes widen when he sees me, then narrow.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

There’s a challenge in his voice, but I see the doubt in his eyes. He doesn’t want to push things. A bolt of satisfaction runs through me. For some unknown reason, I want him to stay. I notice he has a small birthmark on his chin. It looks like a big freckle right in the middle of his chin, and in the right light, it looks cleft.

“You gonna be at work tomorrow?” I ask.

There’s a moment of hesitation, then Greyson steps up to me. “Fuck off, creep.” We’re inches apart, and suddenly, I feel electricity around me. All the hair on my arms stands up, and I watch Greyson’s pupils widen. He smells like sunscreen and something else…I pull a deep breath in. Summer. He smells like chlorine and hot skin and…summer.

“Back. Off,” Greyson grits, but his pupils are huge. He’s shaking slightly. I don’t want to back off. Irrationally, I want to pin him against the car and taste those pouty lips. I want to press my face into his skin and smell the sunscreen, but then I see fear flash across his gaze.

Real fear. Like he’s afraid I’m going to hurt him. Immediately, I raise my hands in surrender and back off. “Whatever, man.”

Greyson juts his chin at me, then climbs in the car, slamming the door.

It takes everything in me not to rip it back open and slam him back against the car. To ask him why he’s so goddamn sad.

But I don’t. I watch him drive off, then I march back up to the pool house to check the schedule. He’s on it for tomorrow, and it’s the same shift as me.

I grin. My summer just got a whole lot more interesting.

The next day, Greyson tries to avoid me, and the more he does, the more curious I get. Why doesn’t he want to talk to me? The whole day, he works in spots across the pool from me. Which works just fine for me. I can watch him even better from here. At the end of the day, Greyson rushes away while I’m busy clocking out and leaves before I can catch him. He doesn’t look scared anymore. Just…angry.

Which just inspires me to try harder.

The next day, I get Greyson before he can go, stepping in front of him before he can get down the steps of the pool house. His skin is pinker today, like he forgot to put on sunscreen and is paying for it.

“Greyson! You’ve been avoiding me.” I cross my arms.

He tries to dart around me, but I just calmly step in front of him.

“Fuck off, faggot.” The words come out angry, and his face gets even more redder.

I roll my eyes. “Make me. I just wanted to talk. A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Greyson crosses his arms. He’s not quite as tall as me, but he’s close. His arms are toned, just like his whole body. “What the hell do you want?”

“You sick?” I narrow my eyes at Greyson. Earlier today, I watched him run to the fence and puke over it. I was trapped with a kid at the time, or I would have checked on him.

“What? No. Now get out of the way.” Greyson tries to leave.

I step back in front of him, bumping him back. With that little touch, there’s electricity, and I smell sunscreen again.

“Then why were you puking?”

Greyson turns his hazel eyes on me, and they look angry. They’re pretty when they’re angry. I mean, his eyes are pretty all the time, but I love when he’s glaring at me.

He growls, “None of your business!”

“Sure it is. It is when I have to watch your side of the pool because you’re away from your spot.”

“I couldn’t help it.” Greyson is squirming, and it sends a bolt of satisfaction through me. He’s uncomfortable, but he’s no longer running. I just need to get him to open up. Not because the details are important but because he doesn’t want to tell me. Anything Greyson wants to hide from me, I want to see even more.

I say, “I could tell Carol. You know how much of a stickler she is for the rules.”

Slight fear washes across his face, followed by anger. “Well, then I’ll tell her you’re accosting me!”

“Accosting?” I laugh. “Jesus, okay, Shakespeare. As if she’ll care. But she will care about getting sued ‘cause a kid drowns ‘cause you weren’t at your chair.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re a cocksucker.”

I grin. “Got me.”

“Fuck you!”

“If you’re offering. Now, tell me.”

He throws his hands up. “I saw someone get sick. There, is that what you wanted?”

I look down at him and cock an eyebrow. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

“Now get out of my way.” Greyson darts around me, but I snatch a hand out and grab his arm. The touch makes electricity roll through me.

“You saw someone get sick?” I frown, thinking about what happened right before Greyson ran off.

“Yes, okay? I puke when other people do. Get over it. Now let me go.” He tries to shake away from me, but I’m not done with him yet. Mostly because I love touching him. I love having him look up at me with those angry, bratty eyes. I want to tame him. To watch the moment he realizes that he can fight me, but he can’t win.

Come to think of it, I do remember a kid puking into a trashcan right by Greyson’s seat. I didn’t think twice about it, but that does make sense.

Greyson stiffens, and I see the wind up for the punch before he hits me. I let go of him, smiling. “Fuck you.” Greyson swings, but his balance and aim are thrown off. He shrugs his backpack firmly on his shoulder and darts away from me.

I let him go because I won this round. And oh so sweet was that victory. I will win every time. I’m bored this summer, and Greyson just became the best entertainment.

Every day, I try to get a word in with Greyson, and every day, he works to avoid me. The days he isn’t working feel so damn long now. I figure out his number and text him when I’m not around him. He always sends something aggressive back and calls me all kinds of names, but it just makes it more fun. Greyson never blocks me, and sometimes I catch him watching me with lingering interest, so I know I have him. He’s just playing hard to get, which turns me on like never before.

The next time I see someone puke into the pool, I’m up before anyone moves. Greyson has launched himself toward the fence, and I get there in time to rub his back. As soon as he’s done hurling, he stumbles backward.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t choke.” I grin.

“Don’t touch me.” Greyson pants for breath but doesn’t move any farther away. He’s much more pale than normal.

“You good?”

He sucks in a few deep breaths. “Yeah…yeah.”

Then, we walk back to the pool together. Well, I try to walk with him, and Greyson ignores me.

This goes on for weeks. Greyson pukes every single time a kid does at the pool, which is often. It’s endlessly entertaining. Even better than my game at home. With this game, someone is playing with me. I can’t predict exactly what he’s going to do next or what insult he’ll shoot my way. Slowly, day after day, Greyson stops fighting me. I learn that he hates puking, and I can tell he secretly loves it when I stand by him every time. He starts to accept me like one would an annoying child.

Then, one evening, we’re both changing in the locker room. Everyone else has left, and it’s my turn to lock up again. I draw my shirt over my shoulders. I’ve gone all summer without a burn, mostly because I put sunscreen on every day. The smell reminds me of Greyson.

“So, what you doing tonight?” Greyson doesn’t turn around. We’ve been on a friendly truce, but this week, he seems more agitated than normal. Something is bothering him, but he won’t tell me what.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Nothing.”

“Oh.” The silence is thick. I glance over at him and find him watching me. He quickly looks away. My stomach lurches. What’s going on? Is he okay?

“Do you want to…go to the mall?” I need more time with him. I can’t have him disappearing like he always does after his shift.

“Oh, uh…no, I’m kinda tired.” He seems like he deflates.

Damn. I debate in my head for a second. Do I invite him to my place? I never invite people to my place. Greyson stuffs his things into his bag.

“You okay?” I ask him.

“Fine.” He waves me off but won’t look at me.

I cross my arms. He’s definitely not okay. “You’re not fine. You’ve been snippy all week. So tell me what’s wrong.”

Greyson sighs. His shoulders are tense. I can tell he doesn’t want to. Which worries me.

I drop my voice and put a hint of warning in it. “Greyson.”

“It’s nothing. I just don’t want to go home, okay?”

My stomach sinks. What the hell is going on at his home? I always suspected he wasn’t happy there, but he refuses to tell me anything about his home life.

“Okay.” I try to play it off. “We can go to my place. More quiet.”

Greyson is silent and tense. But he doesn’t say no. He rubs the back of his neck.

“C’mon.” I clap him on the back, joking to lighten the mood. “What are you afraid of?”

“I guess…fine. Just once.” He sighs.

Excitement and anxiety run through me at the same time. Is he safe? I don’t know if he is, but I can protect him if he’s with me.

“Cool.” I clap my arm around his shoulder and pull him along. “But you can’t say anything about the mess.”

By the time we pull up to my house, I’m sweating. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. The last time I had friends over, they tittered about my hoarder house for weeks. They always said they were out of something and then would add, “But I bet Logan has it.” I tried to tell them my moms weren’t hoarders and that they both had really bad ADHD, but it didn’t matter.

When I get out of the vehicle, my heart is racing. I’m not sure why it matters, but I don’t want Greyson seeing the mess.

He steps out of his own car, showing no judgment about the trailer park. “Got anything to eat?” He strides past me and up the stairs.

I swallow, moving up as well. “Yeah, I uh…” I trail off as I push the door open, and he steps inside. The place is cluttered, like it always is, with a trail from the door to the kitchen, then off to the left to my bedroom.

“I have sandwiches.” I try to fill the empty space.

“That’s fine.” Greyson just shrugs off his backpack and dumps it on the floor. “Ham?” He doesn’t look stressed. In fact, he looks more relaxed than when we were at the pool.

“Uh, yeah.” I move to the kitchen. “Sorry it’s hot; my room has AC.” I pull out the things to build our sandwiches with.

Greyson just shrugs, then spots something on the couch. “Shit, you have this?”

I glance over. It’s the case to my game. The one I beat earlier this summer. “Oh, yeah.” I make both our sandwiches with pretzels. They add a delicious, salty crunch.

“Fuck, I’ve always wanted to play.” Greyson snatches it up.

“I can teach you.” I bring the food out to him, suddenly bashful. “If you want.”

“Fuck yes.” Greyson grabs the sandwich, glancing at me. Our eyes meet, and again, I see that vulnerability that I saw the first time I met him. There’s so much hurt in his eyes that it makes me want to fix it. To make him feel anything but that.

Greyson clears his throat and puts on a joking voice. “Let’s go, fag.”

I chuckle at the name he’s given me this summer. “Okay, pretty boy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

With the mess forgotten, we went to my room, and I taught him.

That was the best summer of my life.

TEN

Something in the Orange - Zach Bryan

17 YEARS OLD

“Get the fuck off me.” Greyson shoves me, almost making me fall off the edge of my twin bed.

“Make me.” I laugh, scrambling to keep the sandwiches I brought on the paper plate.

“There’s no room for your fat ass.” Greyson groans when I squeeze in next to him. I’ve filled out with muscle a little more than he has, and he likes to remind me of it every time he can.

“Keep it up, and this fat ass will sit on you till you beg for mercy.”

“Jesus.” He grabs the sandwich and continues playing the game. I made it just how I know he likes it, with stone ground mustard and Lays potato chips. Greyson says the pretzels inside are gross. He’s ridiculous.

Greyson and I have become fast friends since summer. He goes to a different school, but we still hang out every day after school and during weekends. He spends more time here than he does at his real house. I’ve still never been there, and he doesn’t tell me much other than his dad isn’t around and his grandpa’s a piece of shit. I worry about him, but ever since I met him, he seems happier. His skin looks more glowy, and he laughs.

Christ, his laugh. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. That and his voice. His voice is mesmerizing. He rarely sings for me. He acts embarrassed, but there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. If I could listen to only one person for the rest of my life, it would be Greyson Sinclair.

I find myself staring at Greyson as he plays the game on the edge of my bed. He’s wearing the Life’s Good ball cap I got us. I’ve become obsessed with their clothing, calling it our clothing since it has our initials: LG. Greyson says it’s corny, but still, he wears it. Just like I wear mine.

Greyson also wears one of my silver rings. I wear a bunch, mostly silver and mostly odd rings I’ve found thrifting or on artsy websites. Greyson said it was gay, but I told him how hot it would look on his long, guitar-playing fingers. Eventually, he caved. Because it does look fucking amazing on him.

The game gets to a storyline part, and suddenly, Greyson stiffens. I hear the sound of retching coming from the TV, and Greyson bolts for the bathroom.

I jump up, following after him, and get to him just in time to watch him hurl into the toilet. Dropping down beside him, I rub his back and shoulders. He’s white-knuckling the edge of the toilet.

“I’m sorry, man. Christ. I didn’t remember that was in there.” I rub my hands lightly over him and feel him visibly relax into me. Slowly, he lets go of the lid, and his breathing evens out. He drops his head on his arm and lets out a shaky breath.

As soon as he relaxes, he’s usually done. I get up quickly, knowing he always hates to be seen in his weak moments.

“Logan,” he says, and I immediately stop.

“Thanks.” Greyson peeks back at me and smiles.

Suddenly, I feel bashful. I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah, uh…no problem.”

“No, I mean…thanks.” He shakes his head. “I hate this, but, you know…I appreciate you being there.”

Warmth runs through me, and suddenly, my chest feels too small.

Greyson flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and then goes back to the room. We settle back into our routine, him on the game and me on my phone. But secretly, I’m looking at him. Greyson is beautiful, sure, but god, he’s also the coolest person I’ve ever met. He’s so good with music and singing. He’s sassy as hell, but deep down, he’s kind. I know the world hasn’t been kind to him, but he’s still kind to the world, and that, of all things, made me fall fast and hard.

All the feelings hit me at once, and my mouth suddenly goes dry. “Greyson.”

“Hmmm?” He keeps playing.

My palms are sweaty, and I have to put the plate down. He and I have been dancing around this tension for months. Neither of us has made a move, and it’s killing me. I just want him to know…how I feel.

“Greyson,” I say, softer.

“What?” He turns, grabbing the sandwich and taking a bite. Then he meets my gaze, and slowly, his chewing stops.

I laugh nervously. “Summer’s almost here.”

He swallows his bite and lifts an eyebrow. “...Yes?”

“Well, I don’t know…I talked to my moms, and I think…you should stay here.”

He frowns. “What do you mean? I already stay here.” He turns slightly to keep playing, and I put my hand on the controller. Sparks fly where our hands touch.

“I mean…long term. I think you should move in.”

Greyson stares at me. “What?”

I rub the back of my neck, all my feelings going everywhere. Don’t be a coward, Logan. Say it. “I…I like you, Greyson. Like, a lot.”

Silence. Greyson’s pupils are huge, and he blinks once.

I’m screwed now, so I keep going. “You’re kinda, like, really fucking amazing. And I want you here with me.” I want you safe. But I don’t say that. He’ll run if I say that.

Greyson laughs half-heartedly. “Sick joke, dude.”

I wince. “It’s not a joke.”

I watch Greyson wrestle. I know he feels the same way. I’ve seen it in his body language. In the way he laughs at everything I say. The way he takes every chance to touch me. The way his pupils widen and how he blushes when he looks at me. The way he gets hard when he lays next to me.

“This isn’t…” He clears his throat. “I can’t…I’m not gay.” The word stretches painfully into the silence. Despite the fact I know it’s not true, my heart clenches.

Greyson’s breathing picks up. “I’m not fucking gay, man.” He stands off the bed, knocking the controller to the ground with a clatter.

“Wait, Greyson.” I try to get up, but he’s already darting to the door. He looks panicked, like he just saw a ghost.

“Please.” I reach for him.

“I can’t!” Greyson’s voice is high, panicked. “I can’t, Logan, I can’t.” He looks around like someone is watching us. “I’m not gay.”

“Greyson.” I take a step closer.

He turns his gaze on me, and it’s full of tears. He whispers, “I can’t.” Then, he darts out of the room.

“Greyson!” I chase after him, but this time he’s fast. He’s out the front door and into his car before I can catch him. Then, he’s peeling out of the lot. I run after him, then turn around and dart back inside for my keys. I realize that I don’t actually know where he lives. I call him, call after call after call. He doesn’t pick up. In fact, he blocks me.

I never saw Greyson after that night. Never heard from him. I was stuck in my heartbreak, alone and terrified. I was scared of what made Greyson run like that. Scared for him. And then I became angry. I figured out where he lived, then pounded on his door. It was answered by an old man who cussed me out, threatened to call the cops, and then slammed the door in my face.

I tried everything I could to get back into Greyson’s life. I left notes under the door, apologizing for what I said. Begging us to go back to normal.

Nothing.

That just made me more angry. So, for a week, I stopped trying. I stopped going over. Stopped leaving notes. Stopped calling the blocked number.

And then, the worst day of my life started.

I got a letter in the mailbox. It wasn’t stamped, so someone dropped it off themselves. It just said ‘Logan’ on the outside. I open it with shaking hands. Inside was some hand-drawn sheet music and a note.

I found out later that Greyson killed himself. Hung himself from the rafters in his room. Also found out that before he died, he vomited. And I wasn’t there to rub his back. It was all my fault. I stopped talking to him, and he thought I gave up.

The good part of my soul died that night.

ELEVEN

Collapse - Fire From The Gods

I drugged Ronan’s paint thinner. Why he insists on drinking tequila, I don’t fucking know. I should kill him just for his questionable taste.

But I find myself staring down at him as he sleeps, unable to pull the gun out from my waistband. He looks just like him, with his pale skin and pouty lips. But also, nothing like him. Ronan has no birthmark, and he looks a little bit more rugged than Greyson ever did.

He still looks exactly like pain.

As I look, I realize Ronan has something clenched in his right hand. I bend over and take it from him.

It’s a damn pill bottle. Nausea medication.

My heart clenches.

It hurts so damn bad. It hurts like it just happened yesterday. Like my chest is collapsing in on itself, and I suddenly feel everything all at once. All the feelings I try so hard to avoid cut through my chest like shards of plaster. I feel like my heart is bleeding.

“Jesus Christ.” I pace next to Ronan’s bed. Get it together. Stop feeling. My heart is racing, and my palms are sweating. I just can’t get it together. Why can’t I get it together?

That was fourteen years ago. This is now. This is Ronan. The man who actively wants to kill me. The one who I should kill. Right fucking now.

I suck in a breath, trying to stabilize myself. I wasn’t even breathing this hard when I broke in, even though Ronan made it difficult this time. The ass-sucking whore.

I snap my gaze back over to him.

Kill him. It’s what you came to do.

But nothing in my body wants to pull my gun on him. It’s like my body is frozen. All I can do is spin the ring around on my right index finger. Spin, spin, spin in circles.

Just like I’ve been doing for fourteen years.

Christ. I don’t have to kill him right this second. Right? I’ll kill him later. Later, when he sees it coming. I don’t want him to get off easy.

Relief washes over me, followed immediately by disgust. I can’t do this again. Not again. I won’t survive it this time.

I didn’t survive it last time.

I’ll do it. I’ll kill him. I stride up, pull the gun out of the back of my pants, and point it at Ronan.

Something in my gut tingles, my spidey senses going off. This isn’t right. The timing isn’t right. The medication isn’t right. His face isn’t right.

Jesus! I’ve never been so conflicted over a kill. They always feel right. Every single time.

This isn’t Greyson.

Right? Ronan just got in my head. I’ll make him pay for that. I’ll make him pay for making me feel my heart break all over again. I need to torment him a little longer before I kill him.

I’m clenching my fists so hard my rings dig into my fingers.

Yes. I’ll screw with him before he dies. For as long as I can drag it out, he’s going to pay for making me remember.

TWELVE

Hole In Your Head - Ekoh

I used to pray to god. I stopped when I saw that kids were hurt in horrible ways every day, and he didn’t answer a single prayer.

So now I pray to toilets. Specifically, my toilet, with the loose lid on the right side.

I hurl into the porcelain throne again, gripping the sides until my knuckles burn. Fuck. This is the most passionate praying I’ve done in a while.

The toilet still listens better than god ever did.

Once I’ve stopped hurling long enough to down a nausea pill, I hang my head, frozen on the bathroom floor. It takes every ounce of concentration not to puke the pill up, too. Every time I want to, I dig my fingers into the ridges of the pill bottle, willing it to hurt bad enough to keep me distracted.

After about 30 minutes, I feel good enough to take another pill. After another 30, I feel less religious. Less religious and more exhausted.

Fuck. This is one hell of a hangover.

I drag myself to bed, shivering. Once there, I’m barely under the covers before I’m asleep again.

THIRTEEN

WWIII - grandson

When I wake up again, I no longer feel like puking. Instead, I feel like shitting. Violently.

I barely make it to the bathroom before I lose it in a way that rivals fast-food burrito legends. And for the second time in like six hours, I’m getting religious again.

Once the current bout is done, I drop my head on my knees. Fucking hell. I don’t know why they demonize alcohol if it brings you back to god this hard. I’m gonna have to toss whatever brand I have. No offense to the brand, but like, fuck that shit.

When I finally change, I realize something doesn’t feel right with my hand. I glance down, and there, on my index finger, is a ring. A ring I’ve never seen before.

I blink.

The ring has a thick, silver band, and on the face is a skeleton of a man. The skeleton is curled around a bright purple gemstone, like it died clutching its last treasure. It’s fucking weird.

Am I…seeing things? I glance at Buffalo on the bed.

Oh, goody. I’m looking at my talking stuffed animal to verify if I’m seeing things.

I need to stop fucking drinking.

The ring feels heavy around my finger. I swallow, hesitating, and then grab it. The ring is real. It’s solid in my fingers, and the metal is so thick it’s cool to the touch.

There’s a small sound coming from my living room, and immediately, I freeze. All my senses are on alert. Was that a…sigh?

I dart to the side of my bed to grab my gun, only it’s not there.

“Gonna come out and say hi?” the deep voice rumbles, full of threat, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

What the hell? Immediately, I transition to action mode. There’s someone in my house?

There’s someone in my house.

I need to fucking kill him.

I jump to my closet, searching for the smaller pistol I have stored there. Only it’s not there, either.

“Or you gonna make me come in there and get you?”

The adrenaline pumps through my body, but I take calming breaths. Like fuck am I going to walk into a trap. Which, clearly, I’ve already done. But I won’t make it worse. I slip back to my bed and pull the knife I have tucked between the mattress and the box spring.

I don’t have time to set up by the doorway before a huge form pushes through it. Sucking in a breath, I brace as a tall man strides into my room, pointing a gun at me. He has a half-mask on with a ball cap turned backward. The man is built and covered in tattoos, with a blackout sleeve going down his right arm. The arm that’s pointed at me with a gun in his hand.

The man cocks an eyebrow. “Put it down.”

Rage rushes through me, and for a second, I want to do nothing but jump at him and stab him in the throat. He must see it because I watch him line up his sights on me, eyeing me from between the iron sights.

“Put the knife down,” he demands again. His eyes are fierce and piercing blue. Well, the one eye I’m looking at down the barrel of the gun. It’s like he’s looking through me.

I drop the knife. “Don’t bring a gun to a knife fight,” I grit. “It’s rude.” The man doesn’t move. The knife isn’t far from my hand, but the man is too fucking far. If he was any closer, I’d risk jumping him, but with him so far away, I have no chance. My heart races. Why the fuck hasn’t he shot me?

The man peers at me. I can’t see the rest of his face, but he looks…bored. Which fucking scares me. Working the streets, I never trusted the ones who looked bored. They’d kill you and not bat an eye.

“What do you want?” I can only assume this is my copycat. He’s bigger and stronger than me, and it’s clear he’s not new to violence. He’s also handsome. I’m sure he gets all the ladies. Fuck him for that.

“Good boy, glad you can follow directions.” The man ignores my question, his voice sultry and mocking. It makes heat run over my skin. “Do you like my ring?” He stares at me.

I blink, then glance down. It’s still on my finger, and without thinking, I move to take it off.

“No.” The man’s voice deepens in threat. “Leave it.”

I swallow. What is happening? Why the fuck hasn’t he killed me? Why the fuck won’t he get closer so I can jump him?

“Sing for me.”

I blink, focusing back on my attacker. Did I hear him right?

He lowered the gun slightly. Not that it really matters. He’s close enough to point and shoot, and I’m sure he’ll hit me.

“Sing something,” the man grinds out.

The demand is so absurd I question my sanity. Are we on the phantom of the fucking opera right now? Is this where my psychosis decided to take us? A model of a man breaks into my apartment and demands I sing? So he can what? Fall in love with me? Steal my voice?

“Buff?” I glance at the highland cow. He’s still on the bed. And very, very silent.

The man cocks an eyebrow. “Thanks, I am. But that’s not singing.”

I hold my hands up like I’m placating a wild beast. “Are you real?”

“Want a bullet in your head to check and see?”

“No?” I blink. Maybe I just had a bad batch or something. Maybe I never woke up. The man looks real, though. Very real and very serious.

“If you don’t sing in the next five seconds⁠—”

“Okay!” Fuck it. If I’m dreaming, I may as well sing.

And as I decide that, it’s like suddenly I’ve forgotten every song I’ve ever heard.

The man makes a pissed sound and raises the gun.

“No! No, I’m thinking.” I raise my hands and start humming nonsense. Then, all I can think is to sing Sweet Home Alabama in my skivvies so my brains don’t get splattered across the wall behind me.

Sweet Jesus, I am definitely going insane. But it’s this, or go to see Jesus. And fuck that. That’s one man I don’t want to meet.

So, I start singing. I immediately jump into the chorus. I don’t remember the exact words; it’s something about blue skies and Alabama. It’s bad and completely off-tune, and I fuck up the lyrics, but I make it through the chorus and then slowly stop singing until the room goes quiet.

The silence is painful before the man shakes his head. “What in the incest? You’re terrible.”

“Sorry?” What is going on here?

“I mean, like, your voice is really horrible.” The man shakes his head, beginning to laugh like I’ve told the worst joke.

It’s then that I notice he’s edged closer. My breathing picks up, and the man throws me a look full of indecision.

That’s when I strike. Reaching down to grab the knife, I launch myself at him. He tries to react, but action is always faster than reaction. I duck, lowering my body so I slam into his legs. He stumbles back, and we both go crashing to the floor. It’s a mad scramble to get the upper hand, and a huge foot slams into my head, sending bright lights through my vision. It’s everything I can do to keep a grip on my knife.

If you bring a knife to a gunfight, you better be fucking fast.

I heave myself up, swinging the arm with the knife towards his body. I need to end this before he shoots me, and it’s night night for eternity. Just me and the Big Man himself, telling me all the reasons he allows pedos to prey on children.

The man grunts, rolling both of us over so he’s straddling me, pinning my knife hand to the floor. Both his hands are on me, and I don’t see the gun. He’s on top, but he’s not hurting me.

I try to breathe. The first 100 seconds in a fight are the most important. Just survive the first 100 seconds without dying, and your opponent will often be too gassed to fight effectively. With someone this big, I just need to wear him down till I can find an opening.

“You little fucking shit.” The man laughs, sucking air through his mask, his entire body pressed over mine in a crushing weight. I smell fucking bar soap and aftershave. “Stop fighting.”

“Make me,” I snap. I wrap my right leg around his, tuck my other to my butt, and bridge and roll. Instantly, the roles are reversed, although the man still has my knife wrist clamped heavily in his meaty hand.

“Oh, I’ll fucking make you,” he snarls.

I’m not small, but I feel my bones crushing. Instead of fighting him, I swing my other hand, crashing it down into the man’s face. The ring rips into his skin, and I hit repeatedly until the ogre decides to fucking stand up.

He sits up like I weigh nothing, and before I can scramble off of him, he stands, taking me with him and slamming me back into the wall. That one rattles my brain hard, making my head go fuzzy and black for a second.

I suck in a breath, willing my vision to clear. When it does, the man has his hand around my throat and my knife pinned to the wall.

Immediately, I swipe my other hand up to scoop his eyes out. Just as quickly, the man ducks his head into my neck, and I can’t reach anything solid. I try though, kneeing and scratching. Anything to get him off me.

He just leans into me, pinning me so hard I can hardly breathe and squeezing my neck so my vision spots. Finally, I realize I’m wasting my energy, and I just focus on sucking in deep breaths. He’s not hurting me right now. Just holding me right on the edge of cutting off my circulation.

“You done?” The man’s masked lips brush my neck, the deep words grumbling through my entire body. It makes goosebumps prickle over my skin, and I realize in horror that he might be able to feel my reaction. Immediately, I shake my entire body.

“No, no. We were doing so good.” He doesn’t let me move; he just rides out my struggle.

“Let go of me.” The longer he doesn’t hurt me, the more angry I get. “You gonna slice me up?”

The damn mask keeps fluttering on my pulse point. The pulse point he’s also strangling with a single, giant hand.

“Fuck you.” I struggle, and the hand clamps down tighter, sending spots all over my vision. As soon as I relax, he loosens the pressure. This fucker is just playing with me.

“Fuck. You smell so good,” he groans. “That fear.”

It’s everything I can do not to explode again. But it’s wasting my energy.

“What do you want?”

The man untucks his head, pulling around so he can lock those eyes on mine. He narrows them, waiting to see if I’ll try for them again.

I don’t. Instead, I try to catch my breath, looking at the bright red slice the ring made across his face.

“What do you want?” I demand again. None of this makes sense. If he wanted to kill me, why hasn’t he already?

“I want,” the man leans closer, “to ruin you, Ronan Carter.”

There’s so much hatred in his eyes I can feel it like a punch to the gut.

“What the fuck did I do?” I glance around the room, looking for the gun.

“Uh uh,” he tsks, squeezing hard so my vision narrows and my gaze snaps back to him. “Eyes on me. Atta boy.”

Humiliation spreads through me, and if my mouth wasn’t so dry, I’d spit on him.

The man pulls in a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a brief second. When he does, I notice he has light freckles on his eyelids.

And that’s when I headbutt him. Or, I try. It’s a pretty pathetic try, with my head pinned against the wall. Our foreheads touch briefly, and it’s the briefest of brushes.

The man’s eyes narrow, and, if possible, he’s pressing into me more. His whole body is hot and toned, and I can feel how strong he is. Suddenly, I also feel how hard he is.

A flush of heat runs through me.

The man looks at me again, and I know he knows that I know. He smirks.

“No.” I thrash, going for his eyes again. He just ducks back into my neck, and I feel his grip move. Suddenly, his bare lips are on my throat, and my brain short-circuits.

The man laughs roughly, then bites down right above where his thumb is digging into me. I make a startled sound as a jolt of pain bursts through me. The pain is followed immediately by heat, crackling over my skin and lighting my nerve endings on fire. And then, he sucks the spot he bit, pulling the skin into his mouth and pulsing his tongue against it. My whole body stiffens, and blood immediately rushes to my dick. Pleasure shoots through me, and I’m hard.

And then I really panic.

The man grunts, letting go of the skin and biting down again, harder this time, squeezing my arteries until my ears buzz. Faintly, I feel my hand slam into the wall, then the clatter of the knife. The man shifts, kicking it away before he presses his leg between both of mine. It rubs against my dick, sending electric sparks up my body.

“You like this, straight boy?” he mutters.

“Get off me, fag.” I claw at him, trying to go dead weight and slide down the wall, but that only puts more pressure on my neck, and I’m sucking for air.

“My name’s Logan. You call me that again, and I’ll shove my dick so far up your ass you won’t even remember what you look like.”

Another bite, right under my jawline, and his hand traces down my side and to my belt line. Every part Logan touches lights up with sensation.

“No, get off me!”

“Let’s just test something out.” Logan reaches further down, and despite my struggles, I know what he’s going to feel. I know he’s going to know my body is confused.

“It’s not because of you,” I spit.

“No?” Logan sounds bored, and his hand slips under my boxers.

“No.” At this point, I’m not sure if it’s a demand or a request. Stop, or please stop? Despite everything, I’m hard as fuck, and I can feel the precum dripping out of me.

It’s just because my body is programmed to like hickeys. That’s all it is.

And then Logan’s warm hand closes around my dick, and suddenly, the world stops. It’s like every nerve ending has gone straight to my dick, and they’re on fire and ready to combust. Logan grips me hard, his hand strong and demanding, wrapping around my shaft like he owns it. It feels fucking good.

Logan chuckles. “You’re hard, Ronan.”

“It’s just a reaction,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

He jerks his hand, immediately shooting electric pleasure through me. “I think you’re hard for me.”

I’m already so riled up that I feel my dick pulse once in his hand. He must feel it too, cause he laughs again. “Oh, I’m going to have fun breaking you.”

“I’ll kill you.” I’m squeezing my eyes shut, trying to erase the feeling of his hand on my dick.

Logan’s lips go to my ear. “I’d love to see you try.”

Then he wraps both hands around my neck and squeezes till my world goes black.

FOURTEEN

Sinner - Of Virtue

9 YEARS OLD

My dad drives us back from church, and the car is silent. I’m exhausted. The service is boring, and the fellowship after is even longer. Even the donuts that I dart downstairs to inhale don’t keep me bribed for long. Mom likes to spend forever talking.

I don’t know why they like talking so much. It’s so boring.

But powdered donuts are life, so at least there’s that. Mom doesn’t let us have them at home. They’re Ember’s favorite too, and despite the fact she’s blind, she often beats me to the damn table.

“What was that about?” Ember asks. “Before children’s church.”

I frown and look out the window as we drive. They had some sort of big thing about a guy coming back to church today. Saying something about him coming back from his sins.

“God healed him, honey. Isn’t that amazing?” Mom’s voice is excited, and she leans back to watch us with her intense eyes.

I immediately look out the window. I’m not sure what Mom wants when she gets like this. Probably to remind me of how bad I am. I got whooped a few times this week because I didn’t remember how to do my math, and that made me angry. The shame makes my cheeks heat.

“What was wrong with him?” Ember asks, and I can practically hear my mom eating it up. I want to reach over there and punch Ember to get her to shut up.

“He was living in sin,” Dad says cryptically.

Ember sighs, and it’s dramatic. “What sin, Dad?”

Dad grunts, but Mom jumps in, “He was a faggot, dear.”

The car goes silent like my mom just dropped a bomb. Then, Ember’s voice pipes up, “What’s a faggot?”

Dad steps in. “It means he was gay.”

“What’s gay?”

My cheeks heat. I think being gay is something bad. My parents always act like it’s something bad, and they get all stiff. I glare at Ember for asking. Not that she can see, but I know she can tell. Everyone just lets her be nosey. She can get away with anything. I know Dad would have yelled at me by now.

“Honey,” Mom sighs. “I’ll tell you when you’re older. But it’s a sin.”

Ember crosses her arms with a huff. She’s two years younger than me and thinks she gets to know all the things I know. Mom and Dad didn’t tell me what being gay was, but I found out. It’s when two guys touch penises.

“Why can’t I know? I’m old enough.”

There’s silence for a long while, which Mom fills with a sigh, “Marriage is supposed to be between a man and a woman. Anything else is unnatural and wrong.”

“So if he left, where was he?” Ember asks.

I frown, then kick back at Ember. One of these days, Ember needs to learn to read a room. Ember crinkles her nose at me, the powdered donut evidence lightly dusted on her right cheek. “Stop.”

“Make me,” I hiss back at her.

Dad sounds tired. “We don’t allow people living in sin to come to church. Not until they’ve repented. Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

I’ve heard that a lot.

Mom takes over the conversation, asking Ember about Sunday School. She asks about the boy who’s been sitting next to her and Ember sniffs. Ember hates the little boys who follow her around. I used to try to protect her, but ever since she kicked the one kid in the privates and made him cry, I prefer to watch. Nothing like watching them get humbled by a tiny blind girl in pigtails.

Mom doesn’t ask me much about my Sunday School. I know it’s because I’m a bad kid, and I don’t enjoy giving the answers like Ember does. Ember always tries to help me, too. It’s the worst. But I’m not a bad kid. I’m just bored. I know all of these things. Mom teaches them at school.

Well, she teaches everything except being gay. Why would anyone want to touch penises? I shudder, thinking about the man coming back to church. Thinking about what he did.

I’ll be a good boy. I’ll make my parents proud. I’ll never be gay. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll realize I’ve been paying attention. Maybe they’ll say I wasn’t such a bad kid after all. Maybe they won’t stop loving me.

FIFTEEN

Dance With The Devil - Breaking Benjamin

There’s a rustling of papers, and then Sir Ellington knocks the music off my piano.

“Elli!” I jump over to help, but my bearded dragon is fine. His tail just caught the papers wrong as he crawled to his favorite spot. He stares at me, unbothered.

I move to pick up the music, mouth tripping over the word my brain knows so clearly, “S-s-scared me, dude.” He always lays in that spot on the piano, on the key cover. Like he wants me to play again. He always enjoyed it, preferring to sit on the top of the piano and soak in the music with his eyes closed.

A pang of regret runs through me, followed quickly by annoyance. “I can’t, bud. No time.” Moving back to the kitchen, I grab the frozen meal from my microwave. I’m on lunch break, and they always let me go home, so I stop by to let Ellington out of his tank every day.

I have no business owning a beardie, but I found him a few years ago out on the curb in a dirty, ten-gallon tank marked as “free.” I couldn’t let him die, so I took him in. I got the biggest tank I could find, researched the kind of lights he needed, bedding, and food, and he’s been with me ever since.

I rip the top off my lunch, checking my messages. I’ve been talking with this girl on Tinder. I don’t really want to, but I have a wedding coming up, and I need a date. My parents will be expecting a respectable woman on my arm. They hate that I’m thirty-two without a wife or even a girlfriend.

I always blame it on my stutter. No one wants to be with the guy who can’t have a normal conversation. But that’s not true. Somehow, I seem to get even more women. Like they think they can fix me or some bullshit. Well, that and I’ve always been called pretty. Not handsome. Pretty. My jawline and cheekbones are cut sharply, thanks to my mom, and I got clear skin and a smattering of freckles across my cheeks and nose from my dad. There’s not a hint of facial hair in sight, and my eyelids hang over my eyes just enough so I look like I’m always smoldering.

It sucks.

You know what also sucks? Working a job where your coworkers won’t take you seriously because they think you’re a dumb pretty boy. That and you can’t talk without tripping over all your words.

I see on my phone that the girl I’m talking to answered. She wants to know if I’m a catfish. They always do. And she wants to go out.

I let out a deep sigh and try to shake the heavy feeling in my chest. She’s pretty enough. So what’s my problem?

Suddenly, my phone rings and I panic. She’s calling me. It takes me a second to realize it’s my work phone and not the girl on Tinder. I don’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail.

Why can’t people just text?

A voicemail pops up, and I hit play as I eat my frozen lasagna.

“Hey, it’s Detective Clark from Savannah PD. I heard you were working the Summerman case. I have some information about a possible suspect, so call me back when you have a chance?”

Immediately, I focus. Civilians call with tips often enough, but other agencies? There seem to be two different kinds of cops in my area. The hardcore old-school cops who bulldoze every policy, make their own rules, and somehow get away with it. And the oblivious, rule-abiding schmucks who are just here to get their paycheck and go home. The first kind are always iffy to deal with. I haven’t quite figured out how they get away with what they do, but I don’t want to get wrapped up in an internal affairs investigation, which always seems to happen if you fuck with them and you’re not in their circle or whatever it is.

I hit redial.

She answers, “Clark.”

I say the words in my head before speaking, “Hey, it’s Dakota.” I don’t say my last name: Stewart. Unfortunately, it starts with an S and always trips me up. Because the universe has a cruel sense of humor.

“Oh, hey! Sorry if this isn’t a good time. You’re working the Summerman case?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I don’t mean to bother you, but I noticed something about that case.”

“Yeah?” I’m curious what kind of information she has. Is this some secret circle society thing? Or is she actually trying to help?

“So we’ve had a string of people go missing over here. Not dead—that we know of—but no one knows where they are. And they all have something in common, including your guy Summerman.”

Okay, I’m slightly interested.

“They’re all sex offenders that we investigated at one time or another.”

I put my fork down.

“I don’t want to place any blame because this is just a hunch, and it’s…you know. I’m not sure how to say this...”

I let her find her words. I never rush people. I hate when they rush me.

“We had this guy who used to work for us. He did most of the sex cases. He was…I don’t know. He was weird, dude. He kinda lost it before he left. Said a lot of concerning things about offing pedophiles, giving them what they deserve, you know. You know, the kind of guy who, like…fuck how do I say this without sounding awful? Like if anyone was gonna come back to the PD and shoot it up, it’d be him.”

I blink. Is she…implying that a cop killed these people?

“It’s just a hunch,” Clark hurries out. “It sounds stupid to call you about it, but your guy sounds fucking smart. The kind of smart that erases evidence. The kind of smart you get from working the job. Plus, Ronan always drove the kind of car y’all lifted the tire prints from.”

What world am I living in that we’re now accusing cops of becoming serial killers? I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“So, uh…yeah. I was going to talk to Ronan about the missing people from our county. I just wanted to call to invite you to come with me in case you wanted to talk to him, too.”

“Yeah.” Yeah, I want to go. But also, no, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to talk to another cop about killing pedophiles. Fuck, how would that conversation even go? Hey dude, you offing people in your spare time? He probably won’t even talk to us. He shouldn’t talk to us. Even if he didn’t do anything.

When I hang up, I suddenly have no interest in my food. This is the weirdest case I’ve ever worked, but how tragic if true?

No. It’s not true. I’ve grown up around cops. My dad was a cop, I’m a cop, and all my friends are cops. This would throw the biggest shit stain on all of us, regardless of who we worked for. Another bad apple, come to make the public hate us for things we didn’t do.

I toss my food in the trash. Ellington just watches me, calm as ever, from his spot on the instrument.

“Not today, Elli.” I grab him and put him back in his tank. “I don’t have fucking time.” Because the world doesn’t stop fucking things up, no matter how hard you try to keep it in line.

SIXTEEN

Holding Me Down - Picturesque

Everything comes roaring back at once. It’s like I’ve woken up in a washing machine, with the whole world spinning, my body contorted, and I can’t move. I’m stuck, and I feel like I’m circling, circling, circling.

I groan, clamping my eyes closed. Slowly, as I feel less like a crusty sock spinning circles in the wash, I remember what happened.

Shit, I’m about to die. And…something’s playing with my left ankle?

I jerk my eyes open. Logan is fiddling with my leg, tying it to the bed. It’s then that I realize I can see his face. His whole face. He has a cut jawline covered in stubble and commanding eyes, all framed by a backwards ballcap.

“Fuck,” I kick my leg. Only none of my limbs move, and my words come out muffled, like there’s something in my mouth.

“Convenient of you to leave these for me.” Logan finishes with my ankle and motions to the restraints. Heat rushes across my face as I realize he’s used my tie-downs. My sexy tie-downs.

I try to say something, but there’s definitely a gag in my mouth. The spit-soaked cloth presses all through my mouth, and I realize it’s a long sock. I want to gag. I yank my arms. Cool metal bites into my wrists, and I look to see that he has my arms cuffed far enough apart to the headboard that I can’t touch my hands together.

“Hmmm.” Logan leans over me. “Not so dangerous now, are we?”

I try to headbutt him, but he jerks back and laughs.

A mix of emotions runs through me. This is bad. Really fucking bad. I’m helpless. And that feeling makes panic surge through me.

Ronan Carter is never helpless. I always have a plan.

A loud voice in my right ear makes me jump. ‘He’s hot.’

I jerk my head to look at the voice. Buffalo is lying on his side, staring at me.

‘Like, so hot.’

Immediately, my gaze darts to Logan to see if he heard. He hasn’t turned.

I want to tell Buffalo to shut the fuck up, but when I work my mouth, the fabric moves farther back, and I gag. I can’t get it to move, and the more I move my mouth, the farther back it gets. I gag more, trying to move it.

“Don’t puke.” Logan has turned back to me, looking mad. “Don’t you dare puke.”

I try to suck in a breath to get the gagging under control, but my reflex for textures has always been strong. I’ve gagged on pussy before, and I like pussy.

“For fuck’s sake.” I feel Logan’s hot hands on the side of my face as I gag. “If you scream, I’ll tell the cops I saw you kill Summerman. Got it?”

Tears fill my eyes, and a rush of saliva hits my mouth.

“Jesus.”

Suddenly, the gag is gone.

I gag, sucking in air and trying to lean over in case I puke. But as soon as I can tell there’s nothing in my mouth, the urge to hurl goes down.

“If you make any noise, I’ll call the cops.” Logan grabs my chin, yanking it to look at him. His fingers dig my cheeks into my teeth. His nostrils are flared, and his blue eyes are pissed. “Got it?”

‘Why is it that they’re hotter when they’re mad?’ Buffalo’s voice has gone croony.

“Shut up.” The words come out slurred before I can stop them. Logan’s eyes widen for a second before his fist crashes down into my face.

I groan, the burst of pain only rattling my brain further.

This is a dream, right? You can still feel pain in dreams?

“Anything else to say?” Logan’s voice is soft and mocking in my ear.

I just test my restraints. The cuffs are tightened enough that there’s no way I can slip out of them.

“What were you trying to do, hmmm, Ronan?” Suddenly, one of Logan’s hot hands traces down my chest. My bare chest.

“Were you going to frame me for Summerman? Is that what you were doing?”

His fingers barely brush my skin. Goosebumps prickle over my arms.

“Thought you could take your competition out? Or were you just trying to make me miserable showing up and looking like that?”

His one hand is getting dangerously close to the waistband of my boxers. The other hand is in his own clothes, stroking himself.

“Get off me.” Panic rushes through me. I can’t move. I can’t move, and I’m trapped.

“I think you were.” Logan grabs something from the floor, and when he comes back up, he has my knife.

I suck in a breath and thrash. I need to get the fuck away. To kill this fucker. I’m never helpless. I’m a fucking cop. I’m always in control.

“Shhhh.” Logan gets up on the bed and swings his leg over my hips, sitting on me and crushing me into the bed.

“Fuck off.” I spit at him, sucking in a deep breath to call for help when his heavy hand clamps over my mouth. The same hand that was just in his pants.

“You’ve done a few stupid things, but that might be your stupidest. Don’t worry, I’ll only hurt you a little. For now.”

I lock gazes with him, and his pupils widen. Logan traces the knife down my chest. “What message should I leave for the people who find your body?”

His hand is pressed up to my nose, and I have to suck in air past his fingers.

“Well, on second thought, they won’t find you.” He looks off to the side like he’s talking to himself. “I’ve left too much DNA. It’ll just be between us, hmmm? I’ll find you a nice little place to rot. Maybe take a page out of your book?”

Logan’s weight is immovable. I can barely move my arms, and he’s taken away my voice. I strain and struggle, but I’m helpless. There’s nothing I can do.

My entire body washes in dread. It’s happening again. Something bad is happening, and I can’t stop it.

This time, I do vomit. I turn, and Logan moves his hand just in time for me to puke onto the mattress. My entire body heaves, trying to get the wave of memories out. Get them out, out. We aren’t helpless. We aren’t.

“Jesus.” Logan braces like he’s going to hit me again, then he jumps off me. “Fuck!” He pulls his hair, yanking it out of his head like he’s in distress. “Why are you doing this to me?” He snatches my meds off the nightstand.

I shudder as I try to come down from it. My whole body is hot.

“Take this.” Logan shakes a pill out and shoves it in my mouth.

I blink.

“Fucking take it.” Logan clamps my mouth closed with his meaty hand.

I’m still heaving for breath. I can’t move my arms. I can’t move my body. I can’t protect myself.

“For the love of god. Swallow,” Logan demands.

The bitter pill sits on my tongue, and I try to swallow. It’s like swallowing chalk, but it goes down.

“You fucking dick.” Logan’s back on top of me, throwing a blanket on the puke. Then the knife is back at my chest. “I’m not gonna kill you yet. You’ve done too much to get off that easy.”

There’s screaming in the room. It’s a panicked voice, and I realize it’s Buffalo. ‘The hottie is going to kill you! Get away!’

Suddenly, there’s a bite of pain in my skin, radiating through my chest in a burst. It takes my breath away, and I jerk my gaze to my chest. The knife is in my chest.

The horrifying reality that I’m going to die washes over me. Oddly, it’s followed by a wash of peace. I can’t do anything about it now. I’m dead, and there’s no controlling it.

It’s not that I fear death itself. I figured I wouldn’t live long. But in my mind, I was going out in a blaze of glory. Giving the middle finger to the cops and dying as a hero.

The ripping, burning pain rushes through me, centering me again. And when I look down, I realize Logan isn’t stabbing me. He’s carving me.

And with that realization, my fight comes back.

“Relax,” Logan growls, frowning in concentration. “You sit worse than my bitch-ass clients.”

“You’re cutting me!” I feel a hot drip of blood drip down my chest, sliding into my armpit.

Logan just grunts, the knife cutting into my skin like liquid fire. The more I move, the worse it hurts.

‘Ask for a kiss before you die.’ Buffalo’s voice is a mix of panic and excitement, making things worse.

I heave for breath, focusing on the pain. The pain brings clarity. If all I focus on is the pain, it’ll be okay. I can manage that.

When Logan gets off me, I look down, trying to look at what he cut. It’s a word, and I struggle to read it backwards.

“Dead.” Logan stares at me, telling me what he carved into me, and for a second, his look is haunted. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

I heave for breath, focusing on the burning. The burning that’s keeping me grounded. I know it’s not likely that I’ll live through the next few minutes. But if I can’t control anything else, I’ll go out while running my mouth. “And you will be as soon as I get away, twink.”

Slowly, Logan smirks. When he looks at me again, the haunted look is gone. The asshole is back. His gaze goes from chill to pissed. He sneers, “Somehow, I don’t think I’m the only fag in this room right now.”

Suddenly, Logan uses the knife to slice through my boxers. He rips the pieces away, leaving me naked. He’s looking at my dick, which is soft.

I feel laid bare and desperate to distract him from anything that has to do with my dick. “You’re not my competition,” I snarl. “I didn’t know you existed before Summerman.”

Logan just smirks, grabbing my dick.

“You’re the one copying me.”

My jabs don’t stop him. His big, strong hand grips my shaft, jerking it slowly. He licks his lips, watching me, his gaze cruel.

Logan’s hand is on my dick, and I can’t stop it. I run my mouth, trying to bring back the tortured version of him I saw a bit ago. He may have been cutting me, but at least he wasn’t looking like he was going to eat me. I sputter, “You were trying to copy me. You’re so obsessed with me; it’s pitiful.”

Logan traces his free hand down my thigh, making goosebumps erupt on my skin. It’s so soft and attentive, and his strokes are just enough to remind my body that he’s there. That there’s nothing I can do about it.

Against my will, my body starts to wake up. I slam my eyes shut and focus on my chest. On the blood that’s drying there. The sticky blood. The–

Logan jerks me hard, and I groan, snapping my eyes back up to meet his. He winks at me. “You’re hard already.”

I knew that. I just tried to ignore it. “You’re jacking me off! Of course I am.” I jerk on my arms again, only to get stopped by the metal again.

Logan just laughs. “It’ll be pretty gay when a man makes you come.”

“I will not–”

Logan leans down, his hot mouth so close to my dick I can feel his breath. I freeze. Is he going to put my dick in his mouth? A wild mix of emotions fills me.

Slowly, Logan lowers his head so my dick is on his cheek. “Feel that?” He glances at me, his gaze hooded.

I feel it. His cheek is rough and stubbly. His hand continues to pull sensations out of me, and pleasure is starting to curl up inside me. I close my eyes again, but he’s still there. All over. His hand and his stubble, all over my sensitive dick, the pleasure and prickle warring for sensation.

“Feel me on you? That’s a man getting you off, Ronan. A fag.”

Suddenly, he spits on my dick. Then, he switches his hands, leaving one squeezing at the base while the other jerks me off, his hand repeatedly rounding over the sensitive part of my dick. Against my will, my abs contract, seeking sensation.

There’s a laugh, but I don’t open my eyes. I won’t submit to this. This is my body doing what it’s meant to do, nothing more.

But it feels like more. Every nerve ending is alive, and my skin feels hot. I feel more sensitive than I’ve ever been before. Every squeeze of fingers against my dick is infusing pleasure into me. The heat of his hand charges like an electrical pulse. It’s powerful and potent, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“That’s a good little fag. Can’t help yourself, can you, slut?”

I snap my eyes open, but that’s a mistake ‘cause Logan is grinning at me like he won. His teeth are straight and white, and his smile is mean.

“Feel good to force yourself on someone else?” I snarl.

Logan arches an eyebrow and lets go of my dick. It falls against my stomach, hard and throbbing. “You look pretty into it to me.”

“What part of no don’t you understand?” I struggle again, riled up. My dick just wants to come, but I want to do anything but.

“Hmmm. You can be in denial all you want, but your dick wants me.” Logan grabs me up again, this time picking up the pace and stroking me in a brutal tempo.

Pleasure wraps me up, and I feel my balls drawing up.

“That’s a good boy. Grit your teeth for your master.”

Immediately, I loosen my jaw. I focus on anything but the sensations. Anything but, or I’ll explode all over his hand. But he plays me. Over and over, never letting me fully escape the sensation. It winds me up to a place of overstimulation. It feels so good it hurts. All the blood has gone to my dick. Everything is centered around it.

So it comes as a shock when Logan hits it with an open-handed strike.

I groan, trying to double over. But just as fast as the pain hits, pleasure follows right behind it. My entire body locks up, and I slam my eyes shut.

“Open your eyes.”

“Make me,” I grit out, “fucker.”

“I’ll cut your dick off.”

I snap my gaze to his. Logan looks focused, jerking me firmly. I feel the overwhelming curl of pleasure coming, and I can’t stop it. Instinctually, my body rises to meet his thrusts, and then I’m coming. I explode all over his hand and my abs, shooting out pulse after pulse of cum. Pleasure fills my body, and my abs spasm, rocked with the force. The orgasm is powerful. So much more powerful than anything I’ve had.

Logan strokes me through it. When I start to come down, I close my eyes, unable to process what just happened.

“Good boy,” Logan says softly, then his hand is gone from my dick.

I’m left laying on the bed, with blood drying on my chest and sticky cum all over my abs. After the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had—given by someone who wants to kill me.

SEVENTEEN

Hush Now - VIOLA

11 YEARS OLD

If I try to fight Mom, she’ll just hold me down.

I turn and stare at the wall. This corner of the room, right by my closet, is where she always whoops my ass. I guess it’s where she can get the most room for her swing.

“Pants,” she demands.

My face is hot, and my hands are shaking, but I do as she says. What other choice do I have? She wants me to take my pants down so it hurts more.

Peeking a glance back, she has the thick, leather ‘spanker’s stick’ Mom just bought. The one her Jesus people told her to buy. A special brand for bad kids.

My legs feel like jelly, and I want to run. But I can’t stop the fact she’s going to hit me. Right before she does, there’s always a moment of panic despite the fact she’s been doing this for years now.

I hate myself for that moment of panic.

But there’s nothing I can do. I brace myself and close my eyes. The first hit comes with a harsh sting, but it’s not as hard as she hit yesterday. Immediately, relief washes over me. I won’t make a sound this time.

Mom hits me four more times. Five spankings for my attitude. One for each time I said, “I don’t know,” with the wrong tone or threw my pencil.

When the hitting is done, I pull my pants back up, glancing at Mom. She hates it when I don’t react, hates when I don’t get mad like her. Says it’s clear I didn’t learn, or she didn’t hit me hard enough.

“What do you say?” Mom demands in her church voice.

“Sorry.” My voice is monotone, but I put just enough inflection in it so she doesn’t hit me again. It’s an art with Mom. Sometimes, she accepts it; sometimes, she hits me more.

“Now.” Mom puts the stick down by my desk. “Let’s try again.”

We do. I still don’t understand the math problem, and it still makes me mad. The more I don’t understand, the more frustrated Mom gets with me. The more I feel stupid. The more I want to cry.

But boys don’t cry.

Finally, Mom throws the pencil down. “Let’s take a break.” She stomps out of the room, and I sit at my desk, my chest tight.

I’m stupid. I know I should get this, but I don’t, and now Mom won’t be proud when she talks to Dad tonight.

A bolt of fear rushes through me. If Mom’s mad when she talks to Dad, he’ll yell at me. I hate when he yells at me. Sometimes, he whoops me, too.

Suddenly, I have an idea. I slip downstairs, trying to be quiet so Mom can’t hear me, then move to the basement. In the basement, I have all my crafts. Down there, I spend my break making a poster board with rainbow markers. The poster says how much I love my mom and how sorry I am. I put a drawing of Jesus on there, so maybe she’ll be willing to forgive me. I cry a little, making it, which makes me even more mad. Why doesn’t she love me?

Because I’m bad. I’m bad, and I can’t stop.

I take the drawing upstairs and give it to Mom. She smiles at me then, kissing me on the top of my head. My chest feels lighter, but that’s followed immediately by a weird heat in my cheeks and the feeling that everyone is glaring at me. I want to run upstairs and grab my stuffed bunny and hide my face in it. But Mom said boys don’t keep stuffed animals. That they’re for ‘faggots’ and she’ll be damned if her son turns into a she boy.

I need to throw it out.

My chest hurts. I didn’t make a sound when Mom hit me, but I still lost. I still lost, and I’m still helpless, just like I’ve been for years.

I just want someone to save me. Someone to make me safe.

EIGHTEEN

Zzz - Diggy Graves

‘You’ll be okay, fucker,’ Buffalo whispers in my ear. ‘You’ve always saved yourself. So do it fucking again.’

I clear my throat. Logan has stepped out of the bedroom. I know he’s still here because I haven’t heard him leave, but I’m not sure what he’s doing. “Hey, uh. The bed is nasty.”

Silence.

“Please, I’m sticky. I hate being sticky.” I can feel it all over my skin. The cum has since dried, and it’s sticking to me, stretching my skin in the way I hate. The blood is still dripping, leaving sticky trails down my chest, and it makes me want to itch my chest off. The sticky feeling is worse than the pain.

“Please,” I try to add inflection to my voice to make it less monotone. “Can I at least wipe down?”

Nothing.

I try another route. “I can smell the puke. It’s…making me sick.”

There’s a harsh groan, and then I hear movement. Logan comes back into the room, and I’m struck by how smoothly he moves. He’s all power and strength coiled up into a tall, 6’2 frame. It makes me want to fight him, but fighting him hasn’t worked.

Let’s be honest. When has fighting ever worked in my life? It’s just gotten my ass beaten harder. So, it’s time to take a different route. Even the thought makes me feel sick.

‘You’re still in control,’ Buffalo says. ‘It just looks different.’

It doesn’t feel like control. It feels sickening.

Logan walks up to me and grabs at my left cuff.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“Shut up.”

‘We can shoot out his pretty eyes later.’

Buffalo may be an ass, but he’s my ass.

There’s a snick, and Logan looks down at me. “It’s just to change your sheets. Don’t get any ideas.”

Oh, ideas will be had. But I nod.

Once my left hand is free, Logan moves down to my left ankle. Slowly, so as not to piss him off, I move my hand to my stomach and scrub at the cum there. Relief floods me as some of it flakes off my skin.

“Stop moving,” he barks.

Reluctantly, I slow. “Sorry. It’s just…it’s sticky.”

“Jesus, okay, princess.” Logan throws the soiled blankets on the ground. The sheets under are also soaked in puke. He makes a huff and pops the corner sheets. Moving to the other side of the bed, Logan yanks at the sheets to get them out from under me.

“Roll,” he demands.

I do as much as I can. As he moves, I see a tattoo on his wrist at the edge of his blackout sleeve. It catches my attention and looks like the symbol of a video game that was popular when I was a teen.

Logan moves to the bathroom, and when he comes back, I see it again. I didn’t play the game much, but I latch onto something, anything to talk to him about.

“You a gamer?” I ask.

Logan tosses a wet pillowcase at me. “Wash.”

I grab it eagerly, scrubbing at my stomach. “I used to play. I couldn’t get past the level with the horse.”

Logan glances down at his arm, then scratches at it like he wants to get rid of it.

I look at him. Really look at him. His other arm is covered in tattoos up to his sleeves. I imagine they go farther up onto his chest.

Logan says, “Stop trying to suck up. Face your death like a man.”

Pain lances through my chest, and my face starts to get red. Suddenly, I’m a kid again, and my parents hate me. And I can’t do anything about it.

It fuels my rage. My body gets hot, and I tense up. But, like always, I can’t do anything about it.

NINETEEN

KEEP EM SCREAMING - Pyrrhic

That riled Ronan up.

Good. It’s about time he suffers just as much as I am. I meant to cover the tattoo on my wrist a long time ago. I just…couldn’t. And now my weakness is getting me hurt all over again. It’s like Ronan is digging his fingers into my wound and ripping it open.

Ronan glares at me. “Be a man, you say? Does it make you feel like a man to tie people down so it’s not a fair fight?” His whole body is tense, his muscles coiled. Like he wants to get up and deck me. But the handcuff is holding him still. “Oh, I bet it makes you feel like a big man, doesn’t it? Is this the only way you can get any action?”

My gut clenches. I get action. I can get any guy I want on his knees in front of me, begging me to do more. I may never let them do more, but they always want it.

Any guy except Greyson.

I drop my hand to Ronan’s neck, squeezing. “You want to talk about the action I don’t get, hmmm? When’s the last time you fucked someone?”

Ronan’s face is twisted in disgust. “Never against their will, fucker. I can see why no one wants you, you twisted fuck.”

It cuts straight to the gut. It’s like Ronan knows. I know he knows how weak I am. His hazel eyes bore into me, and his face is getting red. I yank my hand away from his neck like it’s burning me.

The hatred that’s already rolling around in my gut stirs up. “You’re acting awful judgmental for someone who kills people for a living.”

“I have my reasons,” Ronan spits.

“Tell me.” It shouldn’t matter to me why Ronan kills. None of this should matter to me. Why the hell does it matter to me?

“Not unless you get me a drink, fucker.” He fists the pillowcase.

“You’ll tell me now or so help me, I’ll end you right fucking now.”

“So help me?” Ronan gives a crazed laugh. “Who’s Shakespeare now? You’re already going to end me, so what do I care? I don’t want to die thirsty.”

I balance on the edge of killing him now and being done with it. But what does it hurt me to get him a drink? He’ll tell me why he kills, then I’ll kill him and be done with it. End of story.

I march to the kitchen, banging around and trying to find a cup. Where the hell does he keep his cups? There’s empty cabinet after empty cabinet before I finally find the one that has exactly one cup, two bowls, a plate, and a fork.

Jesus.

I snatch it up, fill it with sink water, and go back to the room. Shoving the cup at him, I snarl, “Talk.”

He struggles to prop himself up, ending up half-propped and still completely attached to the bed. At first, he guzzles the water like he’s dying. Then, after a few gulps, he eyes me and slows down.

I hate the tiny twinge of guilt I feel watching him. Immediately, I clench my jaw to ignore the feeling, hard enough to be uncomfortable. “Talk.”

“Tap water? That’s my final meal?”

“You don’t have to drink it. I could waterboard you with it.”

Ronan’s nostrils flair, and oddly, his pupils widen. Suddenly, he looks around, then at the floor, and hisses, “No.”

What the hell? I look where he’s looking. That stuffed animal is there, lying face down.

Oookay. I cross my arms. “You have till the count of three.”

“Oh, cool, I’m a kid again.” Ronan narrows his eyes.

“One.” My knife—or rather his knife—is still in my pocket. I could kill him right here. Although I’d prefer not to. It’s too hard to move a body once it’s already dead.

“Two.”

“Okay!” Ronan grips the glass so hard his fingers are white. “I kill pedos. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Suddenly, all I can focus on is Ronan. His hazel eyes and pale skin. The ring of green and brown immediately looks so serious.

“Kiddie lovers, chomos, pastors, grandpas, dads, brothers...”

He’s rattling on, but the ringing in my ears gets too loud to hear him.

He kills pedophiles. The same people I kill.

No he doesn’t. That can’t be true. He’s just saying that. He stalked me and found out about me. He’s just trying to get under my skin.

Anger boils through me. How dare he make a mockery of this? Snatching the knife out of my pocket, I put it against Ronan’s neck. “What are their names?”

“What?” His eyes widen, and he freezes.

“The victims.” There’s no way he can know that. He can’t know who wrote those letters to Santa to save them from Summerman.

“Why? So you can find them?” Ronan’s eyes narrow. “You’ll have to kill me, motherfucker, ‘cause I’ll never tell you.”

“Your wish is my command.” I snarl. “Get up. We’re going for a drive.”

Suddenly, Ronan throws the rest of the water in the glass on me. For a second, I’m stunned. Ronan is too, just staring at me with wide eyes.

Then, that gives me an idea. I storm to the kitchen and pour him a shot of laced tequila. I don’t want him completely out. Just a little bit. Ronan’s a big guy, and wrestling him out of this fucking apartment won’t go well for me.

I bring it back for him, and he eyes me with that hazel gaze.

I glare at him. “A real drink. One last hurrah.”

Ronan’s eyes bounce between mine, searching. I just stare at him, feeling dead inside. This has to happen. There’s no other way.

“Fine,” I move as if I’m taking the shot away.

“No.” He reaches out and downs the shot.

Suddenly, there’s knocking. Wait, knocking? I drop down over Ronan, instinctively getting low. The knocking continues. Coming from…the front door?

Christ. Before he can fight, I grab Ronan’s free arm and re-cuff it to the bed. Then, I gag him again. Ronan fights, but there’s only so much he can do with both hands restrained.

Then, I grab my gun and head for the door.

Just as I get there, there’s another knock. I walk up softly, peeking through the peephole, and my world slows. Outside stand two cops. One is a woman, clearly gay, with short cropped dark hair, and objectively attractive, I guess—if you’re into that kind of thing. The other—Christ. I’m not sure he’s real for a second. He’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. He looks delicate and feminine and stunning. Not like a pig at all.

Both cops look at each other. Pretty Boy looks over his shoulder and the woman shrugs. Her voice comes muffled. “Must not be home.” She starts to walk away.

Pretty Boy looks at the door, and for a second, it feels like he looks right at me with those amber eyes. My heart stands still, the gun heavy in my hand.

Don’t make me shoot you. Please.

Finally, he also steps away, following after the first officer.

I let out a tiny breath, and a confusing flood of emotions fills me. What the hell is going on? I’m going from fucking around with my enemy to praying to not have to shoot a cop? I’m getting weak.

Anger flows through me. I storm back to the bedroom, finding Ronan just lying there. The drugs must be kicking in already, considering he had an empty stomach.

“You called them,” I hiss, stuffing the gun back into my waistband and shoving Ronan around to look for the phone. “You fucking called them.”

His words come out muffled. I yank the gag off.

“Who was it?” His eyes are wide, his pupils unnaturally big.

“Fucking cops.” I throw the gag across the room. This makes my life a million times harder. I want to hurt something. Anything. I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted to mourn the loss of⁠—

I clench my teeth. This isn’t helping anything. I peek outside the window. The cops are getting into an unmarked, white vehicle.

“Cops?” A hint of panic comes through Ronan’s lethargic slur.

“Yes, cops.” I whirl.

Ronan struggles weakly. “What did they want?”

“You, I presume.” I glare at him.

“Untie me. What did they look like?” He yanks his hands slowly. “Logan, untie me.”

“I don’t know.” I cross my arms. “One was a girl, the other a guy around your age.”

“No, I mean,” he yanks comically slowly, “what uniforms did they have on? Dumbass.”

I glance outside again. “Casual. Just a belt and a badge.”

Ronan’s voice gets a tiny hint of a shrill tone. “Detectives? Fuck…Fuck, fuck, fuck. Let me go, Logan.”

“You need to chill,” I snap.

He doesn’t. I wait until the car has pulled away, watching it go down the street and around the corner. And still, I wait some more. Ronan protests for a little bit until the drugs fully hit his system, and he falls silent. Finally, after nervously pacing back and forth and back and forth, I move to untie Ronan.

This place isn’t safe for me. I can’t leave his body here, alive or dead. I don’t have great options. It’s kill Ronan here and leave his body and my DNA in a place the cops are already sniffing around, or take him somewhere secluded and do it there.

I know the perfect place.

But that would mean I’d have to do something I swore I would never do again: bring someone home.

TWENTY

Fight Fire With Gasoline - Self Deception

Ronan is compliant and loopy. He leans heavily on me when I uncuff him from the bed, his warm, hard body draping over me. The contact immediately makes me hard, which just pisses me off more. Thankfully, Ronan is too out of it to notice. I cuff him behind his back, find some sweats, and throw them on him, then pull a hoodie over him so it’s not obvious. He’s chill during, giving a soft laugh once that makes his abs clench. Which makes me clench. Why in the hell did this fucker have to be so hot?

But once we get out of the bedroom, Ronan stiffens. “Buffalo.”

“C’mon.” I try to shoulder him towards the front door, but he just digs his heels in. “Buffalo.”

Christ, if the man isn’t fucking heavy, dropping his weight back into me.

“You know what, fucking fine.” I let him push back, but he stumbles into the room, barely staying upright.

“No, stay up.” I grab the stuffed animal, handing it to his cuffed hands before he falls down and can’t get back up. Ronan’s face lights up with a soft smile, and it stops me in my tracks. He looks vulnerable.

Shaking my head, I nudge him back to the front door, and he’s pliable again. I make sure I have his meds, and then I wrangle Ronan downstairs and into my car.

He’s quiet for the drive. In fact, the farther we go, the less he reacts.

The closer we get to my place, the more tense I get. My place is secluded. It’s a trailer out in the country, on the ‘mother-in-law’ plot of land next to the old farmhouse. I used to have neighbors, but both were elderly and moved to a nursing home. So now it’s just me, out in the isolated, empty farmland. A perfect place for a kill.

When we roll up, Ronan stays silent, just sitting there in his sweats with the hoodie over his shoulders. I can see his fucking abs creeping down into his Adonis belt.

“Get out.”

He doesn’t even look around. I stare at him. “Get the fuck out, Ronan.”

He barely shifts. “Gonna shoot me inside or outside?”

I blink. The man who was once so full of fire and hatred just stares at the glove box in front of him. It’s fucking unsettling. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to fucking fight me. Plus, I don’t know the answer to his question.

I get out, slamming my door and coming around to his. Yanking it open, I grab Ronan by the arm and pull him out. He somehow manages to keep a grip on the stuffed animal, taking it with him, which oddly makes a twinge run through me. He looks like an overgrown kid clinging to his toy.

Fuck. Why am I being soft?

“Ronan.” I jerk him roughly. “Wake up.”

This is wrong. He’s not acting right. I need him to fight me. To make me mad so I can pull the goddamn, motherfucking trigger.

The spring air whips around us, making goosebumps shiver across my skin. “Come on.” I yank Ronan toward my house. I want to be warm when I do this.

Fumbling with the keys, I get Ronan yanked up on the tiny porch beside me. He just waits. Oddly, fear enters my gut. The last time I had someone over, it ended horribly. It ended in my heart crashing and burning. It ended in the death of a piece of me.

But Ronan isn’t Greyson. Not even close. Even still, I can’t get the odd feeling to go away.

“Get inside.” Once the door is open, I shove Ronan in. He stumbles a bit but barely glances around. My trailer isn’t new by any means. But I’ve spent a lot of time renovating it and making it mine. There’s an open-concept floor plan as soon as you come in, with the living room off to the left and a kitchen right beyond it. The floors are all gray hardwood, and I have all kinds of plants in pots around the ground and hanging from the ceiling. I’ve put lamps and overhead lighting everywhere there isn’t natural light. The place practically sparkles, but I can’t help but notice the shoes on the floor and the hoodie I left strewn out on the couch. It looks messy.

“Sit.” I shove Ronan down on the couch. He obeys, and it gets under my skin even more.

“Inside then, huh?” Ronan closes his eyes. “Just, do me a favor…yeah?” He’s still talking slowly, but he’s not slurring. So I know he’s not that fucked up. He says, “Don’t get any blood on Buffalo. He doesn’t like it.”

I stare at him. Ronan just adjusts the stuffie so he’s on the couch next to him. My skin feels hot. Why is he so chill about this? Does he want to die?

“You so eager to go, Carter?”

He just shifts his shoulders. “I figured I’d go sometime in the next few months anyway.”

He doesn’t care if he dies. He doesn’t care.

My heart races and my skin gets clammy. Why does he not care? What about his family? Friends? The people who care about him? Does he not care how this will impact them?

“Fuck you, Ronan.” My words come out low and full of hatred.

He chuckles, not even opening his eyes. “You sound like my ex.”

“Take this seriously.” I stalk toward him, grabbing his jaw and yanking his face up so that when his eyes open, he’s looking at me.

“You have a pretty face, you know that?” Ronan blinks slowly, one eye closing before the other. “Buffalo wanted you to know that.”

“You’re fucked up.” I throw him back, stepping back away from him. It’s happening again. It’s all happening again.

And it’ll all be my fault. Again.

TWENTY-ONE

Voodoo - VOILA

It feels like the air around me is full of hugs. I feel light. Happy. Tired, but not. But, if this is how I go, it’s a lot more peaceful than I expected it to be. Peaceful with a slight burning in my chest—like I laid on the toaster. What the fuck? When did I do that?

There’s the sound of banging, and I peek my eyes open. Logan messes around in the kitchen, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the noise. My hands are buzzing. I can feel them, but I’m not sure where they are. Are they behind me? Do I still have them? Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

“Eat.” Logan’s voice is right in front of me. I crack my eyes open. His crotch is right there, and I stare at it for a second. There’s a bulge in his jeans, looking me right in the eyes.

I force myself to look up. Logan looks pissed. He always looks pissed. It’s a hot look.

“I don’t eat dick,” I mutter. “Or ass.” Although, maybe I would. In another life, of course. It would have to be clean. A clean asshole. Squeaky clean. My tongue would have to make squeaks on it.

I giggle.

Something smacks on my cheek, and I didn’t realize I closed my eyes until they’re open again. Logan smacks my cheek again. “Wake up.” I notice he’s holding a sandwich.

I frown. “Not hungry.”

“Too bad.” Suddenly, Logan’s weight drops on my lap, and I try to keep my eyes open. Logan is sitting on my lap.

‘What the fuck?’ Buffalo has perked all the way up. ‘Lap dance before we die?’

I laugh at Buffalo, and then blue eyes are in my face. “Open.”

I focus on those eyes. They’re light blue, with streaks of gray running through them. They’re pretty. So fucking pretty.

Something brushes my mouth, and I open it while watching those commanding eyes.

“Good boy.”

Something is pressed in my mouth, and I look down. It’s the sandwich.

Some odd part of me is disappointed, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

I don’t want the food, but he’s pressing it into my mouth. I take a bite just to get rid of it, chew, then swallow.

“What is that?” I mutter.

“Peanut butter and jelly. You need to wake up.”

“I’m fine.” But that’s a lie. The hugs are in the air, everything feels happy, and I’m thinking some things about Logan on my lap. Things that are making my dick hard.

“Open.” Logan’s voice has become croony. Or maybe that’s just me. Or maybe it’s just Buffalo. Either way, I like it. It wraps around me and warms me.

So, I open for Logan and take another bite. He’s sitting on me, all solid and heavy and smelling like aftershave and peanut butter, and it makes my dick throb. I shift, trying to get comfortable, but the ache in my groin doesn’t go away.

“Stop.” Logan’s looking down at me. He looks pissed, but there’s a hint of amusement there too. “Just eat.”

I smile at him. I’m not sure why, but I like that tiny glimpse I caught of him. Maybe we could have been friends in another life.

Logan feeds me the rest of the sandwich, and I close my eyes again. The world is spinning round and round, the water circling the drain, and I’m the turd caught up in it.

The room is dimmer when I open my eyes again, and I’m less stoned. Immediately, I feel how stiff my arms are, and I groan, trying to get some feeling back into them. Pins and needles shoot through me, and I realize I have bread still stuck in my teeth. I’m also slammed with pain lancing through my chest.

“You’re up.”

I jump at the deep voice. It runs across my skin like a command, giving me goosebumps. I see Logan then. He’s on the other side of the L-shaped couch, watching me.

I groan, shifting my arms again. “My wrists. They hurt.” And my chest. Could be from the fucking knife wounds, but I’m no doctor.

“That’s what happens when they’re cuffed. You were a cop; I thought you knew that.”

I stare over at him. Logan is leaning back, looking relaxed but alert. He looks like a big cat, ready to spring at any time.

“Fuck, man.” I shake my head, looking around again. This place is nice. It’s clean. It also looks like someone shook a home decor magazine, and all the little pieces fell into place on his walls.

“What’s with the Buffalo?” Logan jerks his head at the stuffie, which is still beside me on the couch.

I shake my head. “He’s a highland cow.”

There’s no response. I glance up to see Logan looking at me with an eyebrow raised. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “What’s up with that?”

I groan, wanting to rub my hands over my face. I feel sweaty. Sweaty and dirty and not quite right in the head. And fuck you, before you say anything, I know I’m not right in the head. But right now, my head feels like a jar of jelly. And the jar of jelly feels like it’s stuffed with faintly buzzing bees. Nothing is hurting, nothing is anything. Just faint humming caught behind a buffer.

I close my eyes and sigh. “I don’t know, man. I woke up one day, and the thing was talking to me.”

More silence.

‘Tell him I want to see his dick.’

I jerk my eyes open and glare at Buffalo. That doesn’t dissuade him, though. He just huffs, ‘I bet it’s big.’

“What did he say?”

I jump, looking at Logan again. He’s looking like he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh, he’s a stuffed animal. He didn’t say anything.” I narrow my eyes at Logan.

Logan just shakes his head, taking his ball cap off to readjust it. He mutters in a low voice, “What am I doing?”

I look around for who he might be talking to. Do we both have imaginary friends?

Suddenly, Logan’s head snaps up, fixing me with a hard stare. “Why weren’t you going to make it past the next month?”

I blink at him. I said that? Logan continues staring. I remember thinking it but not saying it. Whatever.

I sigh and lean forward to relieve the ache in my wrists. “I don’t know, man. You know the…hobbies I have. I don’t exactly have a long shelf life.”

Logan fires back, “That’s bullshit.”

I raise my eyebrows. It’s bullshit? No, it's practical. I figured, at some point, someone would get the best of me. That or the cops would try to take me to prison, and I’d just off myself then.

Fuck that. My heart rate picks up, and I feel the panic racing through my veins. The cops were at my house. They’re going to try and stop me! They can’t stop me. No one else will mop up pedo brains.

Fuck, I feel the panic sinking in. I try and suck in deep breaths, looking around at Logan’s house. At least, I presume this is his home. It doesn’t look like a killing shack. Too clean.

When I look back at Logan, he’s back to the angry version of himself, like somehow I fucked something up.

I am pretty good at that. This time though, I’m really not sure how. Add to the list of things I never want to do again: piss off some hot, grumpy serial killer. Expedite my shelf life from a can of beans to an opened jar of mayo.

I need to write that one down. I glance around, looking for my phone. Then, I remember I don’t have my phone.

Fuck. The buzzing. I can’t think straight.

“I’m tired.” Logan stands up, tracing his hands down his thighs as he does so. “Get up.”

I try to shake my head clear. Is this where he kills me? The air still feels happy and bubbly.

Suddenly, Logan’s hot hand is on my arm, and he is yanking me up.

“Don’t.” I fight, but I can’t feel my arms. My body feels like lead, and my head throbs.

“Don’t fight me. It just turns me on.” Logan drags me past the kitchen and down the hall. We turn into a bedroom that looks just as put together as the rest of the house. There’s a large king-size bed that takes up almost the whole room.

“No.” I try to yank away, but Logan just shoves me onto the bed so I’m on my stomach. His voice comes hot in my ear, “As much as you want to be in bed with me, you’re going on the floor. I’m going to uncuff your hands and put them around the bedpost. And you’re gonna let me do that, or I’ll hurt you. Got it?”

A million thoughts run through my head. Logan isn’t killing me right now. He isn’t killing me? That’s good. That’s fucking good. Right?

“Ronan,” there’s a warning in his voice.

“Uh…”

Suddenly, Logan’s hand is in my hair, and he’s yanking my head back and exposing my neck to him. “All you need to do is say okay and relax.”

I didn’t even realize my whole body was tense. For a second, I stay that way. But really, I have no control in this situation until I can get part of my body back. Forcefully, I make myself relax.

“Good boy.” Logan’s voice goes back to that croony tone, only Buffalo isn’t here to say it, so it’s definitely coming from him. Or it’s in my head. Oddly, it does something for me.

I scowl as the cuffs are unlocked.

“No,” the warning is back. “Why’d you tense? Relax.”

Logan still has control of both my arms. So I do. And as soon as I do, my world is suddenly flipped. In the next second, I’m on my back on the floor with the wind knocked out of me. I try to suck in a breath as Logan drops on top of my chest and yanks my arms up.

“Wait.” I try to pull away, but my arms explode in pins and needles. I groan at the pain.

“There.” Logan gets off me, and I realize he’s cuffed both hands to the place where the bedpost meets the floor.

“Logan…” I try to pull away, but he’s going to the small closet and pulling something out. Rope. He ignores me and starts tying my ankles to each other and then to the bed.

“I can’t feel my wrists.” I try to move my arms to get some feeling back.

“Suck it up, princess.” Logan finishes with my ankles, then moves up my body and looks at my wrists. “They’re fine.”

“I can’t feel them.” Correction, I can feel them—barely. But they fucking hurt. They’re on fire like someone has stuck a hundred burning hot toothpicks into the bones.

Logan just grunts and jumps into the bed. “I’m sleeping, you annoying fuck. Keep it down, and I won’t drug you again.”

I frown. “You can’t just keep me here! You can’t drug me!” I shake my body, testing the ties.

Silence.

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“Fuck you too, Ronan.”

I hate this fucker. Because he can keep me here. He can drug me. Because I let him get control.

Somehow, I can never keep myself safe. How is it that I am never safe? My chest hurts.

No one is ever safe. Not even the ones I try to protect.

I want Buff.

TWENTY-TWO

HELLBOUND - Autumn Kings

Despite every good intention to wake Logan up every thirty minutes, I also pass out. But not before I bitch and moan about Buffalo enough for Logan to go get him for me. When I wake up, the room is bright, and I can’t hear Logan’s soft breaths anymore.

Fuck. I clench my eyes shut. I absolutely can’t feel my arms anymore, and my whole body hurts. The places that aren’t numb are on fire. Especially my chest. It’s like my skin is splitting apart all over again.

Memories from the last few hours roll through me, and I groan. Some of the memories are foggy, and I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I do know I embarrassed myself. Drunk and hungover Ronan are unbearable, even to my own standards.

So, how in the fuck am I still alive? Cuffed to my rival’s bed on the floor?

I do remember I was ready to die. I had accepted it, but I’m still very much alive. Very much alive and very much pissed off.

Logan doesn’t get to kill me. This is not how everything ends.

I hear faint sounds close by. It sounds like a bathroom.

I have to figure out my game plan. Drunk Ronan is killable, but drunk Ronan stayed alive. So what the fuck did he do?

The door opens, and I see bare feet from under the bed. Faintly, the smell of sandalwood body wash rolls over me. Logan rounds the bed, coming to stand in front of me. He’s shirtless, in only a towel, his chest and abs on display.

Suddenly, my mouth goes dry. Logan is not only jacked, he’s covered in tattoos. They’re all over his body, curling in dark ink over his muscles and making them stand out. Little drops of water trace down his skin, and I can’t help but watch their path.

Logan catches me looking and smirks. “Morning, fag.”

I snarl at him.

He just shakes his head and chuckles. A deep chuckle that somehow makes it into my chest and bounces around like electricity.

Logan turns to the closet and drops the towel, and suddenly, I’m graced with his back, packed with muscles that ripple as he moves. And his ass. Two nicely packed globes that are perfectly round. Against my will, my gaze drops lower, and for the love of god, I can see his dick hanging between his legs. It’s that big. I jerk my eyes closed.

Do not look at his dick.

“I’m hungry,” I grind out. Anything to distract from looking at him. Also, the more I can get Logan to do for me, the more wiggle room I’ll get to find a way out of this.

“I bet you are,” Logan laughs, and I hear the rustle of fabric. When I peek my eyes open, he’s pulled on jeans. Then he throws a shirt on and slams that ball cap on backwards. “If you want to eat, you’ll do everything I say.” His gaze is suggestive.

The sudden thought that he’s going to ask me to suck his dick fills my head.

Could I? Would I? This is survival, Ronan. If it’s suck a dick or die, you’ll suck the goddamn dick.

I wonder if it’s big? My throat closes, and I can barely swallow. My own dick seems to have something wrong with it cause it’s hard, pressing into the shorts I still somehow have on.

“Ronan.” Logan’s staring at me. I snap out of it.

“I’ll uncuff your hands so you can eat. Don’t get any ideas, though. I think I’ve shown you that you can’t beat me in a fight.”

I stare at him. He’ll undo my hands? What a dumbass. But I’ll accept. Sure as fuck I’ll accept.

Logan looks like he can read every expression on my face. But he still leans down and messes with my feet. I expect him to untie them, but he doesn’t. He just removes the ropes from the bed and ties my feet off, giving only about an inch of wiggle room.

When he gets to my hands, I realize why he’s giving them back to me. I can barely feel them, which, when it comes to keeping body parts alive, blood is kinda important.

“There you go. Sit up.”

When I try, fiery pain laces through my chest, and I groan.

Logan helps, which makes me hate him even more. I don’t fucking need help.

Only I do. Sitting up on the bed makes me dizzy, so I hang my head.

“Don’t you dare puke.” Logan grabs Buff and puts him on the bed beside me.

This fucker. I hate that he’s paying attention to Buff. I hate it. I also hate that he’s trying to tell me to control something I can’t control. If I’m gonna puke, I’m gonna puke, and I’ll make sure it’s all over his feet.

But the nausea passes quickly this time. When I lift my head, Logan straightens. “Follow me.”

I have no other choice but to obey. At least, I try. There is no fucking give on the ropes, and they burn my skin every time I shuffle. Logan doesn’t leave. He just watches me struggle. The rage that fills me burns a hole in my chest. He doesn’t get to take this power from me.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for me to shuffle to the kitchen. Once there, Logan pulls out a stool at the bar and motions at it. “Sit.”

I glare at him, but I do. I’m starting to feel my arms again. They feel thick and so much bigger than normal, although they look okay. I notice I still have that ring on.

Logan leaves, then comes back with Buffalo, putting him on the counter beside me. Then, he moves to the kitchen, shuffling around, opening the fridge, and getting pots and pans out. The banging hurts my head and makes me close my eyes.

‘Did you guys fuck?’ Buffalo pipes up. ‘Last night, before I got there.’

Jesus Christ. I can’t even snap at Buffalo to shut up with Logan here. So, I telegraph it with an evil look. Soon, the banging stops, and I glance around the kitchen, looking for something to help me escape. There’s a knife block right by the stove, right where Logan is cooking.

“I’ll make breakfast,” I offer. Even though I can barely move my fingers.

“Fuck no.” Logan is mixing something in a bowl. “I’ve seen the state of your kitchen. All you know how to make is flat scrambled eggs with no milk, huh?”

I frown, the insult running through me. My eggs aren’t that bad. “Okay, Mr. Peanut Butter and Jelly Culinary Genius.”

The pan hisses as Logan pours something into it. Eggs.

I wiggle my fingers, pleased that some feeling is coming back. There are deep grooves where the cuffs dug into them, and I know once I get feeling back, some shit is gonna start hurting really bad.

But pain means I’m alive, so I embrace it reluctantly. I’m not so sure this is a situation I want to be alive for.

When Logan isn’t looking, I wiggle the ring off and push it to the edge of the counter.

Logan gets three plates out, serving up what looks like fluffy, perfect scrambled eggs. Fuck him for that.

I glance around. Three plates? Who the hell else is here?

Logan just calmly slides me a plate.

“Eat.”

I stare at him as he slides Buffalo his own plate. “What the fuck?”

Logan starts eating. “I made him one. You have a problem with that?”

“No, I…” I frown.

‘If you don’t marry this man, then I will.’ Buffalo sounds awfully pleased.

I clear my throat. “It’s a stuffed animal.”

Logan shrugs. “Eat.”

I glance down at the eggs and my mouth waters. I can tell they’re seasoned well, and they look like little clouds. But what if he drugged these too?

Logan just rolls his eyes, reaching across the counter and grabbing some of my eggs with his fingers. He brings them to his lips, and I watch as he eats them, his jaw clenching. Then I watch as he swallows, the muscles moving slightly.

Logan lifts an eyebrow. “See? Eat.”

I narrow my eyes. “You put your fingers in my food.”

Logan just looks at me for a second, then he smirks. “Did you want them somewhere else?”

Despite myself, heat runs to my face. I make a show of yanking the eggs closer to me and shoving away the ones closest to where he ate from. Do I care? No. Am I mad he’s humiliated me, and now this? Yes.

“You have, like, two forks at your place.” Logan lifts an eyebrow. “I’m surprised that bothers you.”

“I’m surprised it doesn’t bother you.” I dig in, and good heavens almighty, the food is good as fuck. Around a mouthful, I mutter and wave at the house, “You’re an anal, clean fucker.”

“I’m not anal. Just tidy. There’s a difference.”

“Anal,” I mutter. Every bite is heavenly, which just makes me more and more mad. I reach for Buffalo’s plate, and Logan smacks me away. “Let it sit, or you’ll puke again.”

“You have something against puke?” I consider snatching the plate anyway. I’m fucking starving.

Logan’s face shutters. “Just wait.”

I glare at him, but I do. I can feel my hands again, mostly. My right wrist tingles.

After I shift back and forth, testing the ropes on my legs, I grab the food again. This time, Logan doesn’t stop me. He just watches as I clean that plate, too.

The way he’s watching me makes me uncomfortable. It’s like he can see everything about me. Which is bullshit. He doesn’t know anything about me. Nothing at all.

When we’re done, Logan takes our plates and puts them in the dishwasher, which is mildly disappointing because I wanted to smash him over the head with at least one of them. His handsome face would look even better with ceramics raining down around it.

But alas. We can’t all get what we want.

“Couch.” Logan dries his hand on a towel and jerks his head to it. “Lay on your back.”

“What?” I narrow my eyes at him, but Logan turns around and digs into a cabinet. And I can see his ass again. It really is a nice ass.

Fuck. Maybe he did drug the eggs.

“Now, Ronan.”

I roll my eyes but hop off the stool. If it’s die in my shorts with my legs wrapped in a bow or lay on the couch with my legs wrapped in a bow…imma choose the couch.

There’s a decorative throw rug on the floor that almost trips me up, but I make it, sinking back onto the couch. I love that I have my hands free. It makes me feel less helpless.

Logan comes around and sets a bunch of things on the glass coffee table. He motions at me. “Lay back.”

I don’t want to. I don’t like the power it gives him. Although, I suppose that is the point. Whatever Logan wants to do, he doesn’t want me to be able to fight him on it.

“No.” I look over the things he’s brought over. They look like…medical supplies?

Logan rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t kill you on my couch. Too much cleanup. Lay back.”

I lock eyes with him. He lifts an eyebrow as if he knows he can make me if he wants to. But he wants me to do it. He wants me to obey.

Instead, I ask, “What are you going to do?”

Logan reaches out and shoves me hard, right against the cuts.

I cry out, landing on my back, my body racked with pain.

“Fucker!” I try to get back up, but Logan just plants his hand in my chest, shooting even more pain through me. “Down. Eyes on me.”

I glare at him. With every breath, my chest moves up into his hand, hurting more.

Logan looks at me. “You didn’t listen, so I hurt you. This is how it goes, Ronan.”

I want to fight him, but my feet are tied, and his hand is in my wounds.

“Now that I have your attention, the rules are simple. I’m gonna clean your cuts. You’re gonna lay there like a good boy and let me. Got it?”

I blink, both to clear the water from my eyes and to try and unscramble my brain. He’s going to…what?

“Good.” Logan removes his hand. “Obey. It’s a simple concept, really.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you should have learned this while you were one. It’s okay, I’ll teach you again. I can’t wait to watch it make you squirm.”

What? Then, he’s putting peroxide on a swab and dabbing it on my chest. Instant, white-hot pain racks my body, and I stiffen.

Logan doesn’t stop. He continues to clean my chest, wiping away the fresh blood that comes up, and fuck, if the pain doesn’t make me want to punch him in the face.

Logan must know it too ‘cause he smirks, watching me closely with those blue eyes. It’s like he’s daring me to do it. Daring me to fail so he can hurt me more.

So I just clench my teeth and bear it. Bear his long fingers brushing over my skin. Bear the hand that pulls my skin down so he can get into the crevices. The heat of his palm. The heat of his stare.

By the time he’s done, I’m clenching the couch cushion in my fist and sweating my nuts off.

Logan smiles, giving me a little pat on the cheek. “Good boy.”

And now, I’m suddenly hard.

TWENTY-THREE

Raging on a Sunday - Bohnes

Of course, the only logical solution is to deck Logan. It’ll get rid of my boner and teach him to mock me. I want to swing, but he’s already moving away.

“You stink.” Logan starts moving the medical supplies to the counter.

What? No I don’t. I’m pissed and in pain and confused as hell. Why does he care about that right now?

“Shower, now.”

My head is still reeling. Why in the fuck did he just clean my cuts? I thought I was here to die.

Logan gives me a pointed look.

Covertly, I take a sniff. Okay. Maybe I do smell a little. That’s not my fault. I mutter, “Well, maybe if you didn’t drug and kidnap someone, they wouldn’t stink.”

“You expecting an apology?” Logan turns around to look at me.

I glare at him. “Are you sorry?”

“Nope,” he says with a pop of the p, then turns back around. “Get up. I’ll get the water started.” Then, he disappears down the hall.

I’m alone. Alone with what I thought was impending death. Why hasn’t he tried to kill me yet? What does he want from me?

Whatever it is, he’s not gonna get it. I’ll kill the motherfucker the second I get the chance.

I shuffle up, eyes locked on the knife block. But my feet are tied so tightly that I can barely move, so I shuffle infuriatingly slowly. When I’ve made it to the kitchen, Logan pops his head around the corner. “Let’s go.” He looks me up and down.

I glare at him, the bottoms of my feet hot from the friction of shuffling. “Wanna untie me so I can go faster?”

Logan pretends to stare at the ceiling. “Hmmm. No.”

If I could get my hands locked around his throat, I fucking would.

It takes an eternity to make it down the hall. As soon as I enter the bedroom, I hear the water coming down and see the steam. Suddenly, a chilling thought fills my head: he’s gonna kill me in the shower. It’s easier to clean up.

Logan beckons me closer. “Let’s go, you’re slow as fuck.”

“No.” Logan doesn’t have any weapons on him that I can see.

Logan snaps his gaze up to mine. I’m standing frozen in the middle of the room. At first, his gaze is annoyed, but then it softens slightly. “Just a shower, Ronan.”

Right, like he didn’t just feed me my last meal and tell me the couch was too messy. The overwhelming instinct to run rushes through my body.

“Jesus,” Logan mutters, then sucks in a breath. He holds out his hands like he’s trying to approach a wild animal. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yet?” I snarl.

He shrugs. “Yet.”

“Then let me go in there alone.”

Logan raises his eyebrows. “So you can break the mirror and slice my neck with the glass? So you can crawl out the window and call the cops? I think not.”

“You can’t just…watch me!” Panic is running freely now.

Logan takes a step toward me. “Can and will. Thought we’ve been over this before.”

“Get away.” I back up, but he’s on me in two steps. I swing, but he ducks and gets behind me, snatching up my arm and locking it behind my back. “Walk, princess.”

I try to fight him, but Logan just yanks up on my arm, shooting pain through my shoulder and forcing me to move.

“Fuck you,” I snarl, but before I can get away, we’re in the bathroom. Mostly by his sheer force and not by my shuffling. The movement opens my cuts again, making me hiss in pain.

The steam gets caught up in my lungs, making me cough. Then, there’s a tugging at my shorts, then they’re ripped from my body, the fabric shredding.

“What the fuck?” I ask, but my boxers are gone just as fast. And suddenly, I’m standing there naked, pieces of clothing around my ankles.

Logan lets me go, shoving me toward the shower. “Get in.”

I whirl, covering my junk. Logan just leans back around the counter. The bathroom is basic and small but decorated just like the rest of the house. There’s even a small plant in here. But I don’t see a gun or a knife.

“See. Not gonna kill you.”

My gaze darts to Logan’s waist. I know just how easily he could be hiding a weapon. Logan catches me scanning. He lifts an eyebrow, then slowly lifts the hem of his shirt, exposing a flat belly and abs. Fucking abs.

He turns slowly, letting me scan his waistline. “Good, princess?”

“Your pockets.” I glare at him.

He shrugs and, before I can say anything, slips his pants off. I’m left staring at a very naked Logan with a very big dick. He’s not fully hard, but even so, he’s longer than I am. And fuck, I know it’ll get even bigger when he gets hard.

His dick twitches, then I jerk my gaze back up to his, my face heating.

He just smirks. “That’s my only weapon.”

I snap my mouth shut, then whirl on the shower. At this point, the shower is less uncomfortable than standing here with him there, both naked.

Getting into the shower becomes an issue. There’s a lip that I can’t clear my feet over. Before I can troubleshoot it, warm hands grab under my arms from behind and lift me in.

I yelp, immediately shuffling away and almost slipping, but catch myself on the ledge for soap. In the process, I bare my asshole to the man behind me.

“Easy.” Logan chuckles. “Not quite old enough for a life alert button.”

“Just…” I recover, turning to face him so he can’t see my ass, then immediately regretting it cause he can see my dick. “Go away!”

Logan smirks, the shower door still open. “I’ve seen your dick before. Remember? You came all over my hand.”

“I will fuck you up.” I start toward him, and Logan just steps up into me. Even with the slight lift from the shower, he’s taller than me.

“You will? Do it then, short fuck.”

So I do. I feign a punch with my right hand, then swing one lower with my left. It connects with the shower door before hitting him, greatly lessening the impact. Logan just laughs, ripping off his hat and stepping in the shower with me. He shoves me back.

I fall on my ass, unable to catch myself. The impact knocks the breath out of me, and Logan immediately steps over me, his dick in my face. I scramble back, but he just follows. His dick is fully hard now, and it smacks me in the side of the head.

I look up, blinking away the water as it streams down both of us. Logan’s pupils are huge. “You look fucking good under me.”

I struggle to get up, but Logan just steps over me further, so I have to press into the back of the shower to prevent his dick from touching my face.

His dick. His veiny dick that’s throbbing inches away from me. It makes me want to run. To fight. To do anything but focus on what’s happening right now. So, I snarl, “I’m not short.”

Logan chuckles, reaching his hand out to stroke his dick. I watch it go up and down the shaft, curling over the tip and then up and down again.

“You’re what? Five ten? On a good day?”

I want to get up, but there’s nowhere to go except into him. “Move.”

He just continues stroking. “Get me off, and I will.”

“What?” My question is loud, panicked. He wants me to do what?

Logan’s voice drops an octave. “Get me off, and I’ll move.”

“Make me.” The snarl comes out of me, and I stare up at him. He’s blocking the water from my face, and I should be cold, pressed into the cool wall, but I’m hot. I’m hot all over. My skin is burning, and my face is on fire.

“Make…you?” The way Logan’s lip curls in disdain makes me want to hurt him. So I snatch his dick in my hand, squeezing as hard as I can and yanking, digging my nails in as I do.

Logan throws his head back and groans, thrusting his hips into me. “Fuck yeah. Hurt me.”

I tighten my grip, digging my nails in at his base so hard I know I’m drawing blood. Suddenly, Logan’s hands are in my hair, and he’s yanking. He jerks so hard that tears well up, and I grit my teeth. I yank my hand down his shaft again, ripping into Logan’s skin. He lets out a grunt, yanking my hair so hard I feel it rip.

“God, you’re so perfect. Show me how much you hate me.” He thrusts his hips into my face, and his dick mashes against my mouth. The impulse to put it in my mouth and bite it off fills my head.

“If you bite me,” Logan reaches his hand down and pinches my nose, “I’ll choke you with it.”

I jerk my head away from him, and he lets me, laughing a little. “Keep stroking, Ronan.”

I squeeze him as hard as I can, jacking him so hard I know it hurts. It has to hurt. I’m basically punching him every time I hit the base.

Logan doesn’t seem to mind, though, which only inspires me to try harder. I grip him at the base, taking my fingernails and raking them over the head. Logan’s whole body jerks, and he yanks my hair hard.

“Easy. Get me off, Ronan. Don’t rip me off.”

“Fuck you.” I snarl, easing up a little on the nails but keeping them scratching up and down his tip. The more I ease up, the more his grip on my hair loosens. Then, when I accidentally stroke him without nails, he massages my scalp.

“Good boy. That’s a good boy. You’re getting it.”

I snarl, going back to clawing him, and there’s a warning yank on my hair. “No. Stop throwing a fit; you were doing so good.”

It’s then that it hits me that I have another man’s dick in my hand, and I’m making him tremble. He’s lightly thrusting into me, his breathing heavy over the sound of the shower. I risk a glance up, and Logan’s eyes are on me, bright with lust. His mouth is open in a pant, and he’s looking at me like he’s hanging onto my every movement.

An odd sense of power rushes through me. I’m doing that to him. I am. I have my captor hanging on my every movement. I have all the control in this moment. Me. I realize faintly that I’m also hard, my dick throbbing against my stomach.

I keep stroking him, maybe with a little less nails and a little more of a rhythm. I want to make him come apart. I want to have that control. I want him to crumble for someone who hates him. I don’t know what I’m doing with another guy, but I know what works for me. So I do that.

“Yes, yes, fuck. Just like that.” Logan’s whole body shakes. “Fuck, make me feel good.”

“Shut up,” I growl, but I can feel that he’s close. His dick gets harder, and it’s filled with tiny pulses. I take a risk and grab his balls with my other hand, squeezing them hard enough that I know it hurts.

“Fuck!” Logan’s balls draw up, and then he comes. He moans, jetting all over my hand, coming onto my chest and the wall behind me. I jump, trying to get out of the way, but it still streaks all over me.

“Fuck, Ronan.” Logan’s breathing is heavy.

Immediately, I drop him. I yank my hands back, unsure of what to do with them.

I just…did I just get a man off? I suck in a shuddering breath. What did I just do?

“Move.” My voice comes out shaky, and I immediately say again, louder, “Move!”

Logan takes a step back, and the warm water washes over me. It makes me feel like I’m drowning. I need to get away. I need to breathe.

“Here.” Logan reaches down to help me up, and I swat him away.

“Don’t touch me!” I get onto my knees and use the ledges in the shower to pull myself up. “Get away, don’t touch me.”

Logan steps back, but I refuse to look at him. I refuse to look at what I did. I can’t believe I just did that. And with what? Very little fight?

My parents' words come back to me. A sin. Unnatural. Wrong. Despite the fact that I don’t give a fuck about their opinions anymore, my face burns. “You said you’d get out.”

Turning my back to Logan, I grab some shampoo and lather it up.

There’s no movement for a second, then I think I hear him step out. I wash my body, ignoring every bit of the other man in the bathroom. But when I’m rinsing my hair out, I peek at Logan.

He’s standing in a towel, arms crossed, looking at me with an expression that almost seems…hurt.

Why in the hell is he hurt? He’s the one who forced himself on me.

I turn away again. I can’t do this. I can’t believe I did this. I need to get away.

TWENTY-FOUR

Despicable - grandson

Apparently, I’m a goddamn glutton for punishment. I let Ronan jack me off in the shower.

More than let him, I made him. And fuck, if it wasn’t the best orgasm I’ve had in years. Fucking years. Seeing him under me, feeling his hatred and submission, seeing him look like…him…it reached deep into my soul and drew something out of me that’s been dormant for a long time.

I’ve messed around since Greyson died, but it’s always been as detached as I can make it. A guy gives me a handjob here or a blowjob there, never anything more than that. I never let myself really enjoy it. The mission is just to scratch the itch. Scratch the itch and move on. I’ve even tried letting girls do it, but it does nothing for me. Never once have I felt anything afterward.

But this time? This time, I did, and I hate myself for it.

I pace in the kitchen. I know I shouldn’t leave Ronan alone, but I can’t be near him right now. I can’t. The way he looked up at me with those hazel eyes full of hate. In that moment, he looked scared, hurt, disgusted.

It should make me disgusted. I did this to him. I took him and made him jack me off.

Instead, it made me want to kiss him.

I pull my hat on and off, on and off. It’s like I can feel the picture in the rim burning the back of my head.

How dare I feel like kissing another man? It’s like Greyson is here, telling me I’m selling him out. Telling me how disgusting I am for forcing myself on Ronan. How Ronan would rather be dead than fuck me. I close my eyes so I can’t see him around the corner.

I need something. Something to take the edge off. Killing horrible people usually helps. But now I guess I’m a fucking babysitter. So, I settle for something to chew on. I rip open the cabinets, looking for anything.

After grabbing the pretzels, I spot Buffalo on the counter. He’s tipped on his side, so I sit him back up. His fur is coarse, and I stand there for a second, staring at him. Ronan loves this thing. It’s probably the only thing he loves, really. He’s more worried about the blood on it than he is about his own death.

Anger fills me, and I grab the toy and shove it on top of the cabinets. Damn Ronan. Damn him, and more importantly, damn me. Because I felt something today. And as much as I know I should drop it, I can’t. I couldn’t fourteen years ago, and I can’t today.

I’m not fucking done messing with Ronan.

TWENTY-FIVE

break me! - Maggie Lindemann, Siiickbrain

I’m a walking dead man. A real-life zombie. I realize that I should be six feet under right now. Or maybe bubbling in my final bubble bath. I should be, but I’m not. How in the fuck am I not? I’m getting whiplash from going from dead to alive to…fucking horny?

That part makes me mad.

Why the fuck am I hard?

I dry off as best I can. I try to untie my legs, but the ropes have soaked up the water, making them swell up. They were tight before, but now they’re even worse. After bending and ripping my nails, trying to get at them, I straighten. I’m wasting time.

I search the bathroom, but there’s nothing in here that could give me an edge. My dick is aching, and I have no pants. I can’t even get Logan’s pants on because of the stupid ropes. I settle for a towel around my waist, my dick eagerly making a tent out of it, then check the window. It’s made of frosted glass, so I can’t see out of it. It’s also small. Like, really small. Fuck Logan for thinking I could fit through it.

I open it anyway, and fresh air rushes into the bathroom. It makes my skin pebble, and I look around. We’re in the middle of some kind of farm field. It’s been tilled, but I don’t see anything growing. In fact, I don’t see much of anything besides some trees in the distance. We’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Because of course we are. It’s not enough that I’m a zombie in a towel, but I’m also trussed up like a pig and can’t run for help. Trussed up with a goddamn fucking boner.

Fuck me.

No, don’t fuck me! It was a figure of speech. Fuck off, Logan. No, don’t fuck off. Don’t fuck anything.

No.

Fucking.

Goddamn, I’m gonna stop now.

I can hobble, though. I’ll rip the walls apart to get out if I have to.

“If you’re thinking of running, keep in mind that I’m a pretty good shot up to 50 feet.”

I clench my jaw.

“How fast can you run 50 feet?”

I turn. Logan is leaning on the doorframe, acting like whatever the fuck just happened didn’t happen.

Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him. But I’m done letting him know he gets to me. I shrug. “Take off the ropes, and we’ll find out.”

“So obsessed with the ropes. Not a fan of bondage?”

I smile. “Not with you.”

Logan watches me for a second, then smirks. “I think it’s funny. You’re a pig, and you’re hogtied. It’s fitting.”

“Hogtying connects the hands and feet. And I’m not a pig anymore.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. “You want me to hogtie you correctly?”

I narrow my eyes. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Logan steps out of the bathroom. “You smell better now.”

Why is he so obsessed with the way I smell?

“Living room, now. I want to keep an eye on you while I work.”

I debate fighting him, but in this moment, what will it get me? Probably fucked.

At that thought, my traitorous, motherfucking dick twitches. It actually twitches.

Fuck that. So I go.

My skin is chafed by the time I get there. I notice immediately that the knives are gone, and so is Buffalo. Panic runs through me before I spot him up on the cabinets. What the hell?

Logan looks up from the couch. “Ah, yes. Since you’re ‘so tall,’ I figured that wouldn't be an issue for you.”

There’s a silent moment between us, where both of us stare the other down. Like we’re both trying to decide how to act.

I put on a light tone and look around like I’m bored. “Shouldn’t be a problem. If you got him up there, I’ll be able to get him back down.”

Logan also acts bored. “Cool.” He goes back to writing on his tablet.

The energy is odd. It’s like we’re in some weird sort of standoff where both of us are pretending the other isn’t bothering us. Whoever breaks first loses.

I shuffle to the fridge and open it. Logan lets me without comment. I look through, shuffling things on purpose to see what happens.

“There’s meatloaf on the top shelf.”

Fucking ew. My mom used to make that for us, and she’d put oatmeal in it. The texture was always gag-worthy. I just cannot. Plus, if he’s offering it, I don’t want it.

I snatch up some lunch meat and cheese, then rifle through his cabinets. They’re all well-stocked and organized. Because of course they are. I find where he keeps his dry food. He has bread, and I take that. I see some veggie straws, and I take those too. They’ll add a nice crunch. An annoying crunch. I want Logan to have to listen to every damn bite like nails on a chalkboard.

It’s so weird to go through Logan’s cabinets and see his food. Like…he’s a real person outside of his kidnapping and murdering. A kidnapping murderer who likes veggie straws. What the fuck?

I catch Logan eyeing me, and I lean back against the counter and take a bite. There’s a satisfying crunching sound, and Logan’s eyes narrow.

“You like chips in your sandwich?”

I shrug.

He just stares at me. So I take another bite, being obnoxious about it. A little crumb falls, and I watch it drop to the clean floor. Then, I lift my gaze back to Logan.

There’s a flash of something odd in his blue eyes, but it switches off, and he’s back to looking bored. At first, I wonder if he’s mad about the crumbs. But he didn’t look mad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked sad.

Once I finish the sandwich, I mow down some more veggie straws. The crunching is the only sound in the quiet trailer, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. He just keeps…Well, now it looks like he’s drawing.

I’m curious but also don’t want to seem like it. So I clean up after myself, then find myself with nothing to do. Logan hasn’t said anything, and I’m just…standing with my feet tied in his kitchen. Sans boner now. Thank Satan.

At the reminder of the boner and what happened in the shower, I twitch.

No! Fuck me, I always make things worse for myself.

I glance at Buffalo again. He’s fucking high up. I’d have to plant my hand on the counter and jump to get to him.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Buffalo drones. ‘Logan has nice hands. I want them on me again.’

I narrow my eyes. If it wasn’t so damn quiet, I’d call him a slut.

Because he is a slut. A nasty, filthy slut.

Instead, I lean over the island, seeing a bowl full of rings. They’re mostly silver, but there are some gold ones too. All of them look different and are in slightly different sizes. I run my fingers through them, enjoying the tinkles and clinks. I’ve noticed Logan wears rings. I guess it’s…a gay thing?

Nah. It’s gotta be just a style thing. Not everything has to do with being gay. And liking dicks.

Suddenly, I’m thinking about Logan’s dick. Which…what the hell?

I make a huff, needing a distraction, turning my attention to my jailer. “Where’d the knives go?”

Logan doesn’t even look up. “They’re also on top of the cabinets.”

Oh, this fucker.

Logan peeks up at me and winks. He fucking winks.

I roll my eyes. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I lock eyes on his tablet. “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“Working on what?” I spin a ring I found on the top of the counter. It’s a brass-colored one in the shape of a fish. The fish loops around the finger, just about touching its own tail.

Logan watches the movement. “I’m drawing.”

Well…okay.

“I’m a tattoo artist. People send me their ideas, and I draw up a tattoo.”

Oh. I look Logan over. That makes a lot of sense, given that he’s covered in tattoos. I don’t have any myself. Never could find something that I wanted on my body for forever. Thank Satan I didn’t get anything cop-themed back when I was young and dumb.

“Wanna see?”

I shrug as if I don’t care. I actually don’t care. But the silence is killing me.

Logan turns the tablet around, and there, looking back at me, is the most beautiful drawing of a cow. A highland cow. It looks real, and with the hair dropping over its eyes in such startling detail, it actually impresses me.

I don’t want him to know that, though. So I just spin the ring. “Highland cows must be popular right now.”

I watch the fish spin in circles. When it drops, I look back up at Logan. He gives me a long look, and for a reason I can’t understand, he looks angry. “Yeah.”

I spin the fish over and over until I drop it back into the bowl. Sighing, I glance down at the ropes. Maybe I can fray them with a fork?

“Your silence is loud.”

I jerk my head up. Logan motions at me. “I can feel you moping. Shut up.”

Buffalo laughs.

“Moping?” I sputter, and Buffalo laughs harder. “Sorry I’m not being a good enough captive for you. What would you like me to do? Clean the house? Worship at your feet?”

Logan’s gaze darkens. “You offering?”

“Fuck no.” I cross my arms at the same time Buffalo says, ‘Yes.’

Logan shrugs. “Then tell me what Buffalo says.”

“Fuck no,” I spit back immediately.

Logan gives a mean grin. “He likes me, doesn’t he?”

“Likes you?” I sputter, looking for the right words. “Sure, like a dog likes the person who hits it. He doesn’t know any better.”

That just makes Logan smile more. His smile is wide, and others would probably call it charming.

Fuck him for that.

He gets back to work, and I stew in silence. In what I hope is loud silence, cause you know. Fuck him. Without the fucking.

Finally, after the longest five minutes of my life, Logan sits up straighter. He frowns, looking at his tablet. “Oh fuck.”

I stiffen.

Logan looks up at me, then back down. He doesn’t say anything, which just pisses me off. “What?” I grind out.

“Uh…cops are at your place. Again.”

“What?” I hiss.

“Yeah.” He turns the tablet around so I can see. Only I can’t see from this far away. So I shuffle over in the most infuriatingly slow way. When I get there, I see a social media post. It has a picture. A picture of my apartment. With the SWAT team there.

“The fuck?” I snatch the tablet up.

Another shithead bites the dust. The post is in one of the gossip groups in my town. I’m used to scrolling it to read about other people. And now I’m on it?

I scan the comments. They’re all typical. No one knows what’s going on; they’re all making wild guesses.

I heard someone got arrested.

More than one someone, do you see the amount of cruisers?

Probably just weed. Great use of taxpayer’s dollars.

My mouth is dry. So fucking dry. They’re at my house. They’re at my fucking house.

I look at Logan. He doesn’t look smug. In fact, he almost looks…pitying.

I toss the tablet back at him.

Fuck that. I don’t need his pity! I don’t need his sad eyes as my world falls down around me and everything crashes and burns because, once again, I have no control when bad things happen.

I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.

I turn, shuffling away. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I can’t stand in front of him as I panic.

And then my foot catches on the edge of the carpet, and I go down. Hard. The floor slams into my palms with a smack of pain, and my towel falls off. For a horrifying second, I just want to cry. I suck in a breath, and suddenly, warm hands are in my armpits, lifting me up.

“Get off me,” I snarl, but it’s not as vicious as I want. It actually sounds horrifyingly close to crying.

“Make me,” is the soft reply. Then he pulls the towel back up and tucks it back in. And I squeeze my eyes shut. Because I can’t.

I can’t make him.

I can’t go to prison.

I can’t get away.

TWENTY-SIX

ASHES - Witchz

I shouldn’t have eaten so many flaming hot Cheetos. This is a regular thought of mine, but once I start, I can’t seem to fucking stop. And I always regret it. But they’re so fucking good.

Plus, I hate cooking.

My gut boils. Yet here I am, standing in front of Ronan Carter’s car on the tow truck.

The nosey neighbors are out. They always are. At least this time, no one’s vacuuming their porch.

You know what else is out? The sun. I checked the fucking weather, and it said clouds, so I wore my short sleeves and skipped the sunscreen. But of course, now the sun is out cooking my tattoos, fast-tracking them into shriveled blue raisins.

I have a thing for sunscreen on my tattoos.

My gut gurgles again as Clark comes to stand next to me. “Need anything else?”

She and I did a joint operation search warrant for this one. Aka, I had probable cause due to the tire matches and the comments Ronan made before he quit his job, so I did all the paperwork, and Clark came to help since it’s her jurisdiction.

I feel like Clark is one of the good ones. She doesn’t cut corners, she doesn’t break policies, and she doesn’t seem to be in the in-club with whoever sucks the chief’s dick. Minds her own and hates her job.

I blink back into the present, realizing Clark asked if I needed anything. I start to say no, but the word gets stuck in my throat. I’m frozen there for an agonizing second, the small letter sound getting stuck in my throat. I try to remember what they said in therapy about making open-mouth sounds and letting the words call out. Finally, I get out, “Nah.”

Clark doesn’t seem phased. She shrugs. “Keep me updated, will you?”

I just nod. The apartment was clean. The trash was out, and the laundry was done. Mostly, anyway. There was vomit on the sheets in the bathroom, and the bed was torn apart, but we did get a phone and an old laptop, which might be our only hope for anything.

I glare as the truck takes away Ronan’s car. I was hoping for more. Clothes with blood or trash with acid bottles in it. It’s embarrassing to come up with nothing in front of Savannah PD. Nothing like whipping your pants down just to find…nothing.

I move upstairs and grab the phone out of the evidence bag. Powering it on, there’s a passcode. I try a few basic ones, and then 0000 opens it.

Jesus. Wasn’t this guy a cop?

Turns out that the phone has almost nothing on it. It’s like the guy never used it, except for a text thread with some guy. Some hookup gone wrong? Ronan threatened to call the cops.

But that’s it. Did he…know we were coming? Was knocking at the door enough to ruin this whole thing?

Fuck. Now, my gut is on fire, and I’ve fucked shit up.

I’m in a foul mood for the rest of the afternoon. Immediately, I plug the computer into my forensic program. Surely, there’s something on here. Maybe even an internet search on how to get rid of a body?

The day goes endlessly slowly. The computer is just as dry as the phone.

This is a wash. Ronan didn’t kill anyone. Or if he did, he’s way too good at what he does to pin it on him.

An odd sense of relief and disappointment runs through me. I’m glad another cop isn’t out there axing people. But it’s always sad when the hunt comes to an end.

I still have thirty minutes left in my shift.

I rub my eyes and close my program. I go through the computer manually. There, I find a tab open with a document. It’s titled Things I Never Want to Do Again.

I’m nosey. So I can’t help but look. The document is nothing but a list.

Wrestle a crazy man in his tighty whiteys

Forget my gun in the jail locker

Eat sardines

I want to gag. I absolutely could not do sardines. Soggy fish sticks with the guts still attached? Fuck that. Fishy anything is a no for me.

The list goes on.

Walk into a training session with toilet paper hanging from my ass

Disappoint my family

I swallow. The list goes on.

Math

Fall for a coworker

I start skimming.

Fall in love

Go to church

Crack ribs doing CPR

Then, the list gets more serious.

See dead babies

Hear moms scream for their dead babies

See children who’ve been raped

Hear moms lie about their children who’ve been raped

See moms who shot themselves in the head

Hear children scream after finding their mom’s body

Have people beg me for help when I can’t help them

Watch children deny abuse while their eyes scream for help

Live

I suck in a breath. Even reading that list, I feel my own trauma filter to the surface. It sounds hauntingly similar to the things I’ve seen. The dead 2-month-old I saw a few months ago fills my mind, and my stomach turns. I might be sick.

I slam the laptop closed. Fuck that. It’s time to go back to ignoring my problems. That always works, right?

But as I go about my evening, I can’t get the loneliness of that list out of my head. I hate that I keep thinking about it.

Because Ronan Carter sounds a lot like me.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sleepyhead - Jutes

I’ve called an emergency family meeting. And by that, I mean I’ve called me and Buffalo together. I demanded Logan get him after he picked me up off the floor. I didn’t care that he could hear the shakiness in my voice. Well, that’s not true. I cared. I cared a lot. So, I called an emergency family meeting and kicked Logan out of the bedroom.

And by kicked out, I mean I demanded he leave, and he stubbornly stood in the doorway.

So, here I am, on the bed with Buffalo, trying to ignore the hulking man staring at me from the doorway.

I just want to close out the world. The cops being at my place ruins everything.

Everything.

Now they will be looking for me. I can’t go home. I can never go home. Which means, where the hell will I go? Usually, when you fucking escape, you’re doing it with more than a highland cow and a stolen towel. Oh, and ideally, you have somewhere to go.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to block it all out. Fill my head with resin so the thoughts get trapped and can’t get to me. Nothing. I just want nothing.

My body is so exhausted after everything that I must fall asleep. When I wake, the light in the room is different. There’s a blanket pulled up over me, and I feel…comfy.

I stretch, working out the stiffness when I realize that I can stretch. My feet are untied.

I sit up straight, throwing the covers off. My feet are untied! I glance around. Logan is nowhere to be seen, and the trailer is pretty quiet.

‘He’s so dreamy.’ Buffalo sighs beside me.

“Dude, what the fuck?” I hiss lowly. “Now’s not the time. Where is he?”

‘Probably stroking his dick thinking about you.’

I grind my teeth together. “He kidnapped us. He plans to kill us. Where is he?”

‘Maybe I’m ovulating. But, like, I’d let him.’

“You’re a boy. Boys don’t ovulate. And what the fuck?” I can’t believe him right now.

‘He left you a present.’

“What?” What if it’s a grenade? Surprise, you’re awake! Now you’re not. Oh fuck, that’s too messy. What if it’s poison? What if it’s a snake?

I don’t see anything until I wave my hand around. “What the he—“ and there, on my finger, is the fish ring.

‘So romantic.’ Buffalo’s voice has gone croony.

“What the fuck? No.” I rip the ring off and get down off the bed, realizing I’m still naked and yanking the sheet with me. “We need to focus on getting away. Not…whatever the fuck.”

And then I remember with sudden clarity that I have nowhere to go. I’m on the run. From the cops and from my captor. The panic deflates, and suddenly, I’m leaning back against the bed.

Buffalo doesn’t always need me to say anything to hear me. He’s really good at reading me.

‘Hey. It’ll be okay.’

I scrub my hands down my face. It won’t be okay though. How am I supposed to do anything when everything has been ripped away?

“You can borrow some of my clothes.”

I jump, yanking my hands away and seeing Logan in the doorframe. He nods at the closet. “Some shorts in there.”

I catch a whiff of his aftershave, and my dick must not realize this is a life-or-death situation 'cause it starts to perk up.

No. I hold the sheet to myself and move to the closet. I don’t really care what I pick, but I pick something and throw it on. Once I’m clothed, I fold my arms and face Logan.

“You untied me.”

“Astute observation.” He lifts an eyebrow. Immediately, it pisses me off. Does nothing ruffle this guy?

He looks at my hand. “Don’t like the fish one?”

“What?” I glance around the room and then remember the ring. “What? No, I—just let me go, man!”

He just shrugs. “Where you gonna go?”

“None of your business,” I fire back.

“Well, you can’t go home, and you can’t go to family. Cops will be so far up their asses they’ll see out of their mouths.”

I glare at him. “I know how cops work.”

He scoffs. “Then you know I’m right.”

I do. And that just pisses me off even more. I know—Ronan Carter getting pissed. Such a fucking plot twist.

“I’ll stay in a hotel.”

“With what money?”

“With the money you’ll be donating for traumatizing me and ruining my life.”

Logan shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything, Ronan.” He sees me start to sputter and holds up a hand. “Besides, remove you from your apartment. You know, the place the cops stormed. The place where you would have been arrested. You’re welcome.”

“And you drugged me!” I’m almost shouting now.

Logan laughs, looking at the floor, and I can see the freckles on his eyelids. “I did.”

“And,” I’m sputtering, “made me jack you off!”

Logan’s smile drops. “Made you?”

“Yes,” I spit back.

“I told you I’d move if you jacked me off. You could have just sat there.” He’s staring at me intensely.

I rack through my memories. He definitely made me. Right?? Fuck, now he has me questioning my own memories.

I frown, turning away from him. I’m over this. I’m so fucking over this, and I’m so fucking tired. I’m so tired, and I have nowhere to go. “Just leave me alone.”

To my utter surprise, Logan does. I hear him walk down the hallway to the kitchen.

I feel the fatigue heavy in my limbs. I’m just so fucking over it. I should run, but where would I go? He’s right. I have nowhere to go. If I don’t have a warrant yet, I’m sure they’re in the process, which means that Logan’s house might be the safest place on the planet for me. What a mind fuck that is.

TWENTY-EIGHT

If I Killed Someone For You - Alec Benjamin

After Ronan told me to leave, I did. His eyes looked so…goddamn haunted, and it reached right into my gut and twisted. Hard. And suddenly, all I could see was the look on Greyson’s face right after I told him I liked him. The fear, the panic, and what I now know was despair.

It was there on Ronan’s face, too. So I left. I left so that it wouldn’t happen again. So that I wouldn’t drive him to…

I drop the cup I was washing, making a clatter. Fucking hell. How long have I been here? I look around, checking the hallway again. But Ronan couldn’t have slipped by me. I zoned out, but not that bad.

Tilting my head back, I suck in a breath. I shouldn’t have untied him.

I move around for a bit, not really doing anything. I keep staring at the bowl of rings on the counter. Ronan has hated each one I’ve picked so far. Clearly, I just haven’t found his taste.

I grab a fidget ring with moissanite diamonds. It’s a spinny ring with a thick band and glittery gears. He’ll probably hate it, but if he can get over the prettiness of it, the fidget feature will be nice for him.

I move back to the room. Ronan is passed out, snoring lightly, mouth slightly open. Even in sleep, his whole body looks tense.

I slip the ring on his ring finger, then stand there for a second.

I shouldn’t be doing this. It just makes things worse. But I can’t help myself. He’d like it if he’d just get over himself.

Ronan moans, making me jump. His eyebrows are drawn down into a frown, and I think he’s gonna sit up, but he doesn’t. He thrashes to his other side, another moan breaking free.

He’s having a nightmare.

My heart squeezes so hard it physically hurts. Greyson used to get nightmares, too. I always just held him through them. He never seemed to want to tell me about them, and I never asked.

Why the hell did I never ask?

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I frown as Ronan thrashes again. It feels like torture to watch him suffer. I shouldn’t watch him suffer. I should wake him up and demand he tell me what’s wrong.

But why? He’s not Greyson. And it won’t bring him back.

My chest aches. My phone buzzes two more times, and I snatch it out of my pocket, desperate for a distraction.

There’s a notification from my security system. Outside cameras 1, 2, and 3 have lost connection.

What the hell? Immediately, something feels off. Occasionally, they’ll all go out at the same time. Usually, the router goes out. But this time, all my indoor cameras are still working. It’s possible that the physical units malfunctioned, but all at the same time?

Not likely. Which means that we might be about to have company. My body rushes with adrenaline.

I lean down. “Ronan.”

He moans.

“Ronan,” I demand, louder, shaking him this time.

He sits straight up, panic written on his face. His eyes scan the room, not really seeing anything. He looks wild and terrified.

“Ronan,” I say again. “Can the cops hack security cameras?”

“What?” Ronan’s eyes focus on me, and for a second, there’s a raw vulnerability there that makes my heart squeeze. Then, he covers it up. “What are you talking about?”

“Can cops hack cameras?” If it’s the cops, then we’re already screwed. That would mean they were already in place, with my trailer surrounded. I feel the jitters running through my body.

“I mean, they can.” He looks around. “What’s going on?”

I debate telling him. I literally just untied him, and I’m not convinced he won’t still try to kill me the next time he gets his hands on anything that could be used as a weapon. I’m torn. I fucking want to tell him and get his help. But I doubt he’ll help me. In fact, he’ll probably serve me to them on a goddamn platter, just out of spite.

“Logan?” Ronan’s eyes narrow on me, and he stiffens. “Are the cops outside?”

I don’t answer, and Ronan jumps out of the bed, his body lined in tension. He grabs Buffalo, then snaps his gaze to me again. “How many of them?”

I clench my jaw. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he hisses.

“No, they took out the security cameras,” I snap.

Ronan darts to the window in the bathroom. It’s still cracked from earlier, and he looks outside. His voice is low. “Nothing. Check the other side.”

I’m frozen. Checking the other side would mean leaving Ronan alone.

Ronan whips around. “Hurry up!”

I swallow. Fine. I have no choice. I dart to the other side of the trailer, checking out the windows there. I see nothing but empty fields all the way around the house. The only place I can’t see is past the big, empty house on the property. The cops would have to show up at some point. It’s not like it’s easy to hide cruisers out here. Darting to my closet, I snatch my gun from the safe I stashed it in. As I’m moving back to the front door, an explosion sounds from the back bedroom.

Christ. I crouch down as glass crashes to the ground. Two more of the same sounds happen.

“Ronan!” Darting to the kitchen, I find Ronan climbing down from the counter, a knife clutched in his hand.

“Get down,” I hiss, yanking him to his knees.

“What the fuck?”

But I’m already turning, aiming my gun at the back hallway. For a paralyzing few seconds, there’s nothing. Then, I see the smoke.

And that’s when the front door crashes open.

A massive dude with a mop of dark hair and a skull bandana pulled over his nose steps in the middle of the frame, acting like he’s impervious to bullets.

His gaze darts around the smokey space, and even with his mouth covered, I can tell he’s beaming like a fucking lunatic. He also looks fucking familiar.

Taking advantage of this dude’s complete lack of concern, I whirl, pointing my gun that way. I fire off a few rounds, but they’re rushed. Ronan pops up beside me, yanking me down behind the counter.

“Get down,” Ronan hisses. Smoke swirls around us as unhinged laughter fills the room. A few shots slam into the cabinets behind us, shattering pieces of wood down.

“Give me that.” Ronan grabs for my gun, but I yank it away. Instead, I pop over the edge and fire some more wild rounds to keep the guy back.

“I’m a better shot.” Ronan leans around the island, looking at the man. My eyes begin to burn from the smoke, and pieces of the cabinets rain down on us.

The second time I pop over the ledge, something hot catches me in the right arm, jerking me back. I hiss, immediately dropping down.

“Give it to me.” Ronan wrestles for the gun, and I let it go to keep him from shooting either of us. Then, he lays around the corner, shooting off round after round in a measured cadence.

There’s a shout, then Ronan cusses.

“What?” I’m coughing now. The smoke—gas—is heavy and unbearable.

“He disappeared!” Ronan darts around the island before I can stop him.

“Christ,” I scramble after him. I reach him at the front door, which is hanging off a hinge.

“Where did they go?”

“They?” I yank Ronan back from the open door.

“Someone was with him.” Ronan hacks, trying to catch his breath. “He had a friend. Some vampire-ass-looking dude with white hair dragged him away.” He hunches over.

“What? Get away from the door!” A fierce protectiveness washes over me, and I pull him back, grabbing for my gun again. He lets me, coughing so hard he stumbles.

Distantly, I hear the roar of a motor. They must have parked behind the trees on the other side of the big house. I watch them peel down the driveway.

“Fuckers!” I whirl, trying to find air that doesn’t sting, but it’s not to be found. Once the car is gone, I shove Ronan outside, then stumble after him, sucking clean breaths into my lungs.

Ronan struggles to pull in a breath. “Why did that first guy’s hoodie say: gayer than u?”

What? My head is reeling. Those weren’t cops. Those weren’t goddamn cops, so who the hell were they?

A fiery pain burns in my arm, and I glance down. Oh, Christ. I’ve been hit.

TWENTY-NINE

We Did It!!! - grandson

In what universe are you happy that the people shooting at you are deranged psychos instead of the fucking cops?

Maybe I’m still dreaming. When Logan came into the room, I was trapped in a nightmare about an old case I had worked on. Maybe I’m still sleeping now?

I suck cool, fresh air into my throat and pinch myself. Fucking ow.

Shit. Reality is still a nightmare. I should have known.

I shake my head, looking over at Logan. He’s also trying to catch his breath, but he has bright red blood running down his right arm.

“Dude, what the fuck?” I snap, going immediately over to check out the injury. Logan yanks away from me. “It’s fine. It’s just a scratch.”

“The fuck it is.” I follow after him, ripping his shirt at the collar. He hisses, but it exposes his right bicep, which has a clean cutout in a ‘U’ shape. Looks like a bullet grazed him. Or like a turtle took a bite out of him. A turtle bullet.

“You’re gonna have to stop the bleeding.”

Logan gives me a look. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t usually count ‘fine’ as bleeding all over the front steps, but okay.” I throw my hands up. “Be like that.” Not my fucking problem. Don’t even know why I care.

Slowly, I spin in a circle, looking around. There’s always such a weird, manic space after combat. My body expects more fucking men with guns to pop out of the dirt. Plus, for some fucking irritating reason, I’m concerned about Logan.

”Who the fuck was that?” I look at Logan. He’s shaking his head, looking a little dazed. It makes a weird, buzzy feeling run through me. Definitely not a concerned feeling.

“First time?” I try to joke it off.

Logan waves me off.

Oh, it’s definitely his first time. How cute. “Well, we’re gonna need to get the gas out of the house..”

Logan just gives an absent nod while trying to look like he isn’t examining his arm.

I shake my head. “We’re gonna have to pack it down. Gonna hurt when we put spicy rain towels on it.”

He gives me a look like I’m crazy.

I shrug. “O.C. is spicy rain. Gets into everything. Most people don’t have access to a fucking O.C. launcher.” I eye Logan anew. Who the fuck was after him?

He just waves me off. “I need my tablet.”

“Not a good time to play Angry Birds—“ but he’s already going in the house.

I glance over my shoulder. The road is just as still as it was, and for a second, I realize I could run. I could run right now and find someone on the road. Hop into their car and then…

Fucking then what? My stomach sinks. I have nowhere to go. The cops are looking for me, and now some fucking psychos are here too? These people clearly weren’t cops, so I don’t know how they’re gonna act. Are they just gonna nurse their wounds and come back? Why in the hell did they bust in the door like that? The guy was practically begging to get shot. Regardless, we have the high ground inside.

Reluctantly, I move back into the trailer. Logan is on the couch, looking into something on his tablet and completely ignoring the blood dripping on his couch. Something about that rubs me the wrong way. He didn’t want to dirty his couch earlier, so why is he doing it now?

“For the love of satan,” I mutter and cough, striding to the kitchen. As I do, I notice my finger doesn’t feel right. I glance down and see a ring on it. It’s a thick one, sparkly and covered in gears.

Jesus Christ. But then, Logan grunts and I grab a wad of paper towels. I march back over to Logan. “Nurse your wounds, fucker.”

He barely notices me, still tapping away.

I frown, mad at the blood, mad that the air makes me want to rip my lungs out, and mad at him. Mad at the people who fucking shot at us, and while we’re at it, mad at the fucking world.

“Fucking fine.” I mash the paper towels on Logan’s arm. “Hold this.” Then, I stomp around the house. I seal off the room where the gas was shot and open up every window. It fucking hurts to see, but we need to be prepared for a second round.

Once fresh air is flowing in, I find Logan in the same spot, muttering.

This fucker. Not taking any of this seriously. Which is kinda like my brand. How dare he steal my brand? And poorly, if I may add. He’s just being stupid.

I grumble, finding the medical things he used on my chest on the counter. I march over to him. “Shove over.”

Logan barely looks at me but does as I say. He’s no longer holding the paper towels, and one is still hanging on by a blood-soaked thread.

Granted, the wound isn’t bad bad. But I kinda need this stupid fucker in working condition if there are gonna be two people coming after us.

“I need a gun.” I rip off the bloody towel, squirting hydrogen peroxide on the wound.

Finally, Logan hisses and whirls. “Jesus.”

“Hey, sunshine!” I beam at him. “Give me a fucking gun.”

“Apex.” Logan looks at me with those vibrant blue eyes.

“What?” I frown.

“It’s all connected!” He goes back to his tablet. “Those guys are connected.”

I glare at him. “As we were saying.” I pour more peroxide on him. “Gun. Fucker.”

Logan sucks in a breath but doesn’t even look at me. “I knew I’d seen that guy somewhere.”

“Who?” I wipe away the excess liquid. The bullet took a chunk of a tattoo out. It was some woman with sad eyes. Now she has one eye. He’s gonna have to stitch it up and tattoo an eyepatch over it.

Pirate eye! I snicker to myself.

“That guy is Callum Walker. The one who shot at us.”

Immediately, I’m focused again. “What?”

Logan shows me the tablet, and on it is a grainy image of the guy in the weird hoodie from earlier. It looks like a photo from a surveillance camera. Callum looks just as cocky in that picture as he did here.

“Who is he, and why the fuck is he trying to kill you?” I ask.

“He works for Apex.”

“Okaaay,” I drag the word out. I have no idea what the fuck that is.

“I saw him on one of my other kills. He was protecting a judge who let pedos off easy.” Logan leans back, disbelief on his face. “Fuck.”

I stare at Logan, narrowing my eyes. He’s talking about someone he killed. Did he piss off the wrong people?

“Hold this.” I mash gauze onto his arm, then grab the tape. Wrapping it around his arm—his stupidly thick arm—I tie it off.

“Thanks,” Logan says, and then the air goes quiet. Well, quiet and spicy. Goddamn, it’s hard to breathe.

Logan runs his hand down his face, then seems to regret it as he winces. “Fuck.”

I smirk. Amateur. Everyone knows not to touch your eyes or wiener after a good pepper spray. Absently, I play with the ring around my finger. Part of it shifts with my movement, and I glance down. The gears turn as I twist them.

“So…” I try to fill the silence. “Who exactly do you kill, Logan?”

When I look up, he’s watching me fidget with the ring. He glances up to meet my gaze. “Pedophiles, usually. The one time I didn’t,” he motions at the tablet, then the air.

It takes a second for what he’s saying to sink in. Logan kills…pedophiles?

Logan pulls up a screen. “That judge I killed was on Apex’s payroll. I had no idea what that was until I kept looking. It’s like an underground circle jerk of power and money.”

I stare at him, still stuck on the fact he kills the same people I do.

Logan drops the tablet. “I killed the wrong person. And now they’re out to kill us.”

THIRTY

The Therapist - Foreign Air

SIX MONTHS AGO

“Hey, did you get my text?”

“Huh?” I glance at my boss, popping open my first energy drink for the day.

“Someone’s too cool to show up for work,” my coworker Brad scoffs. “Don’t worry; the rest of us covered your load.” He slides into the roll-call seat beside me.

“I didn’t get shit.” I check my phone. “What happened?” I’ve been a detective for two weeks. Of course I managed to fuck up already.

“Rape.” Brad lifts an eyebrow. “Twelve-year-old said her daddy was fucking her for a year.”

More of my coworkers slide into roll call. Another one pipes up. “Yeah! Said he was pulling out and coming on her dresser.”

I frown. “What the hell?”

“You missed it, sleeping beauty. Did a search warrant last night. Wouldn’t you know? Blacklight showed shit all over her dresser.”

My stomach sinks. “No.”

“Yep. Streaks of it.” They shift in a mix of disgust and fascination. Fucking cops.

“Is he in jail?”

“Fuck yeah he is.”

They give me the rundown on the case—Sam Roe having sex with his biological daughter. It makes me sick, but everything is just like the girl, Bethany, said it would be. Every detail.

Until a few days later, Bethany comes in to recant her story.

They make me talk to her since I’m the new guy, and I have a way with kids. Bethany tries to bring her stepmom into the room with her, but I don’t like parents in the interview room. I want kids to tell me whatever they want without coaching or pressure, so I have her stepmom step out.

After she’s gone, I move Buffalo closer to Bethany. Her long blond hair falls in front of her face, and she doesn’t try to move it away. Every part of her body is folded away from me, and her tone is quiet. She tells me about her cat and how she loves him very much. Then, she gets really quiet as she recants her story. Says it wasn’t her dad who raped her. Says she got confused.

We don’t drop the charges.

A few months later, the lab results for the streaks on her dresser come in: Sam Roe’s semen and Bethany’s DNA.

I’m spraying the bed bugs off my shoes after a nasty search warrant when Bethany comes to the police department. She then confesses that she recanted her story because her stepmom threatened her cat and that the abuse continued to happen after her dad bonded out of jail.

A month later, the trial happens. All week, my boss has talked about how hard the defense attorney, Dillon Zanetti, has been on Bethany. How he’s discrediting her because of her mental illness. Not only that, but he insults her over and over.

It makes me rage. Because juries are unpredictable. You get them to doubt the victim at all, and your case can go out the window.

On the last day of the trial, I ran home and changed out of my belt and boots before heading back to the office. I’m by the window in my office, scrolling my phone, when the text comes in:

Not guilty on all counts.

My world slows. That sick feeling in my stomach deepens.

Again. I can’t protect these children. We can’t protect these children.

Again.

Silent rage grips my chest. I don’t yell. I don’t cry. I don’t punch the wall.

I simply pick up my phone and text my boss.

Me: I quit.

I stare out at the parking lot, bathed in the evening light. Flashes from my years on the job fill my mind. The dead people, the gunshot wounds, the lifeless babies.

I can’t protect them. Again.

Silent rage makes my hands shake. That reality is unacceptable.

Well, I can protect them. I can. But it’ll be highly illegal.

At this point, I don’t care anymore.

Maybe, all this time, I was playing for the wrong team. Maybe it’s not the heroes who save the world at all.

Maybe it’s the villains.

Sam Roe was my first kill.

THIRTY-ONE

I Hate Everything About You - Three Days Grace

Time goes by in a blur. Logan and I spend time fortifying the trailer, looking into Apex, and otherwise being jittery, looking out the windows. The more time that passes without the men’s return, the more anxious I get. This is a tactical nightmare. What if they come back with an army? With bigger guns and more people? I mean fuck, I’m a good shot but, like, not that good. And I have to worry about them and the cops?

Plus, every time I close my eyes, I see them. The kids I’ve failed. The kids these fucks have failed.

I’ve started drinking again. I’m currently a little tipsy, sitting on the couch, waiting for someone else to bust through the door. I feel the gun in the back of my pants. Logan doesn’t know I found it, buried deep in his closet. We may have reached the world’s most tense truce, but he doesn’t trust me with a gun.

As he shouldn’t.

Logan messes around in the kitchen.

“Here.” I hear the sound of a plate sliding across the counter.

“Not hungry.” I continue to stare at the door. It’s true. I’m in some sort of limbo, plus my fingers and toes are buzzing. I worked hard to get here, drinking Logan’s shitty whiskey; why would I ruin my buzz now?

“Ronan.” Logan’s voice has a bark to it. “You haven’t eaten in two days.”

Has it been two days? I don’t remember. But he’s being all bossy now, and it makes me smirk.

I close my eyes, tipping my head back. It makes the world spin.

I don’t realize the kitchen has gone silent until it’s too late. There’s a sharp kick at my foot, and I crack my eyes open. Logan stares down at me, looking bored. “Get up and eat. Now.”

I frown. “So bossy.”

He just cocks an eyebrow. “You’ll be useless if you’re drunk off your ass when they come back.”

I close my eyes again. At this moment, I just don’t really care. Which is exactly why I drank so much in the first place.

“Brat.” I hear him walk off, and I sigh. Maybe he’ll leave me alone.

I was wrong. Because when can I be lucky? Logan comes back, and I crack my eyes open right as he shoves a plate into my lap. “Eat.”

I groan, trying to catch the food before it spills. I catch most of it, but Logan has made French toast, and a big drip of syrup has spilled down my hand and onto my sweatpants.

“Fuck!” I immediately shake my hand, but the syrup sticks, dripping down my hand to get caught in the creases between my fingers. It’s sticky, sticky, sticky.

I jump up, shoving the plate of food into Logan’s hands, and dart to the sink, immediately trying to wash away the overwhelming sensation. Logan follows me. “It’s not that hot.”

“It’s not hot; it’s fucking nasty.” I scrub at my skin, still feeling it. It sits like a film, sticking my skin together. It’s ruining my nice buzz.

When I glance up, Logan is watching me with narrowed eyes. It’s like he’s cataloging every behavior, and it makes me uncomfortable.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, pumping soap into my hand.

Logan doesn’t say anything. Instead, he puts the plate of food down next to me, digging around in the ring bowl. He pulls something out. “Eat, and put this on. You have too much anxious energy. The fidget will help. Not the whiskey.”

I glance down at him. He’s holding out the ring with the gears that I took off the day he got shot. I scoff, turning away to face the counter as I dry my hands and grab another glass of whiskey. Suddenly, Logan is behind me, so close to touching me that I feel him all along my back. It feels like he’s touching me, even though he isn’t. He’s full of anger and power. I stiffen, feeling buzzed all over again. Tingles run up and down my back.

“Ronan.” Logan’s voice has a warning tone. “You need to eat.”

“I’m not–”

“Heard you, and I don’t care.” His hand slides the plate of French toast in front of me. “Eat.”

I want to move, but if I do, I’ll touch him. Not only will he feel the gun at my back, but then I’ll have to feel him. I’ll have to feel his hard body with all his muscles and…

“Eat.” The command is a little softer. For some reason, it makes goosebumps run down my arms. Which, what the fuck?

I whirl, facing him. Logan looks down at me because, of course, he’s a little taller than me. His blue gaze immediately locks on mine. He watches me for an unnervingly long period of time. I cross my arms, brushing his chest in the process. “Back off, man.”

His expression doesn’t change. “You’re drunk.”

“Am not.” I’m buzzed. There’s a difference.

Then, Logan steps into me. And instead of the threat of his body, it’s all there, pressing into me everywhere. His chest is firm, crushing my crossed arms and pinning me against the counter.

Anger flashes across his eyes. “What’s your problem, shorty? You’re all murderous one minute, and now what? You’re just gonna let them waste you while you’re drunk?”

“What do you care?” I can’t help the wash of defensiveness that moves over me. Oh, he wants me to care? I do care. That’s the problem, I care too much. I’m trying to stop caring so I don’t lose my shit. Doesn’t he know if I start caring, I’ll stop eating his fucking French toast and fucking wearing his sweatpants like we’re friends? I’ll start thinking about using my gun on him.

‘You could fuck him with it. You know, kinky.’ Buffalo’s voice is garbled.

“Back off,” I shove Logan, but it’s a sloppy attempt. He just pushes back into me, pinning me even harder. The gun digs into my back, and I suck in a breath.

“Make me,” Logan says into my ear. His voice is husky, and heat rushes across my face for some unknown reason. I push back, trying to shove his hips away enough that I can scoot along the counter and get away. Logan just groans, and then his fist is in my clothes, yanking my pants down. It makes the gun clatter to the ground, and for a second, I freeze.

“Oh, you thought I didn’t know about that?” Logan snorts, and suddenly, his hand is around my dick.

“Get o–” I groan as Logan tugs, shooting sensation through me. It seems my dick has been awake for a hot second because it’s already hard.

“Hmmm,” Logan hums, bringing his other hand up and lacing it into my hair. He yanks my head back, exposing my throat to him. “You’ve been getting on my nerves, Ronan Carter.”

Before I can even think about a comeback, his teeth are on my throat, and my brain short-circuits. Logan bites down on the side of my neck, shooting pain through me before he laps it away with his tongue.

My brain registers then, and I buck, shoving back against Logan. I get my hand up to push at his face, but he just laughs, yanking on my hair and pressing even closer. “You just need to be fucking punished; that’s what it is. Fucking brat.”

His hand jerks my dick roughly. The sensation is overwhelming, locking me up every time he brushes the tip. I must be drunker than I thought, and I fucking like it. Note to self: drink whiskey; it makes you gay.

I’ve barely completed that thought before Logan drops my hair to reach behind me. He drops to his knees and my entire body tenses.

“Take your shirt off,” he demands.

“I…” I blink, trying to focus my vision. Is Logan going to suck my dick?

Logan makes a sound of impatience, then puts something down. He rips my shirt cleanly from my shoulders, and I’m standing with my pants around my ankles in front of an annoyingly tall and jacked man. Dick doesn’t seem mad about it though. I feel myself pulse in his big hand.

Logan lets go of me and grabs the item behind me. I focus on him just as he’s twisting the top off something. It’s…a maple syrup bottle.

“The fuck?” I’m starting to scoot away before Logan pours it all. Over. Me. Down my stomach and onto my thighs. It even drips down into my groin and along my dick.

“Jesus, Logan!” I shout, but then his hot mouth is on me, licking up my stomach. He cages me in between his hands, his tongue tracing up my skin. He looks up at me with a triumphant look, pulling away long enough to mutter, “It’s a punishment, Ronan. Not a reward.”

The sticky sensation is everywhere, tracing down my skin and making me want to scream. I drop my hands onto Logan’s head, trying to…I’m not sure. I can’t get too much of a grip cause he still has his hat on, but Logan ignores me. He licks hot paths up my skin, dropping his head down to my thighs, making me suck in a breath. His face is so close to my dick. So fucking close. Against my will, goosebumps prickle over my legs.

“You fucking…maple syruped me!” I’m panting, and I can’t fucking help it. My whole body feels electric.

“Weenie drizzle.”

“What?”

“I prefer to call it weenie drizzle.” Logan grins and goes back to licking me, tracing soft patterns up my skin.

“I,” I’m panting, and I need to distract him. Distract him from how much this is affecting me. “I hate being sticky.”

“Well, you won’t be sticky for long.” He opens his mouth right under my dick, and it feels like my whole body locks up. He looks up at me and smiles, and it feels like the whole world freezes. Logan is under me, his mouth is an inch from my dick, and I’m harder than I’ve ever been.

And then his tongue is on me, tracing up the bottom of my dick. It’s like lightning explodes in all the nerves along my shaft as he traces his hot, warm tongue up me. Then he goes back down, always looking at me. Those blue eyes locked on mine, drinking down my every reaction. And I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m enraptured by the man on his knees in front of me, licking me like I’m his favorite meal.

Logan licks me until I’m trembling, ready to come just from this. Part of me desperately wants him to put me in his mouth. I’m so close to coming already that my brain is all foggy.

Logan must know it because he teases my tip just enough to make a tremble run through me.

“You suffer so sweetly for me.” He grins meanly up at me, and I tense. Then, Logan kisses the tip of my dick and moves as if he’s going to stand up.

“What–” I pant. Is he just going to leave me hanging? Edge me until right before I come and then just…go?

“Hmmm?” Logan looks up at me. “Oh, sorry, did you want to come?”

Heat flushes across my cheeks.

He laughs. The fucker laughs. But then, he strokes his hand up and down my dick, instantly providing relief. I bite back a groan.

“Beg.”

“What?” I snap my gaze to him.

Logan grins. “Beg.”

And, to my horror, my drunk brain wants to. Because yes, now I’m drunk. I have to be.

Logan sees my hesitation, and I bark out, “Fuck you.”

Immediately, he loosens his grip on me, taking away the friction I need. I hiss, batting his hand away and trying to do it myself.

“No.” He yanks my hands away, and suddenly, my dick is in his mouth. But he doesn’t suck; instead, he lightly rakes his teeth down it. “Beg.”

‘Do it!’ Buffalo’s voice is in my ear. And he’s screaming. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? Just do it!’

“I…” I’m caught in the indecision. I can feel Logan’s hot breath on me, and at this moment, that’s all I want.

The word makes it out of my mouth as a breath, “Logan.” There’s a plea in it. A plea that, if I were sober, would horrify me.

Logan smirks, taking me into his mouth and sucking till his cheeks hollow. Just as quickly as the euphoria is there, it’s gone again as he pops off the end. “Yes?”

I’m trembling. I’m trembling, and I can’t stop. “Make me feel good.”

“Not quite begging, but we’ll get there.” Then Logan descends on me. If I thought what he was doing before was good, this is everything. The man sucks my dick with a skill that can only be described as mastery, pulling me back into his throat while his tongue strokes down my shaft. He milks the pleasure out of me mercilessly. I both never want him to stop and want to explode all over him.

Then, Logan takes me all the way into his throat. The way his throat squeezes makes my balls draw up, and in a second, I’m coming with a groan. My entire body locks in pleasure, the orgasm being sucked right out of my soul. I see lights behind my eyes. Logan sucks me then, hollowing his cheeks as I pump into him.

Once the pulses lessen, Logan pops off me. He stops to lick a trail of syrup up my torso, then he’s in my face.

And then he’s kissing me. Logan’s lips are on mine, and he’s biting me. I open to let him in, and my mouth is flooded with salt and sweetness. I gasp, and Logan takes the chance to push his tongue and cum further into my mouth. His kiss is dominating and harsh, and for a second, I fight it. I’ve never had this before. Never had my own cum in my mouth. He mashes his teeth into mine, pushing me back into the counter. I fight for a minute, and then I melt, kissing him back. Logan moans, softening against me. And fuck, if the kiss doesn’t wipe my brain. And then, I’m boneless. I’m boneless and melting into the man in front of me. Logan catches me against the counter, kissing me until my brain is mush.

Finally, he pulls away.

It takes me a second to catch my breath. I’m not sure if I ever will. Because that was the best kiss I’ve ever had.

THIRTY-TWO

DARK - WesGhost

That was the best kiss I’ve ever had. And the best dick I’ve ever had. Christ, I want Ronan in my mouth for the rest of…always. And the way he kissed me was so hesitant, yet I could feel the power he was holding back. I didn’t want to stop, but the tiny, fucking terrified part of my brain was screaming: this is Ronan. The guy who hates me. The guy who still thinks he’s straight. The guy who had a gun stuffed down the back of his pants to kill me with.

That’s hot.

Okay, maybe my brain isn’t that scared.

Ronan’s eyes flutter, and he looks just as flustered as I am. Was he into it? Of course he was into it; he just came in my mouth. I almost came when Ronan orgasmed. Then I almost came again, watching his eyes. The way he submitted that powerful body to me. The way he trembled and his eyes blew wide. He was pure need, and I think it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

My gaze flicks back to Ronan’s hazel one, and his pupils are still huge, with barely a ring of green around them.

He’s into it. He’s into me.

My heart soars.

Ronan is into me.

Suddenly, it feels like the weight of the world is gone. Like people aren’t out to kill us.

Like there is no injustice.

Like Greyson didn’t leave me with the biggest hole in my heart.

Like I’m not alone.

And then Ronan starts to back away from me with a…look in his eye. It looks an awful lot like fear, and suddenly, all my good feelings come crashing down.

Ronan pulls his pants back up, and his gaze has gone from flustered to fucking scared. “Logan, I…”

Oh god. He’s going to say he’s straight. That he can’t do it cause he’s not gay, which he clearly fucking is. My stomach clenches, and suddenly, it’s Greyson and me again.

I stumble back. “Don’t fucking say it.” The hat around my head feels tight, so I take it off, but then my head feels…empty. I put it back on. Then take it off. Over and over and over.

“I’ll say what I want,” Ronan snaps. Then, his stomach growls. Loudly.

I whirl on him, barking a little more loudly than necessary, “Eat, Ronan.” If he’s eating, he can't be arguing, and most importantly, he can’t be running.

Ronan looks at the food on the counter like he’s seeing it again for the first time. Then, without a fight this time, he eats. He eats like he’s ravenous.

So he’s the kind of guy that gets hungry after he comes. Good to know.

Once he’s done with that plate, I slide him another, and he takes it without arguing.

It satisfies something in my soul to see him eat my food. Everything still feels like it’s going wrong, but watching him eat soothes a tiny part of me. It’s okay. Even if I can’t keep him and do things like we just did, I can still feed him.

Right?

I shake off the feeling that it’s not enough.

Ronan shoves his plate away, then scoops up the gun. I give him a warning look. He tosses me one back that’s full of the defiant anger he usually throws my way. I can’t tell if I love it or if I hate it. Because once again, Ronan looks tortured, and I hate that look on him.

But I shouldn’t. That’s the whole reason I kept him here—to screw with him.

“I’m sick of this.” Ronan picks up the ripped T-shirt and then tosses it back down in disgust. “We’re sitting here like scared sheep, just waiting for them to come back. Let’s go kill those motherfuckers.”

He’s been saying that same thing over and over, but Ronan and I aren’t equipped to go after contract killers. A bolt of fear rushes through me at the idea of him chasing after them and getting hurt. I grunt, “We don’t have enough guns or ammo or vests–”

“Bullshit. All you need is a gun.” I catch Ronan looking at me, and he flushes for a brief second before he covers it up in anger. “I’m not just going to sit here.”

“You do know the cops are looking for you, right?” I cross my arms. I’ve also debated moving locations. But where are we going to go? The only place I could go is my moms’, and…I refuse to go back there. I just…can’t. I also don’t want to put them in danger. And we definitely can’t go to any of Ronan’s contacts.

Ronan paces up and down, up and down, and I start to do the dishes, watching him. I can’t tell if I’m relieved he’s no longer catatonic or if this was the worst choice I’ve made.

Ronan starts getting more and more agitated. “They want to stop us from doing what we’re doing? Fuck them. Fuck them.”

I can’t tell if he’s talking about the cops or the mercenaries. He’s muttering to himself now, occasionally glancing at Buffalo, then going back to pacing, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to respond without pushing him away.

Ronan whirls on me, his face manic. “I need to use your tablet.”

There’s a reckless look in Ronan’s eyes, and it makes my stomach sink. Why won’t he see I’m just trying to be smart? To keep us safe.

To keep him safe.

“For what?” I ask.

“Don’t even try to talk me out of it.” Ronan storms to the couch and then marches the tablet back to me. He knows it’s passcode locked. I didn't want him doing anything stupid. Anything like what he has planned now because the look in his eyes is downright…murderous.

“Ronan,” I warn.

His gaze is wild. “No, Logan. I have more people to send to hell before I die.”

My whole body tenses, and I grind my teeth together. “You’re not going to die.”

“Okay.” Ronan laughs bitterly. “Unlock it, Logan.”

My chest hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. I just want him to be okay.

“Tell me what you’re doing, and I’ll unlock it.”

Ronan snorts, waving his hand impatiently at me. “Killing someone.”

“Who?” I press. I can’t let Ronan run off and do something that gets him killed. We just had something…nice. Doesn't he realize that there are so many more nice things he could have? If he’d just…let me help him?

“Dillon Zanetti.”

“Who’s that?”

“Defense attorney,” he mutters.

I open the tablet, searching the Apex database I’ve found my way into. Typing his name, I see it pop up, which makes my stomach sink further.

“Oh fuck no. He’s on Apex’s payroll.” I look up into Ronan’s eyes, and what I see there stops me in my tracks. It’s rage and pain. Deep, gut-wrenching pain.

“All the more reason,” he says.

I can’t.

I don’t want to. All I want to do is exist in our own little bubble. I want to keep the Ronan from a few minutes ago. Why can’t we go back to that?

Ronan sees me hesitating, and then his gaze shutters. “Then I’ll go alone.”

THIRTY-THREE

Below the Surface - Griffinilla

11 YEARS OLD

I pull the crumpled paper out of my backpack and immediately shove it back in. It makes my heart race, and I look around despite being the only one in my bedroom. I wonder if Dad knows. How could he know? He couldn't know, right?

I’m going to fail English, and not because I can’t read, but because my stupid teacher insists on making the presentation a third of your grade.

My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I press on them, but it doesn’t help.

That afternoon drags by like every afternoon does: quietly. I do my best to fill the silence by strumming my mom’s guitar. Mom works afternoons, and Dad often works late at the police department. I often think about him out there arresting bad guys. He always has the best stories to tell. He always seems the happiest when he’s talking about work. That, or when he’s working on projects in the garage. Or, at least, he’s not angry at me when he’s doing those things.

Dad doesn’t like me very much. I can’t really blame him either. He’s this brave cop who fights bad guys. He always knows what to do. He would never fail a presentation assignment. He would never be…all those things he claims I am. Late at night. When I wish he’d leave me alone.

I want to be more like my dad. Maybe if I was, he’d like me more.

I jump when I hear the garage door open. I’m in the kitchen getting a snack, and I hear Dad’s car pull into the garage with a hum before it shuts again.

Suddenly, I have an idea, and it makes my stomach feel all bunchy. What if he says no?

Dad bustles inside, throwing his keys on the table and checking his phone. He sighs, typing something out, then strides to the fridge in that confident way of his.

“Hey, Dad,” I say softly. I hate how soft it is. I clear my throat.

“Oh, hey.” He barely glances at me, instead grabbing a beer. Cracking it open, he looks at his phone again and sinks onto the couch.

I let him settle in, hovering around the kitchen, picking at the stubs on the bananas, pouring myself water, and then reading the back of a cereal box. I can’t decide if I’m going to ask or not. It’s a stupid idea, anyway.

Dad sighs loudly, making me jump. “What is it, son?”

“Huh?” He catches me off guard. I’m not ready yet. It’s not the right time.

“You’ve been moping around for ten minutes. Spit it out.”

I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. Now that he’s called me out on it, I have to say something. “I…I w–” I start to say want, but my mouth doesn’t catch up with my brain, and for an agonizing two seconds, I’m caught there, making the same sound over and over again.

“Breathe,” Dad barks sharply, still looking at his phone.

I try to. I want to. Why the hell can’t I say it? Instead, what comes out is, “w-w-w-”

Dad finally glances up, looking annoyed. “Spit it out.”

Only I can’t. I’m stuck.

Dad throws his phone down. “Do we need to start therapy again?”

Finally, my mouth allows me to finish, and I get the rest of the words out in a rush, “want to build a birdhouse together?”

The room gets silent, and Dad just stares at me. My cheeks are burning again. Dad doesn’t look excited at all. In fact, he just looks annoyed.

He sighs. “We’ll get you back into therapy. It’s expensive though. I need you to actually practice what they give you.”

I do practice. I practice all the time when they aren’t home. But nothing makes it better.

I hang my head. This whole thing was a bad idea.

Dad goes back to his beer, and I go back upstairs.

I didn’t want to build it anyway. It was a stupid idea. Maybe soon I’ll learn that being alone beats putting yourself out there any day.

THIRTY-FOUR

I Should Have Stayed at Home - Ryan Mack

I have a date with Tinder Girl, and for the past three hours, I haven’t stopped pissing. I get the nervous pisses, which I suppose is better than the nervous shits, but I hate them. I hate running to the bathroom every fifteen minutes like some pregnant woman.

When I return from my fourth trip to the bathroom, I pace the floor. Sir Ellington watches me, cocking his head. It’s almost like he’s judging me.

“It’s-s-s,” I get locked on the ‘s’ for a second, “not her. I don’t care about her.” Fuck, I’m already stuttering?

Elli just cocks his head the other way.

“Whatever.” I wave him off. It’s eleven-thirty. Tinder Girl wanted to meet for a matinee since she works afternoons at the hospital. Fucking Tinder Girl. I’m not really into girls, and I never have been, but dating a woman is what my family expects, and if it’s what they expect, then it’s what I’ll do.

The nervous energy floods me. I’m early, and there shouldn’t be traffic, but what about the parking situation? Will I find a spot easy to park in, with empties next to it so no fuckers dent my door? I mutter, “fuck it.” Grabbing my keys and sidearm, I throw on my leather jacket and head for the door. It’s sunny again today, which is stupid ‘cause Ohio usually prefers to blanket our already depressing state with gray skies every day.

I arrive massively early, and like any normal person, sit in my car and pretend I didn’t agonize over the details and get here ridiculously early. Normally, I’m not like this. But Silent Hollow doesn’t have a movie theater, and it forced me to drive outside of my known area. And, of course, the parking lot is empty. Because it’s midweek and in the middle of the day. Plus, I never wanted to go on this date in the first place, but my parents have the noses of bloodhounds. They’ll know if I’m awkward around my ‘girlfriend.’ This wedding can’t look like a first date. I might have told them I’d been dating someone for a while.

But I’m not a dick. If I’m going to make someone suffer through a wedding with me as my date, I at least owe them a free movie and a meal. As a bonus, I won’t even talk to her. She can just go about her day in peace, and I can do the same.

I should have found an actress.

By the time Tinder Girl arrives, I’m sweating. She’s classically pretty, I suppose. She has red hair and big tits and a curvy ass. She’s wearing tight jeans and a tiny white shirt. She also has on strappy sandals that are way too summery for today, but her feet are on display. And they are pretty feet. They might be the prettiest part about her.

I meet her on the sidewalk in front of the theater and give a small smile.

“Hey!” She smiles widely and tucks her hair behind her ear.

I rehearse the word before saying, “Hey.”

She sticks her hand out. “I’m Larissa.”

My heart stutters. L’s and S’s always trip me up. I practiced her name, but now, in the moment, I know I can’t say it. I know the sounds will just get stuck in my mouth.

She’s looking at me expectantly, then huffs out an awkward laugh. “But I suppose you knew that already. Should we go in?”

I nod absently while my brain is screaming: abort! I can’t even say her name; how can I have her pose as my girlfriend? My mom will never buy it.

“Cool.” She moves in ahead of me.

I drag myself in. Once we get inside and get our seats, Larissa is all over me. She starts by leaning over to whisper to me, and then her hand makes its way into my lap. It makes me sweat. Maybe it’ll stop once the movie starts?

It doesn’t. My leg bounces, and the fourth time she leans over to talk to me, I can feel the pit stains in my shirt. Also, I have to pee. So fucking badly.

A few other people in the theater get up, probably to go to the bathroom, and Larissa’s hand on my thigh inches up, up, up. Energy crackles up my spine. This feels wrong. Everything about her, her small body, her flowery scent, her feminine voice, should be right. She’s pretty. C’mon Dakota, this shouldn’t be so hard.

She gets close to my crotch, and I jump up.

“Bathroom,” I mutter, then dart out of the theater. My heart pounds like I just got in a foot pursuit, and I gasp for breath. What is wrong with me? I’m a cop, and I can’t handle a simple date?

Fuck. I’m such a disappointment.

When I can catch my breath enough to focus on the odd, multicolored carpet, I look up.

Bathroom. I need the fucking bathroom. I’ll just take a piss, and it’ll all be better.

THIRTY-FIVE

You’ve Created a Monster - Bohnes

I shut everything off when I kill people. Or at least, I try. If I don’t, every single memory will come roaring to the surface, and I think I’ll actually lose my mind. I’ll black out and do something stupid.

‘Something stupid like killing someone?’ Buff pipes up from the back seat.

I snort. I should be concerned that Buff is reading my thoughts. I should be concerned, but the thought is like a puff of breath in the wind. Just like the pain in my chest from the cuts—the feeling comes and goes. Which should also be concerning.

Logan gives me a weird look, then goes back to watching his phone. We’re on some stakeout that he determined was necessary. He said something about Dillon being protected by Callum and Vox.

I don’t give a flying fuck who he’s protected by. I’ll kill his protection too, or die trying.

I zone back out. When I get like this, it feels like I’m surfing a wave. Like all the dark has curled over me, surrounding me, rushing in my ears with a strange sort of calmness. The calm won’t last long. It lasts shorter and shorter each time, but it’s still the most addictive spot. I want to sit here forever. I want to feel the darkness roaring all around me but not let it touch me.

But that’s the thing. The wave always crashes.

The car is quiet, and it makes my leg bounce. I’m not so sure why Logan is scared of Callum and Vox. 

Vox. I snort. Vox the fox. He is a bit of a silver fox with his white hair and all. And like that, all my thoughts are tumbling around like clothes in a dryer.

I can still feel some of the stickiness on my legs, and it makes a shiver roll through me.

Sticky, sticky, sticky. The feeling is triggering a memory, and suddenly, there’s a sinking in my gut, and an overwhelming sense of dread wraps around me. I’ve been sticky before. When have I been sticky before?

Suddenly, I’m a kid again.

I step into Ember’s room, frowning at the annoyingly pink stuffed animals and clothes and bedspread. For a blind girl, she really does pick the worst color. I nearly trip on a pink sparkly binder, then start collecting her Barbie sheets off the bed. If I do my chores fast enough, I can take my truck to the park.

Suddenly, my hand is cold and wet. No, not wet—sticky. I frown, looking down. My hand is red. My eyes widen as I look at the bed. There, by the foot of the bed, is a huge puddle of…blood.

At first, I’m numb. I just stare at it. Blood doesn’t go here. It doesn’t go here, and there’s so much of it. I blink, looking around the room. Everything else looks…normal. Is Ember okay? I think back to when I last saw her, which was this morning, on the couch. She frowned at me when I tried to change the cartoons this morning. Mom doesn’t let us watch cartoons. She must have allowed it because our grandpa is visiting.

My skin starts to crawl. I have blood on my hand! Where do I put it? I can’t put it on the sheets. I can’t put it on the sheets, or I’ll stain them.

I back up to the door, then trip on something else. When I look down, it’s Ember’s PJ’s. They’re bloody, too. No, not all of them. Just the bottoms. Sticky, sticky blood.

Suddenly, I want to throw up. I run to find Mom, crying that Ember is dying. She’s dying, and I’m sticky, and I have nowhere to wipe my hands.

I bolt upright, breathing heavily. The memory feels like a long-forgotten monster that swam out of the depths. I remember this. Mom and Dad took Ember to the hospital. Then they told me she wasn’t dying, and I never heard a word about it. But we never saw our grandpa after that.

Suddenly, Logan’s hand is on my thigh. “You good?”

I jerk my head over, nostrils flaring. Good? I almost laugh. My legs won’t stop shaking, and he can feel it. His hand is on me, and he can feel it. For some reason, this feels scarier than when he was touching my dick. This feels…fucking terrifying.

I shove Logan off me.

Then comes Buffalo’s outraged roar, ‘PUT IT BACK. And tell him we’re peachy. Like an ass. Peachy.’

I want to drop my head in my hands. Drown out the roaring in my ears. Get back to that peaceful state before I crash into oblivion.

I don’t remember a court case. Would I remember that? Of course I would. Ember would have had to testify.

There was no court case.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in my chest. The laugh catches hold of something manic in my soul. Some manic rush that wants the wave to crash over me.

I want it to crash over me and kill me. To make me stop feeling.

“Hey…” Logan’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and suddenly, his hand is on my back. He’s rubbing my back.

“What?” The question comes out harsh. And, for some reason, angry. But Logan’s touch feels comforting in the most disconcerting way. Like I’m getting a hug but in a haunted house. Something isn’t right. Why is he touching me like that? What does he want?

Logan catches my gaze, and his blue eyes look…like he cares. Which is stupid. Because Logan doesn’t care.

I shove his hand off me. “What do you want from me, Logan? Do you want to tell me how to make my kills? How to fuck up my hunt?” I’m starting to get worked up, but I can’t really stop. Not now. Not when my heart is racing and the roaring is taking over. “You want to play Daddy and tell me what I can and can’t do? Or maybe,” I lean over him, “you want to fuck me against my will again?”

I’m not sure why I say it, but Logan snarls, shoving me back. And suddenly, he’s the one leaning over me.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to snap out of it.”

He’s over me, all angry and gnashing teeth, and suddenly, all I want to do is fuck. I want to feel someone’s body against mine, writhing up and down. Want to feel the overwhelming sensations I just felt. Want to keep the darkness at bay.

Before I can think twice, I smash my face into Logan’s and kiss him.

Logan freezes for just a second, and suddenly, he’s kissing me back just as hard. We both fight for dominance, and I reach my hand down to palm his dick. Just as quickly, he bats my hand away, and then he’s on top of me, leaning over me and pushing me back into my seat. I nip at his bottom lip. It only makes Logan growl, and suddenly one hand is around my neck, and the other is grabbing my dick. It makes pleasure shoot through me so strongly that I barely hear the alarm that’s started going off.

Logan freezes, groaning into my mouth. I bite at him, chasing him down in a haze, trying to get him to come back.

“Fuck.” Logan rips away from me, checking his phone.

I chase after him, grabbing his dick, “Just ignore it.”

“I can’t.” Logan frowns, his body tense. “You might be—someone might be coming.”

I put my hand over my eyes, anger and frustration filling me. I just kissed a man, and it wasn’t against my will. I just kissed a man, and he broke it off.

“They’re moving.” Logan throws the phone down. “They’re…leaving? Callum and Vox are leaving.”

I glance around. We’re parked in the movie theater parking lot. Apparently, Dillon planned on coming here with his wife for a matinee. I wanted to jump in and kill him before this, but Logan was scared of the other two. Funny, cause I’d rather kill them than run from them. 

Logan taps on his phone a few times, not looking at me, the tension thick in the car.

A bitter taste fills my mouth. Fuck this. Before Logan can stop me, I step out of the car.

I have a gun. I know how to use it. Time to kill this motherfucker.

THIRTY-SIX

I’m Only a Fool for You - Dybbukk Covers, Dybbukk, Domingo Morales

Ronan kissed me. Ronan kissed me. RONAN KISSED ME.

And now he’s running away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I jump out of the car. This was my fault. I was so busy trying to keep Ronan alive. Apex is a huge organization and they have a hit out on us. To put a cherry on top, now Ronan wants to go after Dillon, who is actively being guarded by the same guys who wanted to kill us. Because apparently, the universe is full of jokes.

Ronan is striding up to the theater, looking like a man on a mission. Every cell in my body needs to chase him. Needs him to stay with me forever. Needs him to learn he can never run from me.

“Ronan.” Before he can get inside, I grab his arm a little bit harder than I mean to, and he shrugs me off.

“Back off,” he snarls.

Unlucky for him, that just makes me want to chase him more. I grip Ronan’s muscled shoulder and whip him around. When his angry gaze meets mine, I grin. “Let me get the door.”

Ronan starts to argue, but I’ve already opened it. I wave with a mocking bow, about to make a jab, but Ronan strides past me, muttering, “Ladies first.”

My mouth drops open. How did he know I was going to say that? Am I that predictable? Then I realize I’m standing a little dumbfounded and follow after Ronan. He’s already at the counter since it’s the middle of the day, and there’s no line.

“One for–”

I slide up beside him and grin at the employee. “Two. We’ll take two.” 

Ronan glowers but says nothing. I wrap my hand around his back, plastering him to me. “You thought you could buy your own ticket on our first date?”

Ronan whips around to give me a horrified look.

I grin wider, pressing my hand into the gun in his waistband. “You’re so sweet. But I insist.”

The flush in his cheeks is adorable. Sure, it’s an angry flush, but I love it all the same. He wants to play games? He needs to learn that I’ll win every time.

There’s some sort of exchange with the employee that I don’t listen to cause I’m too busy watching every embarrassed move Ronan makes, and then he’s moving. I stick to his side as he strides past the refreshments and down the hall. I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

It’s exhilarating.

I glance at the ticket stubs, then ask, “A kid’s movie?”

“We aren’t dating. This isn’t a date,” Ronan hisses, the back of his neck pink.

“Why in the hell did you pick a kid’s movie? PG-13 too much for you?”

Ronan glances around the empty theater and whirls on me. “I wasn’t exactly paying attention, fuckwad.”

“It’s okay to get first-date jitters.” I give him a taunting smile. All I want is to kiss that angry look off his face. To get him to kiss me back.

I walk into Ronan, steering him back toward the wall.

“Jesus!” Ronan shoves away from me and keeps walking. “Will you focus?”

“On what? The horrible carpet? Just admit it, Ronan. You’re flustered.”

“Am fucking not!”

But he won’t look at me. He is flustered. And I fucking love it. I want to pull him into the bathroom and make him more flustered. Show him what the consequences are for disrespecting me. Want to shove my dick all the way up his–

Voices come from behind us, and I turn to see our target and his wife come in. Ronan spots them too, turning away so they can’t see his face.

Christ. Christ, we’re here to kill someone.

“Get out your phone,” Ronan hisses.

“What?” I blink at him.

“Get out your phone.” He motions impatiently. “No one just stands in a hallway doing nothing. Check the weather or something.”

I glare at him but do as he says. I check my programs to make sure the cameras are off. Thank god this place has shitty surveillance. There are a grand total of five cameras in the whole place, and they were pretty easy to loop.

Once Dillon and his wife walk into one of the theaters, I turn to Ronan. “What’s the plan?”

He barely looks at me. “Let’s go.”

“What?” I hiss, but Ronan has already stalked after Dillon, following him into the theater.

Fucking hell. I dart after Ronan, and when I’ve caught up in the walkway, I grab his hand. He tries to shake me off, but I just hold firmer. The movie has already started, and the deep base of some action music fills me with adrenaline.

Ronan’s hand tries to escape mine, then he glares at me. Even in the dim light of the walkway, I can see something isn’t right. There’s no more humor in his gaze. He looks…empty. Ronan isn’t there. Which scares me.

I want him back.

I yank on Ronan’s hand, bringing his gaze back to me. “Let’s find our seats.” Then, I yank him along. I pick the highest row so no one can sit behind us. The only other people here besides our mark are a couple all the way down the row. They seem pretty wrapped up in each other, so I’m sure they won’t be an issue.

I’m not sure what Ronan’s plan was. I’m not sure there was a plan. If he was going to just blow the guy’s head off in the theater, I’m glad I’m here to stop him. We need to be smart about this. It’s the only way I can keep him safe.

I keep Ronan’s hand gripped in my own, forcing him to extend his arm across the seat and nestle his hand in my lap. In my lap, by my crotch. Despite the fact I’m trying to keep him from shooting someone in a movie theater, my dick is hard. I can’t goddamn help it.

And that’s when I realize he has a ring on. I look down, manipulating his fingers so I can see it better. It’s the fidget ring. The one with the gears.

A pang of tightness and excitement fills me.

He’s wearing my ring.

My chest feels like a balloon caught in a steel band. Floaty, but all tight at the same time. I glance over at Ronan, ready to say something, but then Ronan stiffens just as movement catches my eye.

Dillon is getting up.

Ronan stands, yanking on my grip.

“No,” I hiss, trying to yank him back down. I don’t want to do this.

“Bathroom,” Ronan all but growls at me, pulling me along with him. He sounds like a shell of the man I’ve gotten to know. Angry, bitter, lost.

Broken.

But still, I go. What other choice do I have? Because I’m finding that anywhere Ronan Carter goes, I’ll follow.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Tchaikovsky: The Nutcracker - Dance of the Mirlitons (Reed Pipes) - Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Mariinsky Orchestra, Valery Gergiev

The hallway is empty as Ronan boots the bathroom door in.

“Jesus,” I hiss, checking that no one heard that and came rushing over. No one does, and I swing the bathroom door shut behind us, propping it closed with the door stopper.

“What–” There’s the sound of a fist hitting flesh, and I dart around to the stalls.

“Hey there, fucker.” Ronan has Dillon pinned against the counter. Dillon is bent over, clutching his face.

“What? Nothing to say to me?” Ronan punches him again, and Dillon cries out.

“You sick.” Punch. “Son of a bitch.” Punch.

Dillon tries his best to back away, stumbling into the sinks, dripping blood everywhere.

Blood. Evidence.

“Ronan.” I grab his arm, trying to get him to stop, but it’s like he doesn’t even feel me. He stalks up to Dillon, closing the space. Grabbing Dillon’s chin, despite his scrambling hands, Ronan forces Dillon to look at him. “Not fair, is it?” There’s seething in Ronan’s voice, and his whole body is tense. He looks more lethal than I’ve ever seen him.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Dillon scrambles, eyes squinted. “You–you’re crazy!”

“Crazyyyy,” Ronan sings the words, pinching the man’s cheeks gently in his hand. “No, what’s crazy is you letting pedophiles get off. That’s what’s crazy.”

In the reflection of the mirror, I see Ronan’s eyes. They’re…empty. It’s like he’s looking at something a hundred feet in front of him: glazed and just…gone. It makes me feel helpless. I don’t know how to help him.

“Look, man, I don’t know–”

Punch.

“Ronan.” Blood is going everywhere. It’ll be so hard to clean. I grab his arm, trying to wrestle him down. “The blood.”

“Get off me.” He tries to shake me off, but I hold tight. “The blood, Ronan. Evidence.”

“Fuck.” Ronan wrestles under me, slipping his arm out of my hold. Instead of stopping, he whips the gun out from his waistband, jamming it under the man’s chin. Dillon freezes, staring at Ronan with wide eyes. Now, both of them are staring at each other, one with dead eyes and the other with rings of white all the way around.

“You’re lucky I don’t like cleaning up.” Then, Ronan drops the gun in the sink and yanks Dillon to him. Stepping around him, he wraps his arm around Dillon’s neck, propping the other one up and locking Dillon in a chokehold.

“You know what else is unfair?”

Dillon grabs Ronan’s forearm, trying to pull it down. Trying to get space.

“That you’re going to die a quick death.” Ronan doesn’t even react to the man’s scrambling. Doesn’t bat an eye. Just stares at the stalls in front of him.

“Shhhh. It’ll be a nice little nap. A forever little nap.” There’s a small curl to Ronan’s lips, and I’m caught watching, entranced. Ronan is beautiful and lethal and fucking crazy. For a second, I’m caught up in it, watching as my man takes the life of another.

My man.

Those words wrap up in my mind like a whirlwind. My man? Why did that idea come so easily to me?

And just as suddenly, a wild rush of guilt follows it. Ronan isn’t my man. Greyson is. Was. How could I be so quick to replace him? This is fucked. Greyson deserves someone who actually cares to hold his memory. For years, I thought that was me. Is that not me?

I realize that the man has stopped struggling. Ronan is holding him, and the only sound is Ronan’s and my breathing.

When he finally drops him, a loud hissing sound makes me jump. I whirl, but it’s just the air freshener. Suddenly, reality catches up to me.

I replaced Greyson, and we have a dead man in a public bathroom.

Ronan brushes his hands together like he just did something distasteful, then mutters, “Not this time, Buff.”

“What the hell?” This is fucked. We need to clean up. Clean up and get out.

Right as I have that thought, something slides and the bathroom door opens.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Swimming Pool - Diggy Graves

In strides the most beautiful man I’ve laid eyes on. He looks rushed, looking at the ground, making his wavy chestnut hair fall into his eyes. His eyes are rimmed in freckles all the way up his cheekbones.

Freckles I’ve seen before.

The man looks up right as I realize who this is with horrifying clarity.

This is the cop. The one who is after Ronan.

The man and I lock gazes, his honey-colored eyes holding mine captive for a second before darting around the space. The space with blood. The space with a body.

I see him try to process it for a single second before my fight or flight kicks in, and I’m on top of him. I know only one of us gets to leave this bathroom alive today. I shove the man back into the wall, and he hits it with a thud. He’s slower to react than I am, and he’s also shorter than me. I wind my fist back and hit him in the temple. The man groans, but it’s clear he’s had combat training. He immediately closes the gap between us, plastering as close to me as he can. It’s harder for me to get any power in my hits with him this close, but I try, reaching back and trying to dislodge him so I can go for my gun without him grabbing it.

As I’m wrapping my hand around his face so I can crank his neck back, I’m hit with the most powerful smell. It makes me freeze, and suddenly, I’m a teen again, burned by the summer sun, with the most beautiful boy in my arms.

Sunscreen.

Dakota smells like sunscreen.

THIRTY-NINE

Spoiled Dogs, Sleeping Belly Up - Warlord Colossus

The man attacking me just stops. His whole body locks up, still gripping me but not hurting me.

I shove back, reaching for my gun. It feels like it takes forever to yank out of my hip holster. I watch him as my arm comes into my view in agonizing slowness. Then it’s out and pointing at the huge man in front of me. I pant, “S-s-silent Hol-l-l-low P-p-olice.”

The man in front of me freezes. He’s huge and covered in tattoos, with a handsome face that most definitely does not scream killer. There’s another man here too, equally as handsome but with darker hair. And fuck, I recognize him. It’s Ronan Carter. The main suspect in our murder case.

“Get on the ground!” My voice is loud. Panicked, even. It echoes in the bathroom. “Back up!”

The man in front of me looks like he’s seen a ghost. Ronan is just looking at me with a thousand-yard stare that makes the hair on the ends of my arms stand up. He looks like he just killed someone. Like he’d do it again.

“Back up!” I scream again, and the man directly in front of me takes a small step back. I have to check the guy on the floor. Give him CPR. Help him.

“Get on the floor,” I demand, checking the body for a pulse while watching the others. Fuck, there’s no pulse. I try again. I can’t do CPR with one hand. And I have no way to secure the two of them. The blood rushes in my ears.

It takes me a second to realize that someone is laughing. I check the man under me, then look up. Ronan is leaning against the counter, laughing mostly to himself. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes though, and it widens when he sees me looking at him.

“You can’t shoot us.”

“Get on the g-g-ground!” My heart is racing so fast my chest hurts. How do I call for help? I need to call for help.

Ronan just shrugs. “We just found him like this. Not that I can blame whoever did it. This guy protects pedos.”

My hand is shaking, and I back up, getting to my feet and holding my gun with both hands. He knows just what to say. He was a cop. He knows.

“Get on the fucking ground.” Why won’t they listen to me? The one man still looks stricken, and Ronan? The look he’s giving me makes another chill race across my arms.

“You think you’re doing good? Being a cop?” Ronan grins at me. “Think you’re saving the world?” He laughs again, and once again, his eyes seem so far off it’s like his body is working on autopilot.

I grind my teeth. I protect people. It’s what I do.

“These are the only ones you’re protecting.” Ronan motions at the ground. “You okay with protecting pedos?”

That triggers something deep in me. That’s not what I’m doing. Not at all.

“Get on the ground.” For some reason, this command comes out less potent. I know they aren’t going to listen. And then I’ll have to shoot them. But I can’t shoot them.

“You know, I used to be a cop too.” Ronan narrows his eyes. “So I’ll give you this one favor–” His voice drops, and I wait, pointing my gun at him; the bathroom is suddenly silent as I’m wrapped up in his hazel gaze. So many words pass back and forth without being spoken. He knows I could kill him right now. He also knows I can’t kill him right now. I can only kill people who are an immediate threat to those around them or to myself, and neither man is actively trying to hurt me. And I’m pretty sure the man on the floor is dead. I know they killed him, but I didn’t watch them kill him. I can’t kill either of them, or I’ll be tried for murder myself. I’m not in the role of judge. I’m just his lackey collecting the criminals.

I know Ronan knows this because I see it in his eyes. He’s been a cop before.

Suddenly, Ronan’s gaze softens. He looks at me for a long moment, and that distant stare is gone. It’s like I’m seeing the real him.

Then, Ronan’s gaze hardens again. “We’re leaving.”

I barely register this before Ronan leans down and grabs the body.

No. No, they can’t leave. “Get down!”

Ronan doesn’t listen to me. The other man gives my gun a wary look and steps in front of it so I can’t aim at Ronan.

“S-s-s,” my word is stuck in my mouth. It won’t come out. I can’t get it to come out. “S-s-stop.” My heart is racing so hard, and it’s like I’m paralyzed. I don’t know what to do. Do I shoot them? In the back as they leave? Can I shoot them?

Ronan looks back at me. “If you say anything, Logan will dig up every bit of dirt on you he can find. Personnel file, complaints, dropped cases, speeding tickets, everything.” He gives me a sad smile. “And if there isn’t anything, he’ll put something there. And then we’ll tell the world what a backwards, fucked up cop you are. How you’re just like the rest of the force: corrupt.” He gives a sad shake of the head. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It matters what the people believe. Just another cop on the Apex payroll. Who can trust a cop? Not the public.”

“I’m not–”

“We’ll be back.”

“S-s-s-” I try to issue the command, but it doesn’t come. I’m stuck, my body paralyzed while my brain screams stop, stop, stop.

So, instead of saying something, I make a split-second decision. I jump on Logan, intending to rip him to the ground and restrain him.

There’s a split second where I’m on Logan, then we’re hurtling to the floor. I hit the tile with a thump, pain cracking through my body. Then Logan’s big body is on top of me. I see him swinging toward my face, but I don’t have time to react. There’s a crack and then darkness.

FORTY

I’m The Sinner - Jared Benjamin

Turns out sharing a murder with someone is way more work than it should be. Logan has been the biggest pain in my ass and has been fighting me at every turn. First, he didn’t want to leave me at the back of the theater to get the car. Then, he didn’t want to go into the hardware store to get my bubble bath, and then he bitched and moaned about bathtime in the woods owned by his neighbors. Just can’t please him.

In a split-second decision that is arguably one of my worst, I slip Logan’s phone, snap a picture of the dead guy, and text it to those fuckers that tried to kill us: ‘Too slow, got him!’

I smirk, but the thrill is short-lived. My nose is cold, I got acid on my—Logan’s—jeans, the cuts on my chest fucking itch, and I’m terribly, painfully sober.

I march inside Logan’s trailer, moving immediately to where he keeps his liquor stashed. Despite my kill, I keep thinking about the victims. About my fucking sister.

I should call her. What would I say? Sorry that happened. Want me to kill him for you?

I should. I should definitely kill him right after this drink.

Logan drops onto the couch, glued to his phone. Which is fine by me. I’m fucking done with his stupid requests. No, don’t drive with the window down. No, don’t dissolve him. No, don’t have any fun.

I take five heavy swallows from the whiskey, counting each one as it goes down. The back of my throat and nose burns by the time I put it down.

‘Fucking lame,’ Buff groans. ‘No pirate eye.’

Buff is sour because I didn’t take him on this one. I take another swallow as my body tenses. The more I kill, the less I feel the satisfaction afterward. Not only did I not get to play my game, but it also felt like a waste. There was no suffering. No payback. No justice.

My face feels hot. Where’s the justice? It feels like the harder I chase it, the farther away it gets.

“I found him,” Logan says from the couch.

I give him a bored look. “Who?”

“Dakota Stewart. Cop for Silent Hollow police.”

I groan. Why does Logan care? Sure, the guy was kinda the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. He looked kinda…I don’t know…hot pointing a gun at me.

Hot? Good lord, that's the whiskey talking. Or is it? I stare over at Logan. His eyes are down, and I can see the freckles on the tops of his eyelids. He also has the most impressive bone structure. And body.

My head spins with the alcohol. Okay. Maybe I have a small thing for Logan—the most annoying, bossy mother-hen killer I’ve ever met.

I grind my teeth together, spinning that stupid ring. I didn’t plan on wearing it this long. I planned on making a show of dropping it in a public trash can, but I got distracted. Because Mr. Fucking Annoying can’t keep his hands out of my murder.

Mr. Fucking Hot Annoying.

I take another shot of whiskey for good measure. I already feel it working, numbing me. At least partially. My cheeks are starting to feel numb, but everything else—the bad shit—is still there, just as heavy.

“Well fuck.”

I don’t even look at Logan. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll realize how angry I am that he cockblocked me at every turn. He even stopped me when I kissed…I shake my head violently. Oh, fuck no. Not going there. Because I don’t care. He stopped me from fucking up.

“Come here,” Logan demands.

‘Yes, Daddy,’ Buff smirks from his favorite spot on the kitchen island. Nosey bastard wants to see everything. 

I huff, turning to the fridge and opening it. Not because I’m hungry, but because I’m so fucking over Logan.

There’s silence, and then Logan’s voice drops lower. “Ronan.”

The warning in his tone sends a delicious thrill over me. But I keep perusing the fridge, feeling him approach, and I expect him to hover like he usually does.

That’s a mistake because suddenly, there’s a hand in my hair, yanking my head back. I shuffle-step back to catch my balance.

“I said something.” Then, Logan slams the fridge shut and shoves me into it. My forearms bounce off the door, barely catching myself before his body is behind me, pinning me to it. Again, my head is yanked back so my neck is arched into the ceiling.

“Get off me.” My voice is raspy from the strain.

“No.” Logan just presses into me harder, and I feel his hard dick against my ass.

I try to shove off the fridge, but he just yanks my hair harder, making tears spring into my eyes. “Show me your fucking throat like a good boy.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss, trying to get away, but his body is a solid weight against me, and his heavy grip on my hair won’t let me move.

Logan’s hand traces down my body, and suddenly, he’s gripping my dick.

My very hard dick. I struggle, but a delicious thrill runs through me.

“Stop fighting me. I’m not hurting you.”

I hiss at him, struggling.

“I’m not hurting you. Right?” Logan’s voice is low and demanding in my ear.

I stop for a second to assess. I’m fucking uncomfortable, but I’m not in pain.

“Good boy. That’s what I want. A good slut all tied up in my arms.”

Logan’s voice is crooning and shivers run up and down my arms. Am I…enjoying this? No. I shake back and forth, and Logan gives a warning yank.

“It’s not hard to stand there and show me your neck. So why do you seem to be struggling?”

He holds me firmly in place, and all the while, there’s war inside my head. I don’t want to do what he says—purely on principle. But also, I’ve never felt such a delicious thrill through my whole body being helpless in Logan’s arms.

“You have a hard time submitting, don’t you?”

There’s a sliding sound, then something cold and sharp presses against my neck. Something like a knife. I freeze.

“Feel that?” Logan hums. “Oh good, now you’re obeying.”

I’ve gone still because I’m pretty sure Logan has a knife to my throat. My pulse speeds up, racing in my ears and also in my dick.

“Is this what it takes?” He moves his lips to the skin of my neck, whispering, “Threatening your life? Do you want to die, Ronan?” He briefly brushes against my skin, and I can’t help but shiver. Fear and arousal run through me, drowning out the defiance. So I stand still.

Logan laughs, and it’s a mean sound. “Oh, so now you want to live. Hard to believe with that stunt you pulled earlier.” Logan’s voice deepens in anger, and his grip tightens. “What the hell were you doing?”

Oh, he wants to pick a fight about this? “Killing someone,” I snarl. “What were you doing? Besides being a scared little bitch?” It’s hard to talk with the skin of my throat pulled tight.

“Trying to keep you alive,” Logan hisses, and I feel the nick of the knife into my skin. Instead of it scaring me…it sends a rush of pleasure through my body, which is so absolutely fucked up. Logan could kill me right now. He could, but he isn’t. And that makes me feel…good.

“Fuck you, Ronan. You want to live.” Logan drags the last part out, then says a little more demanding, “You won’t get hurt.”

I laugh, and the sound is bitter. “What do you care?”

“I care.” Logan’s voice is damn near shaking.

“Yeah?” My arms are weighed down by his heavy ones. The only real movement I have is in my right hand, which I sneak between us, then grab a handful of Logan’s dick.

Logan moans and releases the pressure on me enough to jerk my body around. Then, I throw a punch right into his face. Only, he ducks in time for the hit to glance off, knocking his hat to the ground. Logan immediately pulls away to scoop it up like it’s something precious.

“And what’s with the hat, anyway?” I check my neck, and my fingers come back bloody. That fucker cut me. And it only turned me on.

Logan doesn’t answer me, just heaves, staring at the thing.

“You fucking balding?” I sneer. “Hiding something?”

“Not hiding.” Logan snarls, “You want to know so bad?” He whips the hat toward me, holding it upside down. “There. You happy now?”

I stare at it. It looks like a hat.

“There.” Logan shoves it at me, and there’s some shift in Logan’s attitude that makes me focus. He seems…serious.

I take a closer look. Inside the brim of the hat is a picture. I take one more look at Logan to make sure he isn’t going to clock me, but his eyes look tortured. Taking the hat, I look at the picture closer. It’s a teenage boy playing guitar while he smiles at the camera. He also has a hat on backwards. I suck in a breath because he looks a lot like…me.

“What the fuck?” I look back up at Logan. “What is this?”

Logan snatches the hat back. “That’s Greyson.”

“Who?” I try to look at it again. The kid looks like me, but not quite.

“My…friend.” Logan shoves the hat back on his head.

“Oookay?” What is going on right now? Why does that kid look like me?

“He was my first…” Logan adjusts and readjusts his hat.

There’s a charged silence in the kitchen. Even Buffalo has nothing to say. I don’t like the feeling in my stomach.

Suddenly, I realize what’s going on. Greyson was Logan’s first. He carries a picture of him around everywhere.

This was his first boyfriend.

First crush.

First lover.

A sickening feeling rushes over me as that sinks in. And then, a second wave hits me. Logan’s first boyfriend looks like me. Or, I look like him.

Does…is that why Logan took me?

I stagger a step back. Logan doesn’t like me. He likes that I look like him.

Suddenly, I’ve lost track of my surroundings. My heart is racing, and it feels like all the blood in my body is pumping right under my skin.

This shouldn’t bother me. I shouldn’t care. Why do I care? I don’t care.

“Your first.” Against my will, my voice cracks, and I follow it up with a snarl. “So why aren’t you with him?”

Logan looks to the side, his voice dropping and gravely. “Greyson’s dead.”

Oh. Oh fuck. And just as quickly as that sinking feeling hits me, relief hits me right after. And then guilt, because that’s the most fucked up reaction, but I’m a little drunk.

Logan keeps adjusting the hat, then rubs the back of his neck. “So that’s why I wear it all the time.”

I stand there, unsure how to react. I’ve gone from horny to angry to upset in a matter of seconds. I stare at Logan to gauge where he’s at. His face is red, and he takes the hat off one more time and slams it against the counter.

“So yeah, I get pissed when you throw your life away so…” Logan waves his hands like he’s searching for the word, “willingly.”

I’m pretty sure all the alcohol is catching up to me because there’s a lump in my throat. Logan’s pain is doing something to me. I’m not sure what to say.

“Logan…”

“Don’t.” He waves me off, snapping, “I’m over it.”

I cross my arms and say the first thing that comes to my mind because the world is spinning a little, and I’m drunk. “Clearly, you’re not.”

Logan’s eyebrows shoot up, and he snarls, “Fuck you, Ronan.”

“Fuck you!” I shoot back.

“You know,” he advances on me, “sometimes, I want to punch you in the face.”

“Yeah?” I stop, the adrenaline rushing through me, but I let him advance on me.

“And sometimes,” Logan gets up close enough that his breath brushes my skin,

“Sometimes, I just want to kiss the fucking attitude right out of you.”

I blink, unsure if I just heard him right. I find myself staring at Logan’s lips. His firm, masculine lips. As if in reaction, I lick mine.

“Fuck it,” Logan mutters, and then he’s on top of me. Then he’s kissing me like this is his only chance. Pressing his lips into mine like we’re magnets. Like the world isn’t right unless we’re together. Like we’re meant to be together.

And then his warm tongue is tracing the seam of my lips, and fuck, I part to let him in. He presses into me firmly, dominantly, like he wants to suck the free will right out of my soul.

And fuck if I might let him.

FORTY-ONE

Fuck Away the Pain - Divide The Day

I kiss Logan right back, pressing into him as much as he is into me. His taste is heady and masculine, making my world spin. Because I don’t hate it. Actually, I might fucking love it.

Logan makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a moan, and I blink back to reality for a second.

“No.” Logan presses me back. “Stay.”

His lips are nipping, sucking, chasing me. I fucking love the chase. I pull back again, looking into Logan’s blue eyes as I breathe, “Make me.”

There’s a flash of something in Logan’s eyes, and then he’s on me, using his big body to back me through the kitchen and down the hall. My heart is racing, and I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Fuck, I’m definitely not ready for this.

So then, why does it feel so right?

“Careful.” Logan grabs me right as I stumble into a wall, but I don’t feel it. I feel warm and scared and fucking hard.

Logan leans into me, rubbing his hand down my pants and cupping my dick. He groans, rubbing me up and down. “You’re so hard for me.”

I can’t do anything but moan, flexing my hips into him. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’ve never had sex with a man before.

I think I must panic for a second because suddenly Logan is shushing me and pushing me back into the bedroom. Then, I’m on the bed, and he’s on top of me, kissing me again, smelling so good, like soap and aftershave, and heat floods my dick. I’m so worked up it feels like I could come at any moment.

“Ronan,” Logan moans into my lips. “Ronan, Ronan, Ronan.”

I grunt, remembering that he just likes me because I look like his ex.

I try to shove him off me, but Logan isn’t having it. He just pins me to the mattress, peppering kisses and bites across my neck. “Never,” nip, “scare me,” nip, “again.”

“Logan…” I try to protest, but it feels good. Everything feels so fucking good. Then Logan’s pulling my pants down and kissing up my stomach. He’s worshiping me, almost like he actually cares.

But he doesn’t. To him, I’m just his ex.

I struggle to sit up, shoving Logan back. I need him to stop. I need him to fucking stop. “I’m not Greyson.”

Logan’s eyes are glazed over, palming my dick. My very hard dick, and glances up at me. I swallow. The drunk part of me wants this. Wants to say fuck it and let him go all the way. But the tiny, annoying part of me that sees reality is screaming.

I shove back, making sure he hears it. “I’m not Greyson, and I never will be.”

FORTY-TWO

how could u love somebody like me? - Artemas

Ronan is running from me. He’s running, and I somehow screwed it up. His eyes look so hurt, and then he delivers the, “I’m not Greyson, and I never will be.”

My heart stutters, and a flood of emotions hits me. First, confusion, then sadness, then anger. Because, at some point, he stopped becoming Greyson to me. Now, he’s Ronan. And I like Ronan. And I’m not sure when that happened.

“Hey.” I grab Ronan’s hips, yanking him towards me. “Stay.”

But the panic in his eyes only increases. “I’m not–”

I throw myself over him, dropping my weight on him so he can’t leave. “Wait, Ronan, please.”

“Logan.” He sounds afraid, and Christ, I hate that. I hate that I did that to him. “I know you’re not Greyson.”

Greyson liked Lay’s chips on his sandwiches. Ronan prefers Veggie Straws. Greyson sang like an angel, and Ronan could make even a baby wince. Greyson was kind to the world, and Ronan is vicious to the villains. It’s refreshing and invigorating, and fuck, if I’m not a little obsessed with it. But he’s also hurt and afraid. And I have a feeling that under all of that pain, Ronan is just as kind. And I want to pin him down and find that kindness, whether he wants me to or not. 

I can feel Ronan’s heart pounding under his shirt. I want to trap it. Trap him down so it never stops beating. So he never leaves me.

I almost failed to keep him safe when I smelled that sunscreen and stopped attacking Dakota. I hate myself for it. Even now, the memory of the smell is tripping me up.

I suck in a breath. “I…I…fuck.”

Ronan stills.

I can’t look at him. I just tuck my head into his shoulder. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing. I know you’re not Greyson.”

Ronan is frozen. “Never…what do you mean? Never done this before?”

Woo’d a man. Well, not successfully, anyway. And I’ve definitely never taken one to my bed. I reserve all my hookups for blow jobs or hand jobs. And now I see why. My trauma is fucking it all up.

Dirty. Disgusting thing. The thoughts bounce around in my head. Greyson’s dead because of this. He wouldn’t be dead if you didn’t shove yourself on him.

I shake my head and shove myself away from Ronan.

No. No, he’s dead because the system failed him. Because every part of him screamed that he needed help, but no one listened. Not even me.

No, no, no, no.

Suddenly, Ronan’s hand is on my back. He’s patting, then rubbing, making awkward touches that bring me back to reality.

I pull away from him, sitting up. Ronan blinks slowly. “You okay?”

I run my hands down my face, my skin hot. I tried to take Ronan to bed and made him think I was only after him because of my ex.

Maybe I’m not ready for this.

“Hey.” Ronan reaches out, grabbing my hand. After he says it, a little crease forms between his eyes. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“No.” I say the word quickly. Because I’m allowed to question this experience, but he isn’t. My heart is racing, and I say the first thing I can think of, “I don’t have any condoms.”

Ronan blinks at me, then slowly asks, “What?”

“I don’t have condoms.” I used up my last ones a while ago, and I just wasn’t interested in anyone. And I never dreamed I’d have someone…here. In my bed. Someone perfect like Ronan, who’s all hard edges and raw hatred. Someone covering up a deep level of pain that I think I, unfortunately, understand.

“I thought…” He looks confused.

“What?” I try not to look at his dick, which is still hard and, despite my racing thoughts, is making me hard.

“I just thought,” he waves his hand at me, “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Me either.” The words come out silent. Soft. I don’t look at Ronan. I don’t know that I can.

“But you said–”

“Greyson was my first crush.” And it turned out horribly. For the millionth time, I wish I never said anything. I wish I kept us as just friends.

I stare down at Ronan’s thighs. His perfect, strong thighs.

You don’t deserve it. You’re disgusting.

I swallow harshly, and then Ronan’s hand is on mine. It’s a gentle touch. Soft, and I’m not sure why. I glance up at him, startled. His gaze is unfiltered and…vulnerable. He looks so pretty like this, and suddenly, I want to kiss him again.

“I want to be your first.”

My heart stutters, and I stare at Ronan. He…what?

“Make me your first.”

I look down at him, mind stalled. He’s not…disgusted by me? “No, Ronan.” I should tell him what I did. I should tell him why Greyson died. “We can’t–”

“Shut up and kiss me.” And then Ronan is drawing my lips to his, and we’re kissing. His kisses are like no other, shooting life into my soul. He’s like a rushing wind, powerful and loud, snuffing out the voices like wind on candles. Rushing into every part of me.

And I’m kissing him back.

Not Greyson.

Ronan.

FORTY-THREE

Obsessed - Jutes

I’m definitely drunk. Rolling on the high of whiskey and Logan’s lips. But as drunk as I am, I can still feel the weight of everything I’m trying to escape. Maybe this will help me erase it. Maybe it’ll get rid of the lack of justice. Maybe it’ll hide me from the corrupt people out to kill me. Hell, maybe it’ll even reach back into my childhood and make me safe again.

Not likely. But I do know one thing for sure: I want to be Logan’s first. Some animalistic part of me doesn’t want anyone else to take that. That’s not for anyone else.

So maybe that makes me a little bit gay. But I’m sure I won’t live long enough to process that anyway. So fuck it. Let them eat ass. Or, however the saying goes.

Logan has stopped pulling away. Instead, he’s pressing into me, shoving me back into the mattress.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He takes off and then comes back with a bottle of lube. I prop myself up with my elbows, and he climbs on the bed, dropping his heavy body over mine. And fuck, he feels so fucking good, and he smells just like I always wanted to smell: masculine with his cedarwood aftershave.

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” Logan asks, kissing the edge of my mouth, then trailing his mouth down to my chin. He traces his teeth along the scruff there.

I moan, fully intending on being anything but that. As soon as this buzzing wears off, I’ll fight just to be a dick. The buzzing that tells me I’m most certainly drunk off my ass.

But Logan’s hands are tracing down my chest, and it feels hot and cold at the same time, sending pleasurable rushes through me. Then, his mouth touches down, licking a trail to my dick, and I groan.

“Good boy,” he moans. “Keep making those sounds for me.”

I flush. I’ve never been loud during sex, and now I’m embarrassing myself. But as soon as that thought is here, Logan’s mouth closes over my dick, and everything else short circuits. Immediately, there’s a heavenly pressure that eases the ache there. I moan, thrusting up into his mouth. Logan takes me, letting his spit drip all over my dick. Using one hand to squeeze the base of my dick, he grips the other one in the wetness, sucking and stroking me so expertly I nearly come right there.

But then, his other hand traces lower. More south.

I jerk up to look, the world spinning. Logan watches me with his mouth wrapped around my dick while his tongue flutters on the underside. A man is sucking my dick, and fuck, if it isn’t erotic as hell.

Then his fingers brush my asshole, and immediately, I clench.

Logan pops off my dick. “Easy, baby.” He opens the bottle, coating his fingers, and then they drop back down between my cheeks, all cold and slippery.

“I can’t–” but his fingers are sending a delicious thrill through me. Logan continues stroking my dick with one hand while the other messes with my ass.

My face flushes.

“Stop thinking,” Logan growls. “It’s just an ass. A perfect ass.” He looks at me, and I try to close my legs.

He stops me with his body. “Oh, fuck no. You can be a brat all you want, but you don’t get to be embarrassed about the thing that’s getting me off right now.”

I stare down at him. Logan’s dick is sticking up straight between his legs, dripping precum. Suddenly, for an unrelated reason, my mouth is watering.

Then, there’s pressure in my ass.

“That’s a good boy,” Logan growls. “Take my finger in your dirty little ass.”

I moan, the feeling odd but not uncomfortable. Logan grunts, slowly pumping his finger in and out. He’s looking at me with an odd look that I can’t decipher.

Before I can, there’s more pressure in my ass, and I jerk, a bite of pain accompanying it.

“Gonna have to take more than this to fit my dick.” Logan’s eyebrows are drawn into a frown that looks pained, and his pupils are blown. He sits up to spit on my ass again.

“Logan.” I shift, trying to ease the slight pain. My movement jerks his hand toward the tip of my dick, sending a thrill through me. I shudder. Why does it feel so good? It shouldn’t feel so good.

“No. Don’t come yet. I want to be balls deep in you the first time a dick makes you come.” Logan’s voice is gruff.

“Then hurry up,” I grunt. Nerves run through me. I don’t know how he’s going to get his whole dick in there. It’s just not going to work.

Logan spits on my dick again, stroking it, then shifts so his dick is next to mine. And for some reason, they look so fucking good next to each other.

Logan gives me a look, dribbling the lube on both of our dicks, then grabbing them in one hand and stroking them together.

It’s like electricity shoots through me, and everything tenses.

“No,” he says, “don’t come.” But his thighs are trembling. Just as soon as he touches them together, he moves away. He flattens out so he’s lying on top of me, using the spit from my dick to lube his own, guiding it to my entrance. And then that fear is back, taking hold of me through the fog.

His dick is huge. There’s no way it’ll fit.

“Easy.” Logan glances down at me. “You can take it.”

I’m not so fucking sure. I’m tense, trying to pull away. But the world is spinning, and I desperately want to come.

“Ronan.” Logan’s voice brings my focus back. I feel his dick slick against my asscheeks. He stops there, watching me, chest heaving against mine. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

And then he’s pressing against my hole, his hard dick demanding entrance.

Oh fuck. Nope, I can’t do it. I pull back, and Logan drops over me, keeping his weight on his elbows.

“No running.” He kisses my chest, his lips feathering over my skin, making my nipples pebble. “I want to make you feel good.”

“Logan…” I want to feel good. I’m so close to coming; I can feel the throbbing.

Suddenly, he takes a nipple in his mouth and bites. Hard.

I moan, arching my back. And then, he’s pressing into me firmly, overwhelming me with a bite of pain and pressure.

“Logan!” I arch, but he doesn’t press any further. He just holds himself over me, his powerful chest pulling in breath after breath. My own is heaving too, and I’m tense, expecting overwhelming pain. But it doesn’t come. Just a bite of it, and it only adds to the throbbing in my balls.

“Ronan,” Logan’s voice is trembling. “Fuck, Ronan.”

I shiver, expecting him to press farther, but he just waits there. “Ronan. Tell me you’re okay.”

Am I okay? I shift, sending a delicious shiver through me and making me tense, which makes Logan moan.

“Oh fuck. You feel so good, princess.”

Then, he reaches between us, grabbing my dick and gripping it, sending a deep throbbing through my body.

“Logan.” I jerk my hips in an attempt to get him to move his hand.

He moans, the movement causing him to sink an inch deeper into me.

“Oh fuck,” he says, his voice panicked. “Fuck, I’m going to⁠—“

Suddenly, Logan is jerking my dick hard. Immediately, pleasure runs through me, locking up all my muscles. I feel my balls draw up, and Logan groans, jerking into me. The extra insertion burns with a ring of fire, just adding to my pleasure, and I come, exploding all over his hand. Pulses of pleasure overwhelm me, gripping my entire body. It goes on for so long as I jet streams of cum between us.

Logan is trembling, breathing heavily as I come down.

I look at him, sucking in breath after breath as I come down. It takes me a hot second to realize that I just came, and Logan is just hovering over me.

“Fuck.” My cheeks burn.

I feel wetness spilling out of my ass.

Logan moves to the bathroom and then comes back with a towel. He moves as if he’s going to clean me up.

“I’ll get it.” I try to take it from him, but Logan glares at me.

“Let me.” His demand comes out harsh.

I frown. “I can take care of myself.”

Logan pauses, takes a breath, then lets it out slowly. When he talks again, his voice is less tense. “Fuck. I know you can. I mean…please let me.”

That throws me.

Logan watches me, then slowly wipes me down. I don’t like it, but I let him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, turning away. “I haven’t come that fast since high school.”

It comes to me slowly that he’s not mad at me.

“I…uh…me too?” Then I wince. I’m not sure why I said that. I’m sure I’ve come faster, but maybe not harder. I just came so hard that I’m pretty sure I might be a little gay. Which…fucking scares me a little.

Logan seems to hesitate, looking between me and the spot on the bed beside me. His face flushes even more. There’s an awkward tension in the air.

“Do you do cuddles or a shower or what?”

“Huh?” I blink and stare at him. That didn’t sound like Buffalo, but it couldn’t have been Logan. That would mean a murderer who kidnapped me because I look like his ex just asked me if I wanted cuddles.

I’m drunk off my ass.

“I’m gonna sleep,” I mutter and turn over in bed. I’m so exhausted, and I can’t see straight. There’s silence for a minute, and then I hear Logan leave the room.

I feel oddly…lonely. I close my eyes, trying to keep the bed from whirling like a blender.

Suddenly, someone slips in beside me, blending my world with a bounce.

“What the fuck?” I spin to look, making me feel a little sick.

“I got your meds.” Logan shoves the bottle at me. “Take one.”

I don’t argue because I have a feeling this hangover is gonna be one for the books.

Logan watches as I take it, then nods, taking the meds. I think he’s gonna leave the bed, but he just wraps an arm around me.

“What are you doing?” It feels weird. Wrong.

“Aftercare.”

What the hell? I’m not a sensitive flower. We fucked. I don’t need any of this handholding shit. But the world is spinning, and I just can’t seem to get up the energy to throw him off.

‘Plus, he feels really good.’

Buff is back. Because of course he is. I huff and snuggle in. Whatever. I’ll fight him tomorrow.

FORTY-FOUR

Apologize - grandson

“Get that pretty ass up.”

Fuck. The light is stabbing my eyes like tiny needles dipped in hot sauce. I groan and roll over.

“You’ve been in bed for, like, eighteen hours.”

I just pull the covers over my head.

Logan fucked me yesterday. Logan fucked me.

And I fucking liked it.

I think I may have to just let this bed eat me. If I lay here and rot, maybe I’ll become one with the sheets. The nice sheets. Easily a 1000-thread count. Because of course Logan’s bougie ass has nice sheets.

Nice sheets that still smell like sex.

Fuck.

“Time to get up, princess. I won’t ask again.”

He’s so annoying.

‘He’s sexy when he’s annoying.’

I peek my eyes open. And sure enough, Buff somehow made it into bed with me. Which had to have been Logan’s doing because I sure as fuck didn’t bring his nosey ass here.

“Go away.” I’m not sure who I’m saying it to—Buff or Logan. Definitely both. It’s time for both of them to leave me. I feel the sheets and I could have a good relationship. One where I sit here, and they accept me for who I am. A healthier relationship than I’ve ever had.

Suddenly, the sheets are ripped from me.

“Hey!”

Logan is staring down at me, smirking. “Damn. Maybe I need to postpone our plans.”

I realize too late that I’m still naked.

“Fuck! Don’t look.” I roll and curl, trying to cover my dick.

Logan just laughs, holding the sheets I’ve determined are my new girlfriend’s hostage. “Well, get up.”

“You bossy fuck.” But I have no choice. It’s lay here and get eye fucked or go find some clothes. Which I do, only to have Logan make me walk around him to get to the closet. I know exactly where all his clothes are. Which is stupid. How the fuck do I know where this…killer, rival, fuckbuddy??... keeps his socks?

When I turn back around, Logan is still openly ogling me.

“My eyes are up here,” I snarl.

“So much hostility.” He tosses the blankets on the bed.

“Hostility?” I stare at him. “Why the fuck do you talk like a dictionary?”

He just grins at me. “Shoes, too.”

Now I definitely don’t want to put them on.

“We’re off to do some blackmailing.” Logan throws me a wink and leaves the room.

Okay, fuck. Kinda want to put my shoes on now. I do so, grumbling.

‘Don’t leave me!’ Buff cries from the bed.

Jesus, he has a lot to say today. Grabbing him up, I stumble to the kitchen, feeling like I got crushed underneath a swimming pool. If I don’t eat something, I might actually die.

Logan’s messing on his tablet again. I’m assuming we’re going after Dakota. I’m not sure why Logan’s so obsessed with this. I’ve been facing the prospect of prison and death for months. Not sure why Logan hasn’t realized he’s been in the same boat. Murder will catch up to you. I mean, unless you’re super lucky.

Maybe I should start a list of things I want to do. First thing on there: be lucky.

I snort. Yeah, right. I’m not even going to hope for that. Hope always gets dashed. Every time.

I don’t want to eat since Logan wants me to, but after…fucking…I’m starving. I wolf the food down and pretend I don’t notice Logan’s smirk. After I’ve eaten, Logan shoves the tablet in front of me and takes Buffalo.

“Why are you so grumpy?”

I stare at him like he’s stupid. Is this man really asking me that after we fucked around? After I let the guy who kidnapped me fuck me?

Well fuck. I might really be gay.

Logan’s watching me closely. “Are you mad about last night?”

I scoff. Am I? Yes? Also, confused? “Yeah.” But not for the reasons he thinks.

Logan’s face shutters, and he scowls. He looks away, tapping his finger on the counter. The silence is tense and awkward. Then, Logan sucks in a deep breath.         

Logan glares at me, measuring me up. Then, his gaze softens slightly. “You know, it’s okay to like men.” 

Defensive energy rolls up inside me, but Logan raises his hand to cut me off. “What we did doesn’t make you dirty or wrong, and if that’s what you were going to say, I’ll beat your ass right here.”

I snap my mouth shut. That’s not what I was going to say. I actually don’t know what I was going to say. That I let my kidnapper take my ass, and I fucking liked it?

Logan picks at his fingernail. “It’s okay to be unsure if you liked it, but it’s not okay to judge yourself because others say you should.”

There’s a long silence, and then Logan looks up at me with a mixture of intensity and hurt.

And fuck. I’m going soft because I don’t like that look on his face.

Logan’s waiting for some kind of response, so I just cough, “Okay.”

“Okay?” He watches me with those fucking knowing eyes.

I don’t know what else to say. Okay I’m listening? To my kidnapper? Sorry, the hot kidnapper who I want to fuck over and over and over again? I want everything about his strong, sexy body to hold me down and fuck me until I’m forced to come over and over again.

Logan pushes the tablet my way. “Dakota.”

I hope Logan doesn’t see the blush on my face. But he’s offering me information. He doesn’t normally do that. I look at the tablet. There’s a picture of Dakota in his uniform, and I can’t help but stare at him for a second. He’s…fucking stunning. His features are just so pretty. I’m not sure how he made it through the police academy looking like that. Instructors and students probably tried to eat him alive. In multiple ways.

Okay, well, maybe I’m gay for more than just Logan. Fuck me, I’m fucked.

I check through the information there. Says he graduated high school, went to college for criminal justice, and then went to the police academy. Blah, blah, blah. He looks…pretty boring, if I’m being totally honest.

“What?” I slide the tablet back to Logan.

“His dad.” Logan slides it back to me.

I huff. I don’t care for my own parents; why in the hell would I want to read about other people’s?

But I do. Looks like Dakota’s dad, Matt Stewart, was a cop too. Retired quite a few years ago. Oh, wait. I look closer. There’s a police report attached.

I read it, immediately finding a rape report against Dakota’s dad.

By Dakota.

Oh fuck. Suddenly, I’m a cop again, looking at the familiar paperwork. Silent Hollow files things the exact same way we did. I scan, not wanting to read it but feeling sick if I don’t. The offense happened when Dakota was a child. Statutory rape. Dakota did an interview and everything.

My fingers inch towards Buffalo, who’s sitting on the counter next to the bowl of rings. 

I keep reading the file, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Sure enough, the charges swept under the rug. Matt was never prosecuted.

I lift my eyes to Logan. He winces. The kitchen is silent except for the hum of the fridge.

“Dakota’s dad is in Apex. That’s why it never went to prosecution,” Logan says.

I run my hand through my hair. All the good feelings I felt before are gone. Because it’s happening again. It always happens. There’s never any justice.

“Ronan.” A warm hand drops down on mine. I blink, realizing that I’ve grabbed Buffalo, and now Logan is grabbing my hand.

I drop the stuffed animal and shake Logan off, face red.

Logan just gives me a knowing look. A look that I don’t like. It feels like he can read my mind.

“So what…we’re just gonna blackmail the victim?” The question comes out gruff. “The victim who very well may be Apex as well?”

Logan gives me a cautious look. “Dakota could get you thrown in prison. Me too.”

“For what? He didn’t see me kill him.” My voice is louder than I intended.

“Well…we did walk out with his body.”

“Body snatching is not a crime!” Okay, it most definitely is. I just don’t want it to be. And I’m not thinking straight. Because I’m totally gay, and it’s happening again. I think I’m changing in fundamental ways, but the world isn’t. Not even a cop can get justice.

“Ronan.” Logan shakes his head. “It sucks, but this is life.”

This is life? I feel a disbelieving snarl bubble in my chest. Is that the same thing that everyone said while looking the other way? The same thing people say before they let Apex bulldoze their cases?

No. This isn’t just life. This is hell.

And there is no justice in hell.

FORTY-FIVE

DON’T SAVE ME - TWENTY THREE

I stare at the text my mom sent me.

Mom: Your friends called. They seem nice. Why don’t you ever introduce me to these people?

After I woke up on the bathroom floor, I was confused. Couldn’t figure out what happened for a while, then puked in the sink. A sink that had streaks of pink in it.

Slowly, things came back to me. Ronan and Logan. The body. Them leaving. I had grabbed my phone to call the department when I saw that text from my mom.

They weren’t kidding.

I fucked up. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.

I’m currently sitting at work, staring at my computer with Ronan’s information pulled up. I found the other guy—Logan—too.

My gut is roiling. I shouldn’t be here, silently researching. I should be in the chief’s office. I should be sucking his dick and begging to keep my job.

But I have no doubt that’ll cost my mom her life. And it’s not like my mom and I are close. I’m still bitter at her for not saving me from my dad. I never told her what happened, but she also never paid attention. I feel like she should have paid attention. I was her kid.

My throat closes up, and I shake my head. That’s in the past. Right now, I have to figure out a way to protect her.

Ronan talked about Apex. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the term thrown around. I’m not stupid—I think that’s what the chief dick-suckers call themselves. But I always thought it was some stupid half-ass club for people with small-dick energy.

I click through the paperwork again. I knew the guy on the bathroom floor—Dillon. He used to be a defense attorney for us, and he sucked balls. Rude fucker who got all kinds of people off on all kinds of charges. Particularly sex offenses.

Report it.

My inner rule follower is screaming at me. I’m a cop, for fuck’s sake, and I watched people leave with a body and didn’t say anything?

Not good enough. You’re disgusting. Look at what you’ve done.

My father’s words echo through my head like he’s speaking to me all over again.

“No.” I shake my head. Something isn’t right here, and I’m tired of turning my head. I click on the file we have for Logan. Turns out Logan’s made a police report with our agency before. As I look through it, I realize he made a sexual abuse allegation not for himself but for his friend.

I turn away from the computer, my stomach suddenly in knots, the flaming hot Cheetos turning sour. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to fucking look. There’s a reason I’m a general detective and not a sex crime one. I can’t fucking stand that shit.

I just sit there, staring at my sand clock. It has purple sand and glitter throughout and makes little mountainscapes when you flip it.

Suddenly, I remember something.

I’m eleven again. It's late, way past my bedtime, and my dad is here for one of his…lessons. My eyes are full of tears, and my body feels…wrong. Always so wrong and yet so good. And that’s what makes me a bad boy.

“Have you prayed today, son?” Dad is kneeling by my bed. Where he always is.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want this. I don’t want it. But Dad always makes me sin.

“Fucking nasty boy. I see you haven’t learned.” Dad is talking, but I’m trying to zone him out. Like I always do. “You like when a man looks at you. Being gay is a sin. I see I’m going to have to teach you again.”

My eyes are closed, and I’m thinking about my guitar. I just came up with a new song, and I have almost all of it figured out.

Dad starts his lesson, and I try my best to shut it out.

I just need the last part of the song. I’m not sure how I want it to end. It’s in a minor key, and it sounds lonely. Lonely and sad. Like all my songs do.

Suddenly, there’s a ringing. Dad’s still doing what he does while calling me dirty and disgusting and filthy. The ringing doesn’t stop, and I glance over at his phone, which is lying on the bed beside me. There’s a name on the caller ID, followed by something I’m not sure about: Apex.

Dad cusses, grabbing the phone and answering. His tone is gruff. He listens for a bit, then gives me an angry look. I think he’s going to hit me, but then a miracle happens: he gets up and leaves.

I lay there, frozen for a little. Is this a test? Dad never leaves before I pee.

I hear the downstairs door open and close, and then the car turns on in the garage. I jump up, pulling my PJs back on and darting to the window. Sure enough, Dad pulls down the street and disappears.

My heart is racing. This has never happened before. I feel so awake and so tired at the same time.

What if he comes back?

I can’t sleep. Instead, I get some Cheetos from downstairs and then figure out the rest of my song. I end it on a dissonant note. And I call it Apex.

I jerk out of my memories, sweating and staring at my Cheetos bag. And fuck, now I want to puke.

Instead, I glance at the computer. Logan’s information is there, mocking me.

I didn’t remember that Apex detail until now. Is Apex really a thing? Is it more than just old-school cops who get away with anything?

My head pounds. I know the answers to those questions. I think I’ve known for a long time. I just didn’t want to look into it. I wanted to be one of the ones who tucked their head in the sand, collected a paycheck, and didn’t get bothered by admin. One of the ones who made a difference and went home. Who helped people and stayed out of the politics.

I stare at Logan’s face and his report.

I have to read it. I have to know everything about these people who threatened my mom.

So I do. And the report that I read makes me want to puke all over again.

Logan reported that his friend Greyson had committed suicide because he was being raped by his grandfather. He sent in Greyson’s suicide note, and as I read it, my own father’s voice echoes in my mind.

You're disgusting.

Something’s wrong with you.

I fucking hate you.

Wish my son wasn’t defective.

My throat closes, and for a horrifying minute, I think I’m going to cry and vomit at the same time. My dad never got prosecuted. The case was dropped with insufficient evidence, and somehow, he still kept his job. And then, I grew up and took the same job. Because for some stupid fucking reason, I still wanted him to be proud of me.

I need to go home. It’s thirty minutes before the end of my shift, but I don’t care. The overwhelming urge hits me, and I stand straight up, barging out of my office and closing the door. I mutter something about being sick and head out.

Too much. This is too much. I’m going back to sticking my head in the sand.

I can’t do this. I fucking can’t.

FORTY-SIX

Y.S.K.W. - Catch Your Breath

I don’t even remember the drive home. Somehow, I made it. I stare up at my house. The house I was so proud to buy. The house I desperately wanted my dad to be proud of me for. Just like I wanted him to be proud of me for being a cop.

I shake my head and go inside. Once in, Elli stares at me from inside his tank. Which is unusual for him. He usually naps in the afternoon.

“What’s the lizard's name?”

The voice is sudden and unexpected. I whirl, and there, sitting on my couch and looking bored, is Ronan Carter. Right after I register that, something slams into the back of my head.

Pain tears through me, and I stumble. A huge body is on me, wrestling for my holster. My holster. I jerk, fighting through the pain, trying to get a hand on my gun. The holster is only a level one, meaning it only needs one mechanism to get the gun out. Before I can stop it, the person behind me has pulled the gun out. I whirl on the person, but he points the gun in my face.

“Don’t move.”

I freeze. The person pointing a gun at me is Logan Sutton. I swallow harshly, my head ringing. I could grab the gun, but we’re so close that if he squeezes off a round, it’s definitely going in me. Logan’s wearing a backwards ball cap and a smirk. “Hey, freckles.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Chair.” Logan is looking at me, but Ronan moves with a grumble. He moves past me to the dining room. I look over my shoulder at the front door, debating making a run for it. I don’t like where this is going.

“Don’t run.” Logan watches me closely. “We’re just going to have a little chat.”

“Who–get out of my house!” My heart is racing, making it hard to drag a breath in. Seeing Logan in real life outside of his file makes it feel like he’s so much bigger and so much scarier.

Ronan drags a chair loudly through my dining room, then shoves it behind my knees. “Sit.”

I don’t want to, but I do. What other choice do I have? Then, Ronan’s hands are on me, yanking my arms back and zip-tying them to the back of the chair. When he’s done, he rounds the chair, eyeing me in that bored way of his. “Got anything that could stick me, poke me, hurt me in any way?”

My mouth drops open. That’s the thing I always ask people after I arrest them. Hearing it come from…a murderer is just wild. But I guess once a cop, always a cop. And once a murderer, always a murderer. I can’t wrap my mind around it.

Ronan just lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”

“No,” I manage to get the word out without stuttering. I do have a knife in my BDUs, but I’m not going to tell him that.

Ronan pats me down, thoroughly running his big hands all over my body, checking my waistline and pockets. When he gets to the pocket with the knife, I speak up.

“You guys-s-s are making a big mistake.”

Logan barely responds.

Ronan pauses right over the knife. He freezes, then looks up at me. I’m caught in his hazel eyes, and for a second, they look…alive. He gives me the tiniest wink, then keeps searching.

My mouth almost drops open again. Is he…letting me have it?

Ronan gets up and pats his hands. “All yours, boss.” Then he moves to my couch and falls down on it in a flop.

Logan just watches me.

I say the phrase over and over in my head, then ask, “What do you want?” I test the ties. They’re tight, and I can’t reach the knife. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“We know.” Logan squats before me, somehow still looking big and intimidating. Briefly, I notice the tattoos he has. They’re stunning, and his whole right forearm arm is a blackout sleeve.

“Just here to remind you who you belong to.” Logan flashes me a grin, and the only way it can be described is blinding. Both men are objectively handsome on paper, but in person? They’re both so fucking powerful.

Immediately, I feel my cheeks heat. I should not be noticing that. It has me all kinds of flustered, and suddenly, I realize they might see that. My heart races, and I blurt, “I’ll cal-l-l–” Suddenly, I’m stuck in horrified silence as they watch me struggle. I’m stuttering in front of people who threaten my life.

I don’t want to see the mockery in their eyes. The sneers. The fucking pity. So I look at the floor. I finally finish my sentence, “the station.”

There’s a snort, and then Logan says, “Why? To tell them you’re playing hooky while their murder case is unsolved?” He bends over closer to me, and I snap my gaze up to meet his. Only, there’s no mockery or pity there. Just a cold grin. “Or maybe you’ll tell them there was someone who died, and you didn’t report it?”

I swallow hard. I was going to tell them. I just…I was going to tell them.

Logan pats my knee, making me tense. “No, you’re not going to tell them anything. You belong to us now.”

There’s a dramatic sigh from the couch, and then Ronan pops up. “I want coffee. Do you have coffee?”

Both Logan and I blink. Ronan strides to the kitchen and starts shuffling around.

Logan looks back at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Ummm, hey.” Ronan pops his head around the wall. “Logan, coffee?”

Logan casts him a look I can’t decipher.

Ronan leaves again, and I hear him messing with the coffee maker.

Logan taps a finger on my knee. “Gonna have to answer me, Kota.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “My name’s-s-s Dakota. Get fucked.”

There’s a harrowing moment where I’m not sure if Logan’s going to punch me or not, but then he breaks into a grin. “Cool. The first thing we need is a place to crash.”

“What?” I can’t help the cry that comes out. What is actually going on right now? Why in the hell would they want to be here? A cop’s house? The very cop who’s working on their case. The cop who will slice their throats open the second I get my hands on my knife. Clearly, I made a mistake the first time by not doing that.

Logan is watching me with unnerving intensity. He grins at me. “Oh no, you can’t kill us. We aren’t trying to hurt you. We just want to…work with you.”

There’s a snort from the kitchen.

“You kill us, and you become one of us,” Logan says. “You want that?”

“You’re admitting you’re killers?” I glare at him. I wish I was recording this. Or had cameras inside.

“Do you think we are?” He’s grinning at me still.

Suddenly, Ronan’s blustering back in. “Brought you a coffee, Logan.”

Logan’s face changes, and he looks human for a second. He looks…touched.

And then Ronan moves the rim of the mug—my mug—in his mouth and starts spinning it. He spins it until he’s licked around the whole rim, then hands it to Logan. “Here you go, champ.”

The room fills with stifling energy, with both men locked in lethal stares with each other.

“Did you just…around the world with my coffee?” Logan asks slowly.

Ronan just gives him a deadpan look.

I swallow harshly. The energy is different between them than I’d expect from two people working together. It’s almost…it almost seems flirty.

Suddenly, Logan laughs, making me jump. “Fucking hell, Ronan.”

“What?” Ronan turns to me. “I want to know what the lizard’s name is.”

I blink, suddenly afraid to be the center of their attention again.

“He’s a b-b-b-b.” I swallow, but Ronan doesn’t change his expression. He just waits, expectantly, “bearded dragon.”

“Oookay.” Ronan draws the word out. “What’s his name?”

“S-s-sir Ellington.” Fuck. All the stress is drawing out my stutter.

“Fuck yeah.” Ronan turns to the enclosure.

“See. I’m not the only one using dictionary words.” Logan says to Ronan, taking a pointed sip from the coffee.

Ronan moves back to the kitchen, coming back with his own mug. “That’s not a dictionary word. It’s a name.”

“But it’s old.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s a dictionary word.”

They both settle on my couch, drinking my coffee and bickering like old housewives. And all I can do is stare. Am I dreaming? Maybe I never went to work today. Maybe I’m making this whole thing up. Because in what world are two Greek gods sitting on my couch arguing about the dictionary like they didn’t break in, tie me up, and threaten me?

Fuck my life.

FORTY-SEVEN

roses red - Jeris Johnson

I’m definitely fucking dreaming. I try to wake up. I try blinking really hard, then I try to pinch myself, but my hands are tied. And it fucking hurts to move.

It hurts, which means I definitely didn’t fall asleep in my cruiser and dream up some psycho criminals who want to tie me up and make out in front of me.

Fuck.

Both men are sipping coffee on my couch in silence, and I’m tied to my chair facing them.

“You can’t s-s-stay here,” I say.

“Hmmm, kinda seems like we can.”

“Wait, stay here?” Ronan glances at Logan, looking like this is the first he’s heard of it.

I watch them watch each other. Hang on. Are they not on the same page?

“Our other location is compromised. This is the best option.”

Ronan glances at me, and his eyebrows are raised. “The…best option? Is staying in the house of the guy who’d get hard slitting our throats?”

“You’d also get hard slitting my throat,” Logan says.

“Yes, I would. But that’s not the point!” Ronan’s voice raises.

“I brought Buffalo.” Logan motions at a stuffed highland cow he’s placed on the armrest of the couch.

“Cool, so he can watch us both die?”

“We’re not dying.” Logan’s voice catches a dark edge.

“Ellington, tell this man he’s crazy.” Ronan stands and goes to the tank. Toward my boy.

“L-l-leave him alone!” Adrenaline rushes through me, and suddenly, I’m fighting my bonds as hard as I can.

Ronan looks back at me in surprise, watching my struggles. For a minute, the manic look drops out of his eyes, and his voice drops, “I wouldn’t hurt him. I’m not an animal.”

“Don’t touch him.” The rage is red hot in my voice.

“Okay.” Ronan raises his hands. “You got it, boss.”

It takes me a minute to come down from my sudden, murderous rage. Ronan watches me closely. His gaze is perceptive, much like Logan’s. Although Ronan covers his up with a little more crazy, I think he’s just as aware.

Finally, Ronan asks, “You got any pain pills? No, wait, scratch that, you got any alcohol?”

“No,” Logan says from the couch.

Ronan purses his lips, ignoring Logan and looking at me. “You’re a whiskey drinker, aren’t you?”

The changes in subject are giving me whiplash. I do drink whiskey. Ronan must see the answer on my face because he crows, “I knew it! All the gays drink it.” Then, he disappears into the kitchen.

His words hit me like a sledgehammer. Did he just call me…gay? Panic hits me a second later.

“Hey, I’m not g-g-g-gay motherfucker!” I start struggling again. I need to get out. Need to get away. The bonds are cutting into my skin, but maybe if I push the chair back, it’ll break, and I’ll be able to get out.

“Ah ha! The gay spirits!” There’s a clink, and I know he’s going through my liquor cabinet.

“Ronan, no.” Logan gets up and moves into the kitchen.

“Not gay!” I renew my struggles, jerking so hard I knock my chair backwards. I crash to the ground, smashing my head again, and my vision blacks out for a second.

When the world stops spinning, both men are standing over me. Ronan is sipping his coffee, and Logan is glaring at him.

“Maybe he needs a shot too. You want a shot, model boy?” Ronan looks concerned.

“No,” Logan says.

Model boy? I struggle to respond.

“Jesus man, you’re a broken record.” Ronan takes a loud, obnoxious sip. “Live a little. Life’s too short.”

“My name’s-s-s,” I moan, “Dakota.”

Both look down at me as if they forgot I was there.

The rest of the afternoon goes much the same—with Logan and Ronan’s constant bickering in the background while I try to figure out any possible way I could get out of this. I don’t try to bargain with them. First, I try not to talk unless there’s a distinct purpose. And second, I don’t know them well enough to know if it’ll help or hurt my chances of escape. Honestly, the more they focus on each other and forget I’m here, the better. Also, Ronan holds an active conversation with the cow that seems to be named Buffalo, and I’ve never been more sure these are not people I want to be reasoning with.

But what will I do once I get away? I could just lie to the chief and say I was never at the theater. But what if there are cameras? Fuck, at this point, it’s worth it to be charged for complicity. Anything to get away from where I am now, tied in my own living room with two men who are absolutely, undeniably crazy. And also openly gay. Which makes a weird sensation rush through me. It’s wrong. They shouldn’t be flirting with each other. And yet, I can’t take my eyes off them.

They let me up to piss multiple times—damn my nervous pissing—but then put me right back in the chair. Which fucking hurts my ass and my wrists. I would have tried to escape then, but both men immediately focused and looked lethal when I was cut loose. They also let me up to feed Ellington, and Ronan is extremely interested, asking me about the food he eats and where I get it. Ronan wants to do everything, but I don’t let him. Then, back in the chair I go.

My plan is to wait until they’re asleep, then bust the chair and get out. Then I’ll go to the station and tell them everything.

It takes fucking forever for the two men to go to sleep. I’m hoping they’ll just sleep on the couch, but of course not. Of course not.

“What kinda bed you got, model boy?” Ronan slurs a little. I’m pretty sure he’s been mixing alcohol with his coffee all day while Logan isn’t looking.

Logan’s voice lowers, “Ronan. Are you drunk?”

“Huh?” Ronan looks around like he dropped something. “Oh, wait. Can’t find the contract that says I have to listen to you.”

There’s a tense silence where I’m not sure if they’re going to start fighting or kissing. Kissing? No. Fuck, my brain is dirty. They wouldn’t…

“I think you want to be punished.” Logan’s voice is slow and low, making me shiver at the threat.

Ronan doesn’t seem to notice, getting off the couch and heading towards the bedroom. “Queen size? King size?”

Logan gets up too, and elation fills me. They’re going to leave me alone.

Then, Logan’s heavy hand slams down on the back of my chair and starts dragging me along the wood floors.

“Hey.” I struggle, feeling like I’ll tip out at any second, but he doesn’t stop. The dragging is loud and screeching, jarring me along with every step.

“Queen!” I hear Ronan’s voice, and then I’m yanked down the hall and shoved into my bedroom, where I see Ronan flopping on the bed. Logan closes the door behind us, and then I feel him checking my zip ties. “Good?” he says.

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me. I flex my hands. They’re tight, but they aren’t cutting off circulation.

“Good?” Logan asks again, rounding the chair to level his blue eyes on me. His gaze is magnetic, stealing my breath away.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“Good.” He stands up, and the magnetic presence is eased. It’s like I can breathe again. What the hell is wrong with me? And what the hell is wrong with him? This isn’t what criminals do. They don’t give a shit about the people they offend against. And I’ve seen over a decade of criminal behavior.

Then, my thoughts are cut off because Logan strips his shirt off, revealing a muscled and heavily tattooed back. And suddenly, I can’t breathe again. Logan is covered in dark, stunning tattoos. He’s also huge, with bulk in places I wished I had bulk.

Logan jumps into bed on top of Ronan, who shrieks and tries to roll away. But Logan pins Ronan under his huge body, wrestling his wrists into his hands.

I watch, stunned. What the fuck is happening right now?

“Logan!” Ronan roars, “Get the fuck off me!” But his words are slurred.

My whole body tenses. Logan lowers to Ronan’s neck, and I can’t see what he’s doing, but I see Ronan buck. “Ow, fucker!”

“Give me that pretty neck.”

Ronan thrashes, but Logan holds him down easily. I can’t tear my horrified gaze away. I’m watching a crime. Logan is assaulting Ronan right in front of me.

“S-s-s-top!” I demand.

Logan’s hand traces down Ronan’s body, and I suck in a breath as it goes between Ronan’s legs. Ronan stiffens, then melts into the bed, letting out a moan.

What the fuck? What the fuck? Does Ronan like this? I thrash, trying to get away. I need to get away.

“Dakota,” Ronan mutters.

Freezing horror runs icy hot through my veins.

“He’s fine,” Logan’s voice is muffled in Ronan’s body.

“He’s watching.”

“And?”

The whole room is full of charged silence. I’m not sure what to say or do. I just want to get away, but I also can’t tear my eyes away from the display of power and lust on the bed in front of me.

“I want him to watch,” Logan says, continuing to kiss Ronan. “I want you to get off in front of him.”

Ronan lets out a muffled moan, and I’m not sure if it’s because Logan gives him a firm tug or because of his words.

My whole body feels hot and sweaty. There’s such raw energy coming from both bodies across the room that it’s stifling.

Then, Logan reaches his hand inside Ronan’s pants, and Ronan really moans, the sound going straight through me. It’s a sound full of pleasure and need, and it’s so foreign coming from a man. I curl my toes to focus on anything but that sound. 

Then, Logan pulls Ronan’s pants down with one hand, muscles flexing as he rips them down.

I catch a flash of skin and yank my gaze away. Ronan’s dick is there. It’s right there in full sight, large and veiny and pink. And Logan is fucking touching it.

I hear Logan spit, then the wet sounds of a hand moving up and down. I stare at my dresser.

Dirty. Wrong. Backwards.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t get rid of the sounds. The wet smacking sounds and the low grunts.

“That’s a good boy. Be my good boy and give me that dick.”

Fuck. My whole body is tense, and I feel sweaty all over. My heart is racing, and my breaths are shallow. I wish they would go away. I wish the slap, slap, slap would fucking stop.

But some part of me doesn’t wish it would stop. Some part of me fucking loves it. The same part that takes a peek, seeing Logan’s big hand wrapped around Ronan’s dick. His huge dick. His huge dick that he thrusts into Logan’s hand, meeting his strokes.

Suddenly, my mouth is watering. I close my eyes in horror. What is wrong with me?

And then, all sound stops, and Ronan moans.

“You’ve been a brat all day. Do brats deserve to come?”

“Fuck you, fucker.”

I peek my eyes open to see Ronan struggling again, but Logan still has his hands over his head.

“Answer me, brat. Do brats deserve to come?”

“Yes!” Ronan jerks his hips up, his dick so hard it slaps against his stomach. And I realize that my dick is hard too. Painfully hard, actually. It’s throbbing in my pants, pressed up against my leg.

“No. Brats deserve to be punished.” Logan scoots up until he’s sitting on Ronan’s chest. Before I can look away, he yanks his dick out, slapping it down on Ronan’s face. “Suck me off, and maybe I’ll let you come.”

My mouth drops open as fascinated horror washes over me.

And then, Ronan opens his mouth and sucks the tip of Logan’s dick into his mouth, and it’s like all my thoughts are blown out the window. The man in front of me is sucking another man’s dick. It’s wrong. It’s dirty. And Logan looks like he’s enjoying every second of it. He clenches his ass, letting go of Ronan’s hands and pressing farther into his mouth.

“That’s a good boy. That’s my good, dirty boy.”

Ronan reaches out, grabbing Logan’s balls, and I feel a pulse go through my own. The blood is rushing violently through me, especially in my groin.

“Fuck yes. Fuck, you feel so good.” Logan is moaning, thrusting roughly into Ronan’s mouth. I hear Ronan gag, but he doesn’t try to get away. Just keeps letting Logan abuse him.

“That’s a nasty boy. Get me off with your mouth.” Logan’s last words come out strained, and I watch as his whole body stiffens. I realize with fascination that he’s about to come. Then, he presses in one last time with a shout, his whole body going rigid. I watch as he comes down Ronan’s throat. Ronan just sucks him down.

My own dick is pulsing. My hips do an involuntary jerk, seeking any sort of friction. My pants rub against it, sending a shiver of delight through me.

Dirty. Fucking wrong.

Then, Logan rips out of Ronan’s mouth, moving down to his dick, where he roughly jerks Ronan. Ronan grunts, shoving his hips up into Logan until cum explodes from him, and he shouts.

Watching Ronan’s whole body locked up as the huge man above him wrings all the pleasure from him does something unknown to me. Suddenly, my own body is jerking, seeking any slight friction from my pants. And then, with a horrified grunt, I come in my own pants.

The pleasure is blinding and unreal, pulse after pulse filling my pants. I come as quietly as I can. As soon as I’m done, I glance up at the other two. They’re wrapped up in each other, not even looking at me.

I just came. Watching a dirty fucking sin.

Shame fills me, washing over me in a cold wave. Suddenly, the sweat on my body is cold and I’m full of regret. What the hell did I just do?

“Such a good brat for me.” Logan strokes Ronan. “I love when you defy me.”

Ronan slurs something, but I can’t hear what it is. Logan chuckles, then gets up. He passes me on the way to the bathroom, throwing me a wink. He comes back with a towel, cleaning both of them off. Then, they both go to bed. In my bed. While I’m stuck, tied to a chair, with the evidence of my shame drying in my pants.

FORTY-EIGHT

Either Way - Tawnted

I’d hoped a night in the chair would make Dakota see what kind of situation he’s in. But in the morning, he just gives me a lethal look. He looks exhausted but not at all like he understands who’s in charge. He did wake me last night with the thump of his chair hitting the floor. Unlucky for him, I’m a light sleeper. I got him righted and went back to bed. He didn’t say a word to me, but I stayed half awake after that, keeping track of Dakota’s movements.

I’m aware that Ronan left the knife in Dakota’s pocket. I watched him pat the shape of it down and then move on.

Staring up at the ceiling, I can’t help but feel a mix of anger and amusement. Ronan is fucking reckless. What I can’t figure out is—did Ronan mean for Dakota to use that knife on me or himself? Anxiety fills me for Ronan. I can’t seem to break him out of this borderline suicidal behavior.

And during all this, Dakota just watches us silently. It makes me take him a bit more seriously. Dakota might be pretty, but he’s not stupid. He’s determined to live, and he’s been studying us quietly, most likely cataloging our weaknesses and how much we’ll allow.

It makes me excited. I love that he’s not a pushover.

When I roll out of bed for the morning, Ronan is still snoring, clutching Buffalo, and sleeping off the alcohol. I get re-pissed. Ronan is gambling with his life. He doesn’t care that we’re sleeping with the enemy. He just doesn’t care. Deep down, I know Ronan isn’t done purging. Ronan still drinks himself to sleep every chance he gets, and he’s happy with his trigger finger, which scares me, considering Dakota is a cop. At the same time, being with Dakota is our best option. Why would Callum and Vox look here for us? I doubt they want to interact with cops.

I heave myself out of bed and find some toothpaste in the bathroom. I use my finger to scrub my teeth while I look at myself in the mirror. Maybe separating Dakota from us isn’t the wisest choice. It’s easy to fight someone you see as the enemy. Maybe it’s time for a different tactic. To make him relate to us.

I’m about to leave the bathroom before I notice a bottle of sunscreen on the counter. I freeze, staring at it. Suddenly, I can smell it all around me, and my hat feels tight. I feel a burning in my eyes.

Greyson.

No. I have no capacity to think about him right now. I just have to keep Ronan safe from the cops, Dakota, and himself. Shaking my head, I march out of the bathroom.

I have to get Dakota more on board. I know what that means, but it doesn’t mean I’m excited to do it.

Dakota tenses as I approach him. I crouch down, getting the knife that Ronan left out of Dakota’s pocket. I speak while I cut his ties, “If you hurt us or try to get away, my first stop will be your mom’s house. You know, the one on 134 Mound?”

Dakota tenses, and his eyes light up with hatred.

“Now you get it.” I pat his leg. For his sake, I hope he gets it. “Get up. Let’s make breakfast.”

Letting Dakota go is a calculated risk. But I don’t want the first time he’s free to be outside of our supervision. I want him to show me he can obey.

There’s a moment where I know Dakota’s thinking about attacking me. But then a wash of emotions moves across his pretty face, and when I motion for him to leave the bedroom, he does.

Dakota’s food situation is abysmal. Which is surprising because the rest of his house is pretty put together. It’s decorated in shades of gray, with wall decor and all kinds of accent lights. It’s masculine in a pretty way, just like Dakota.

I have Dakota sit at the small dining room table while I search through his food. Mostly because I want to see if he’ll obey.

He does. And I can’t help the zip of pleasure that gives me. I keep my eye on him as I make scrambled eggs and freezer-burnt sausages. There’s also syrup in the pantry, and I pull that out too.

“Not much of a cook?” I slide a plate of food in front of Dakota. He just watches me distrustfully. He looks like he thinks I poisoned it. Which makes me snort. Why would I waste all this time training him just to kill him?

“You watched me make it.” I wave at the food. “It’s as safe as old freezer food can be.”

Dakota is silent, staring defiantly at me. It’s interesting. He’ll obey, but just barely.

The overwhelming urge to take him over my knee and spank him till he submits washes over me.

What the hell?

I shake myself back into focus and dig into my own food. I prepared enough for Ronan, but he won’t be up for a bit.

The room is silent except for my chewing. When I’ve finished, I lean back with a sigh. Dakota’s gaze hardens as if he thinks I’m going to interrogate him. I want to. I want to force him on his knees in front of me. Want him to pay for those defiant looks.

What is with this guy? He doesn’t seem like the kind of person I would peg for a cop. Plus, I can’t get that smell out of my nose. The sunscreen.

Dakota isn’t that pale. His skin looks golden and sunkissed. So why does he wear it?

“What’s up with the sunscreen?”

Dakota stares at me for a second, then blinks.

I look him up and down. Suddenly, I wonder if Pretty Boy has freckles in places other than on his face. I glance down at his body, but he still has his long-sleeved work shirt on.

“I need to go to work.” Dakota’s voice is quiet but full of venom, and he’s glaring at me from under his lashes.

Finally, he speaks. I grin, feeling like I won a round. “Need or want?”

“Need.”

I shrug. “Tell them you’re sick.”

Dakota frowns, looking like he wants to leap across the table. But I don’t think he will. I’m wondering if Dakota wants to do a lot of things but holds himself back for some reason.

“If you’re gonna fight me, don’t spill the food.” He won’t, but just in case, I yank the plate toward me. “If you’re not going to eat it, I’ll give it to Buffalo.”

There’s a flash of confusion across Dakota’s face, and then it goes back to impassive. Well, his face itself is impassive. Dakota’s eyes can’t hide what he’s thinking. They’re the most beautiful honey brown, and they shift with every emotion. Right now, he looks…angry.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I lean back. “What’s with the sunscreen?” I can’t help but ask. I’ve never known a grown man in this cloudy-ass state to wear sunscreen on a regular basis.

“My tattoos,” Dakota growls.

“Oh?” I sit up straighter. “Let me see.”

“L-l-l-” Those pretty eyes widen in fear, and Dakota locks on my face. He gets this look every time he stutters. Some tiny part of my frozen heart hates that he feels afraid. So he stutters—so what? I have time.

I just sit back, waiting for him to finish.

“Let me go,” Dakota finally finishes.

“No.” I smile at him sweetly.

Rage flashes across his features, his pretty lips drawing down in a snarl.

That act of defiance fills me with a thrill. Fucking hell, I’ve always been a sucker for the straight boys who hate me. Although, I’m not convinced Dakota is straight. I saw him watching us last night. And I mean damn, I know Ronan and I are objectively hot even to straight people, but the way Dakota was absolutely glued to our show said something else.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask.

“What?” Dakota’s mouth drops open

“A boyfriend?” I shove my chair back on two legs. “You know? Someone you love and plan a future with?”

It looks like Dakota has stopped breathing, and that makes me want to laugh, but I don’t. I just keep my look level. I love watching him squirm.

“I don’t…I’m not dating…I’m s-s-straight!” His face is red, and I laugh.

Oookay. “Whatever you say, champ.”

I hear the sounds of shuffling, and then a door closes. Ronan comes stumbling into the kitchen. Even mussed from sleep, he’s still strikingly handsome, looking like ragged sex appeal. My dick hardens just looking at him, remembering what we did last night. I want to put it inside him again, but this time, I want it to last longer. 

I pull out a chair, and Ronan stumbles into it, grabbing the plate of food Dakota rejected.

I shove the pancake syrup in front of Ronan. He pauses, shoving his face full and staring at me. “It’s eggs.”

“It’s for your sausage.” I give him a wink. It takes Ronan a second, and then his cheeks go red. Even his eyebrows get a little pink, and he mutters, “Fuck off.”

Dakota’s gaze darts between us. I can tell he’s confused by the dynamic.

“Boyfriends.” I put my arm around Ronan’s shoulder.

“What? No, we’re not; get off me.” He shoves me off, still shoveling the food into his mouth.

I grin.

Ronan tosses the empty plate my way and leaves the table. ”It’s too early for this.”

I grin after him. “Love you too.”

The rest of the morning is spent in tense silence. Well, Dakota and Ronan are tense. I’m not gonna lie; it’s making my dick hard watching both of them try to figure out the best way to fight me.

There’s something very wrong with me. Outside of the glaringly obvious. But I haven’t felt this alive in…since Greyson. And that sends a mixture of both happiness and sadness through me.

Dakota is still stiff as hell, looking like he has a million different things he wants to do, but he’s frozen.

I stare at the piano next to the tank. There’s also a guitar on top.

“You play?” I motion at them. I ask nonchalantly, but the question has been burning since yesterday. It’s like an itch under my skin that I can’t get rid of. I just need to know if Dakota plays.

Dakota glares at me. Like he isn’t going to answer. Instead of dissuading me, it makes me sit up straighter. I can see the invitation in his eyes. He wants the fight.

Then, Dakota shifts his gaze away in slight submission. “Yeah.”

Disappointment fills me. I want to see that fight again. “Play something.”

Dakota glances at me, and Ronan groans. He’s been ignoring us on my tablet, and now he throws his hands over his eyes. “Jesus, dude. Do you have some weird fetish when you meet new people?” He puts on a show voice, “Sing for me.”

“No. Only when I kidnap them. Now.” I turn back to Dakota. “Play me something.”

Dakota flushes slightly. “I don’t…”

“Just pick something, dude,” Ronan groans. “Can’t be worse than Sweet Home Alabama.”

Dakota looks completely lost.

“Play.” I watch him, seeing if he’ll fight me. He watches me, probably gauging how serious I am.

Deadly serious. In a masochistic kind of way.

And then, slowly, Dakota gets up. He moves across the room and then pulls out the piano bench. Watching him obey fills me with a sweet thrill. I know he doesn’t want to, but he is.

“The guitar,” I demand.

Dakota shoots me a look, finally speaking up. “Why?”

I grin at his defiance. For some reason, I don’t want to squash it. I want him to feel safe to defy me. Just a little bit. Just enough to make it fun.

“Because I said so, Kota.”

Dakota’s gaze narrows, and then he looks to Ronan. I glance at Ronan too, suddenly anxious for some reason. Is he going to back me up? Of course he won’t. He doesn’t think of himself as my boyfriend. If anything, he’s a half-prisoner himself.

Suddenly, I’m full of sadness, and my stomach drops. I’m not sure why. The facts have always been the facts.

Then, Ronan raises an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it, guitar hero.”

Wait, what? I stare at Ronan, and he flicks his hazel gaze to me. He gives me the tiniest wink, and then my whole body soars.

Ronan is backing me up. Ronan is backing me up! And I didn’t force him to.

Just as quickly, Ronan turns his deadpan gaze back to Dakota, putting on a show voice again, “Play.”

Dakota sighs but takes down the guitar and fiddles with it. He strums and adjusts some strings, muttering, “It won’t be good.”

I shrug. I don’t give a flying rat’s ass. I just want him to play.

And then, slowly, he does. And instantly, the room is filled with beautiful music. I don’t recognize the song, but it’s in some minor key, the sounds melancholy and…lonely. My heart clenches. Because this is exactly the kind of music Greyson would have liked.

The song ends, and I realize my throat is tight. I clear my throat. “Another.”

Dakota shakes his head, but he starts in on another one. This one is just as pretty and just as sad. I fucking love it. I get caught up in the music, asking Dakota for song after song. Ronan seems just as caught up in the music, although he pretends not to be. He’s looking at the tablet, but his gaze is unfocused, and he hasn’t scrolled in a long time.

Dakota also seems to come alive. He seems to forget that we’re here, and his whole body relaxes. He melts into the music, rocking his head back and forth and closing his eyes. Then, a miracle happens: Dakota starts humming.

And the sound is the most perfect mix with the music; I almost didn’t hear him at first. His voice is deep and melodic, quiet and unassuming but powerful in its own way.

And then, in a particularly sad song, Dakota just stops. He stares off into space, his entire body frozen.

I don’t breathe, wondering what set him off. Then Dakota glances at us, and his face flames. “That’s all I know.” Quickly, he puts the guitar back on the piano, and then he stands, staring as if he isn’t sure what to do. Then, he awkwardly sits on the edge of the couch.

“That,” I clear my throat. “Uh, you’re pretty good.”

Dakota says nothing. He’s stiff, and I can almost feel the anxiety radiating off of him in waves.

Then, Ronan breaks the silence, “You have weird kinks, my man.” He shakes his head at me. “What will it be, feet next?”

If I wasn’t paying attention, I would have missed the tiny flare of pink across Dakota’s cheeks.

“Maybe.” I shrug, sitting back, taking them both in. Dakota is quiet. He’s a tortured poet that I just want to protect. On the flip side, Ronan is aggressive. He’s the fight that I love so much. They’re like two sides of a coin. Two sides of Greyson.

My heart clenches in something odd. Something fucking possessive.

I just want to make both of them safe. I want to make Ronan feel safe to be soft. And I want to make Dakota feel safe to be hard.

I couldn’t do it back then. But maybe, just maybe, I can do it now.

FORTY-NINE

Devil Himself - LaLion

I’m not a huge fan of blackmailing a victim. I know, I know. Withhold the Medal of Honor—it won’t fit next to my alcohol dependence and mommy issues. But this whole thing with Dakota makes me itchy. He’s the grown-up version of the kids I tried to protect.

And that thought makes me tired. Exhausted, actually, but still somehow feeling every fucking thing.

I need another shot of whiskey.

‘No drinks. You’ll puke them up,‘ Buff groans from his place on the kitchen table.

“Whatever,” I mutter.

Dakota sits stiffly on the couch while I search his pantry for anything to make the loudness in my head get quieter. Logan has gone to take a shower, leaving us alone.

I thought about letting Dakota go. And then I remembered how much I don’t want to go to jail. That is not going to make it onto my: never want to do again list.

Hearing a phone chime, I glance around. It doesn’t sound familiar, and there’s a phone on the counter that must belong to Dakota.

“I’ll get it.” Dakota gets up, and I immediately feel defensive. If he wants the phone, then I definitely don’t want him to have it. So I take the phone. 

“If I have to go, I’d prefer it not be at the hands of a SWAT team, freckles.”

SWAT teams are pompous assholes. They think they’re the best of the best. They think no one can tell them no. And that’s the problem. Almost no one can tell them no. Suddenly, I’m paranoid it’s one of Dakota’s SWAT buddies checking on him.

I check the phone. It’s a Tinder notification. I can’t see what it says ‘cause the phone is locked, but I bark out a laugh. “Tinder, huh?”

“Who was it?” Dakota is up, standing stiffly.

“I don’t know.” I shrug.

“Was it L-l-l,” he gets hung up on the word for a second. “Laris-s-sa?”

“Larissa?” I blink slowly, then turn to look at him.

‘That’s a girl’s name,’ Buff says, horror in his tone. I’m so surprised that I say the same thing out loud but with less horror and more surprise. Dakota isn’t straight. He’s a gentle man. His skin is soft, without a hint of facial hair, and everything about his muted behaviors and soft voice screams feminine. Not that you’re gay if you’re feminine, but I certainly thought he was fruity. Considering he hasn’t been able to stop ogling Logan and myself.

Then Dakota speaks, and there’s a sudden venom in his voice, “I’m not a faggot.”

Time grinds to a halt, and instantly, heat flares under my skin. I turn slowly so I’m facing him. “What did you just say?”

Dakota’s face gets red, but he just stares at me.

‘What the fuck?’ Buffalo is screeching now. ‘He did not!’

I feel an odd sense of protectiveness. Not that I’m gay gay, but Logan is. And that’s just not fair.

“If you ever say that again, I’ll grind your face into the floor,” I say, my voice dropping low and dangerous. “What do you think, Buff? If I press hard enough, will his eyeballs make a nice gloss for the wood?”

Buff cackles, and I even crack a smile. Dakota has gone white, but to his credit, he still sneers at me.

I grab the whiskey and take a pull right from the bottle.

Why the fuck do I care? This is stupid. I used to call Logan the same thing.

And yet, I still care. I more than care. It’s pissing me off.

‘Eyeball pledge.’

“Enough,” I growl.

Dakota looks unsettled, glancing at Buffalo. I was going to introduce them, but after that bullshit, Dakota doesn’t deserve to speak to Buffalo.

‘Hypocrite,’ Buffalo whispers.

I scowl, finding some Cheetos in the cabinet and eating them. They’re hot as fuck and burn my mouth, but for some reason, I keep eating them. The burn distracts me from my anger.

Sure, I may be a hypocrite. But that little issue needs to stand in line behind some of my other, more serious crimes.

Dakota watches me, swallowing. He looks like he wants the food. Like he’s starving for it. An unexpected bolt of power rushes through me.

I have something he wants.

‘Maybe you should fuck the attitude out of him.’

“Buff!” I bark, but he just cackles.

‘Just saying. He’s hot.’

I mutter quietly, “And ‘straight.’”

‘Nah. I have a sense for these things.’

“You’re a stuffed animal.”

‘So you should be even more concerned that I have better judgment than you.’

Jesus. This fluff-filled fucker has gotten way too loud. Maybe I need to stop drinking?

Nah.

I hold the bag of Cheetos out to Dakota with an eyebrow raised. Will he accept a Cheeto from a ‘fag fucker’? It would be a mistake to. Because now I want to fuck with him. A forbidden thrill runs through me.

I want to fuck with Dakota Stewart, the cop with the bad attitude and the pretty face.

Dakota looks between me, Buffalo, and the food. He’ll have to come to me to get them.

“I hear Cheeto dust kills cooties,” I say, deadpan. “But who am I to say for sure.”

Dakota huffs, “Does it kill the crazy?”

I let that comment slide. Mostly because it’s a valid one.

Despite his comment, Dakota moves forward. As soon as he’s within my reach, I step out and push him between myself and the counter, dropping the bag there.

Dakota sucks in a gasp, looking like an animal cornered by a wolf.

I stare him down. “I wanted to see…and it’s true.”

“W-w-what?”

“To see if you’d look as flustered as you did last night.” I grin. I noticed Dakota’s reaction to Logan and I fucking. I saw when his pretty eyes would lock on what Logan was doing to me. He couldn’t stop watching, his entire body tense. 

“You were fucking in front of me,” Dakota sputters. “What else was I s-s-s,” he struggles for a second, then finishes, “supposed to do?”

“Hmmm,” I press into Dakota, noticing how he doesn’t push me away. He’s just…frozen. Being this close to him is making my stomach flutter. His pretty, long lashes brush his freckled cheeks as pink spreads across them. He looks like a trapped fawn. All helpless and trembling.

Fuck, I’m hard, all the blood rushing to my groin. What is my deal with freckles? First, Logan’s eye freckles, and now Dakota’s cheek freckles.

‘Fucked for freckles,’ Buffalo sings.

“Why’d you become a cop?” I stare at Dakota, but he won’t look at me.

“Get off me.” He tries to shove me away, but I just press into him harder. My dick is hard as hell. I can’t help it. I have some dysfunction when it comes to hot people, I guess.

“Ronan.” Dakota’s voice has an edge of…something in it. It’s not fully fear, and there’s a rasp to it.

“What, freckles?” I smirk, remembering what Logan had done to me. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” I add an edge of mocking to my tone.

Dakota has almost melted into my body.

Okay, so now you really can take my Medal of Valor away. Because I like forcing Dakota to submit to me. A thrill runs through me again, mixed with a little confusion. I thought I liked being the one submitting, but this is just as fucking good.

“Get…off.” Dakota seems to remember himself, kneeing me in the balls. I laugh, doubling over. Oh fuck. That was way more fun than it needed to be.

Dakota backs up, scrambling to the edge of the kitchen, when Logan pops out of nowhere. “What are we doing?”

He looks between me and Dakota.

I grin. “Dakota here was hungry. But he didn’t want to eat my ‘fag’ Cheetos.”

“Oh?” Logan takes an extra second to watch both of us, then turns to Dakota. “That true?”

For a second, I want to pout. Logan doesn’t believe me?

Dakota raises his head. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. You’ve made yourselves very clear.”

“Hmmm.” Logan looks like he’s mulling it over, then turns to me. I catch the tiniest hint of a smirk. “I think I heard that he wants to crawl to you.”

FIFTY

Off The Edge (with LUNA AURA) - VIOLA, LUNA AURA

Logan isn’t done. “He wants to crawl and eat from your hand.”

My whole body is tense, but my mouth wants to fall open. Did he just say…crawl?

“Down, cub.” Logan grins at me, putting his heavy hands on my shoulders.

Panic runs through me. “No!” It’s all so much so soon. My entire body is on fire, and it’s such a strange sensation. I’ve never felt this…alive. I was just pressed up against Ronan. The killer. The hot killer. When did killers become hot? They’re never hot, not that Ronan’s hot per se, but objectively, I’m sure women would find him attractive. His hard body was all over me, and fuck, he smelled good. He smelled like laundry detergent, and why the fuck did he have to smell so good?

Just like last night, I’m hard. Harder than hard, which makes no sense because I’ve had flings before, and it never felt like this. In fact, I had to concentrate to get it up. Not that the women weren’t hot—they were. So hot that my coworkers were both super excited for me and also super mad at me at the same time.

Dirty. Disgusting.

“Cub,” Logan’s still pressing on my shoulders. “Down.”

“No,” I say again, but my voice is less powerful. There’s something magical about Logan’s hands. That’s the only other explanation. Before I know it, my knees are on the ground, and Logan has followed me down.

“My name…” I avoid saying the s. I can’t stutter. “Dakota.”

“But you make such a cute little bear cub.” Logan’s voice is a purr in my ear. “And I think you need to learn that when we say jump, you ask how high. And when we say crawl–” He gives me a shove so hard I have to catch myself on my hands.

Humiliation melts across my skin like little snowflakes. It sends a thrill through me like a sudden chill.

What the fuck?

“Do we need to make it hurt?” Logan’s voice is soft, like he’s talking to a lover.

There’s another thrill that I instantly shut down. Because I’m disgusting.

Suddenly, there’s a smack to the back of my head. It doesn’t quite hurt, but it does wake me up.

“Out of your head, Kota. Crawl.”

No, no, no. But slowly, I slide my right hand across the floor. Then, my left knee. My ears are hot, and I want to stop.

“Good boy,” Logan croons.

Then I move my left hand, then my left knee.

I’m just doing this so they don’t kill me. I’m just doing it to survive.

I ignore the pleasure curling up in my body. It’s not pleasure. It’s shame.

It’s…both?

Suddenly, I’m there at Ronan’s feet. He has white socks on, and I just stare at them. I’m afraid if I look up, he’ll see how much I like this. How disgusting I am.

Suddenly, Ronan’s hand is under my chin, and he’s tilting my head up. “Open.”

I stare up at him. Ronan looks…fascinated. His pupils are blown, and there’s a flush across his cheeks.

Oh hell. He likes this.

Ronan’s other hand has a Cheeto in it, and he brings it down to my mouth. “Eat.”

Instinct tells me to say no. To get up and scream in his face. To go down fighting. But instinct also screams to listen to him. To watch what his face does when I obey. To see if he likes it.

And it’s not just my life on the line. It’s my mom’s too.

And so I take the food. I eat it out of Ronan’s hands like a dog.

Ronan’s face lights in approval. His pupils widen even more, and he looks at me with a look that is damn near…proud.

“Good boy. Good fucking boy.”

FIFTY-ONE

Falling Apart - Papa Roach

Ronan is drunk. He’s been stealing shots all morning and finding ways to wink at me after every one. Like it’s some kind of game. He puts on a good show for Logan, and if I didn’t physically watch him taking the shots, I wouldn’t believe he was drinking. Ronan also keeps looking up costumes for bearded dragons and showing them to me.

My stomach feels like it’s wrapped around itself three times. I feel dirty. Disgusting. It’s making me pull back into my own mind. I’m getting lost in the dark parts I try to avoid.

Logan realizes we’re out of food, and then he and Ronan fight about who’s going to go get more. It’s clear Logan doesn’t trust Ronan out on his own, nor does he trust him here with me. I don’t trust him here with me, either.

“C’mon, asshole.” Ronan throws his hands in the air. “You say we’re a team, and then you don’t trust me to fucking babysit? I was a cop, for fuck’s sake; I know how to fucking babysit.”

Logan points a finger at me. “That ‘baby’ will shoot you in the chest the second you turn your back.”

Ronan makes a show of giving me his back. “I can handle him.”

As much as I don’t trust Ronan, this is the best-case scenario for me. Splitting up resources and leaving me with the drunk guy could absolutely be a fatal flaw.

They argue for a bit about getting food delivered, but Logan isn’t happy about that idea either since it’ll look suspicious that food for three people is being delivered when it’s clear I ‘never have people over.’

Fuck him for that. He’s right, but fuck him.

Eventually, Ronan wins the argument on the condition that he’ll tie me up again. Logan doesn’t leave until I’m in the chair again, and then he helps himself to my car keys. Then, Ronan and I are left alone.

There’s a tense silence.

Ronan shakes his head. “Mother hen, mother fucker.” He stalks up to me, and instantly, I stiffen. Ronan flips a knife open, and fear rushes through me. Is this the end? Did he need me alone so he could kill me?

Then Ronan cuts me free. “Sorry about that.”

I stare at him in shock, and he goes to the kitchen, coming back with a full glass of amber liquid.

“For you, frecklesss.” His words slur just a bit, and his eyes are just slightly glassy.

I stare at him. He cuts me free and offers me a drink? Hell no. “I’m not drinking,” I say.

Ronan pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. “Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”

I cross my arms. “I’m fine.”

Ronan snorts. “Please. Everyone knows that means you’re not fine.” He shoves the glass at me. “Hurry up. You have to catch up.”

“No.” I try to shove the glass back, but suddenly, Ronan is on top of my lap, pushing me back into the couch. And then he sounds sober. “Drink it, freckles. Or I’ll drown you in it.” Ronan flashes me a blinding smile that’s not kind. It makes a shiver run through me. Part of me wants to make him follow through. The other part knows he’d enjoy it too much.

Slowly, I take the glass and take a sip. It fucking burns, and I cough.

Ronan laughs. “More.”

I glare at him but take a full sip. Did he poison this?

Ronan is watching me closely. “Finish it. It’s only like…four shots.”

“Four?” I choke. I don’t drink much. This will get me fucked up.

“You can take it.” Ronan traces a finger down the side of my face.

“Get off.” I jerk away, but there’s nowhere for me to go. Ronan is pressing into me, and it’s confusing my brain. Everything feels cloudy.

I steel myself, then down the glass. It hurts like a bitch, and my throat is on fire.

“There!” Ronan grins and takes the glass but doesn’t move. “You can take the stick out of your ass now.”

Ronan’s ass is pressing into my crotch, and it’s sending tingles throughout my whole body.

“Move.” I shove him—hard. Ronan yelps, clutching his arm as he falls to the side.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, cradling his arm. He looks like he’s in pain.

Ronan pulls the sleeve up his upper arm. “Oh shit, it’s swollen.” He turns his arm to me. “See?”

I stare but don’t see anything.

Ronan flexes, rubbing his trapezoid. “See? Fuck, it’s so swollen.” He looks into my eyes, and there’s a glint in his hazel gaze.

Suddenly, the alcohol hits me like a drunk driver to a mailbox: fucking hard. My head feels floaty and my body light. 

“Jes-s-sus.” I shove away from Ronan. Did he really just fake being hurt to show off his muscle? All I want to do is laugh, because Ronan made a joke and it was kinda funny.

Ronan does laugh, throwing his head back and baring his neck. He has an Adam's Apple that stands out in stark contrast to the rest of his neck. I can’t help but stare. I always wanted a strong Adam’s Apple.

“Come back. You haven’t introduced yourself to Buffalo.” Ronan waves at the stuffed animal on the couch. The one he’s been talking to the whole time he’s been here.

I freeze. I’ve always been taught when dealing with crazy people not to play into their delusions. It pisses them off when you inevitably fuck up the ruse.

“Don’t be rude.” The dangerous tone is back in Ronan’s voice, and he’s looking at me with lethal focus.

“Oh, uh. I’m Dakota.” I wince at how awkward I sound.

Ronan’s face lights up again. “He says you’re hot and…” Ronan trails off like he’s listening to something. “Well, I’m not gonna tell him that.”

The alcohol in my body is whisking me up in a tiny cyclone of spinning.

“Whoa.” Hands are on me, keeping me steady, and I look up. Ronan is there. “Why don’t you sit?”

The living room feels like it’s in a boat, and fuck, maybe I do need to sit. I stumble to the couch before Ronan cries out, “Not on Buffalo!”

I glance down in time to avoid the stuffed animal.

“He’s not going to sit on you, you fucking whore,” Ronan mutters.

Ronan looks so serious looking at the cow on the couch that I can’t help it. I have to bite back a laugh.

Ronan glances at me, then his eyes light up, and he gives a triumphant bark, “I knew it! The ice king can smile.”

I school my features, but I feel warm and…buzzing. And the world feels a little less serious.

“Sooo freckles. Tell me about you.” Ronan leans back, one arm slung over where Buffalo is and also toward me.

“Uh…” I stare at him for a second. Why is it that I lose all interesting thoughts as soon as someone asks me that question?

Ronan doesn’t push; he just waits patiently.

“I’ve been a cop for over ten years.”

He lets out a puff of air. “Boo, boring. Tell me about you.”

About me? What the hell could he want to know about me? Is he trying to manipulate me?

“Stop thinking. What’s your favorite food? Do you have Mommy or Daddy issues? Or both? Also, when can I hold Sir Ellington?” He sits forward and grins.

My brain frantically tries to keep a hold of all the questions so I can answer them in order, and then I get pissed because it’s none of his business what issues I have. And he will absolutely not be holding Elli.

“Oh shit,” Ronan glances at Buffalo, his voice going quiet. “Sorry. Yeah, daddy issues.” Then his voice gets louder. “But I have guesses for the rest.”

“No holding Elli.” I cross my arms, trying to look stern. It takes me a second to catch on to what Ronan just said. He knows I have daddy issues? But then Ronan is pouting again, sticking out his lips. His plump lips. How did he get such plump lips? He's a man?

Then, there’s a sudden switch in Ronan’s behavior, and he straightens, locking his gaze on me. I sense the switch right before he pounces, shoving me back on the couch and hovering over me.

“I’ll spit a loogie over you until you say yes.”

“What?” I try to roll away, but the world is spinning, and Ronan is smirking, and it makes me want to laugh.

“Say yes.” He makes a show of getting spit into his mouth, and panic mixed with a thrill rushes through me.

“No, get off!”

Ronan gets a string of spit going over my face. I feel helpless pinned under him, but also so alive. I can’t help the rough chuckle. “Ronan.”

He quirks an eyebrow, letting the spit get longer.

“Okay.” My voice is high in panic. “Okay!”

Ronan slurps the spit back up in a loud noise. “Damn.” He gets off me, and suddenly, I can’t smell the whiskey as strongly. Also, the space he was in seems so empty. I sit up, the world tilting.

Ronan grins at me. “So…the rest?”

“None of your business,” I slur the end of the word. I haven’t been drunk in so long I forgot how good it feels.

“Playing tough to get.” Ronan shrugs. “How about I just look up your porn history? Get to know you a little better.”

Immediately, fear fills me. “No!”

Ronan just pulls my phone out of his pocket. He faces it at me, and I don’t realize in time that he’s using the face unlock to open it.

“Give that to me.” I scramble, but Ronan stiff-arms me back. “Down, cub. You’re so defensive.”

“None of your business-s-s-s!” My porn history isn’t something that I’ve ever shared. Ever. My tastes are a little…out there. And it’s not that they’re my tastes, but I happen to stumble on them when the regular videos aren’t quite hitting.

I try to get my phone, but Ronan is keeping it from me, typing.

“Ronan!”

Ronan mimics my cry, “Ronan! It’ll be fine. As long as you don’t have anything illegal on here.”

Illegal? Fuck, is he implying…? “Fuck you.” I bat at his head, but he just ducks and makes an excited noise. “Ah hah! Porn history.”

I’m fucked. Totally and completely. The helplessness washes over me, and a bit of numbness comes with it.

Ronan is quiet for a while while I succumb to the horrifying embarrassment. He’s going to judge me. He’s going to think that I’m disgusting.

Because you are.

All the good feelings are gone. “I don’t feel good,” I mutter, trying to get up off the couch.

“Oh, wait.” Ronan catches my wrist, yanking me back. He looks at me. “You feel sick?”

A little, yeah. But also, I just need to get away.

“Hey, I have Zofran.” Ronan rustles around in his pocket. “It’ll help.”

“No.” I don’t need that. I just need to get away. But Ronan hasn’t let go of my wrist.

“Take it.” Ronan’s voice gets bossy.

Ugh, fine. Anything to get him off my ass. I take the small pill he offers, trying to keep my red face from him.

“Is it the porn?” Ronan still hasn’t let go of me. “Dude, this shit is hot. Whipping and pain play and degradation.” He lets out a low whistle. “You’re kinky as fuck.”

I try to wave him off. This is stupid. But Ronan’s grip on me is fucking tight.

“Oh hell,” he keeps scrolling, “feet?”

FIFTY-TWO

Monsters (feat. blackbear) - All Time Low, blackbear

There it is. I yank to get away from Ronan, trying to break his grip where it’s weakest. I manage to break free for a second, then Ronan is on his feet, looking huge and looming.

Liquid fire rushes through me, and I bolt. I dart to the bedroom, unsure where to go, but sure, I need to get away.

“Run, yes, run!” Ronan crows from behind me.

My bedroom is a dead end, and I know that, but there was nowhere else to go. I whirl around, not willing to trap myself further into the bathroom.

Ronan’s grinning ear to ear, and he stops on the other side of the bed. “Fast fucker, aren’t you?”

I’m tense, trying to figure out if there's a way I can dart past him and out into the hall.

“You know, I’ve never met someone with a foot fetish. I love it.”

“I don’t have a foot fetish!”

Ronan snorts. “Okay, and I didn’t see a bunch of feet all over your browser.”

“You didn’t.” I hold strong. I’m not weird or disgusting. I’m not a shame on my family. I just…happen to notice people’s feet. And some of the degradation in those videos is…hot in a way it shouldn’t be.

“Come here.” Ronan launches across the bed, reaching out to grab me. I dart to the side, trying and failing to avoid his grip. He snares my arm, then scrambles up and grabs a handful of my hair, yanking harshly. Pain erupts across my scalp, and I yelp.

“Down.” Ronan shoves me to my knees at the foot of the bed.

“Get off.” I try to yank his fingers off, but he just laughs and digs his grip in even more.

“Kneel. We’re gonna have some fun.”

I’m not sure what he’s doing, but my eyes are watering, and my face is being pressed into the side of the bed.

“You like some rough sex? Hmmm?”

I can hear a zipper, then clothes rustling while my head is being jerked around. I should fight harder, but the delicious tingles are back. It’s just because I’m drunk.

“Nasty, hungry little slut.”

Ronan’s words roll over me in a painful slap, but then his hand is there, pulling at my chin and facing me up to look at him. He strokes my cheek softly, catching my eyes. He’s rubbing his thumb up and down and up and down, checking on me. Checking on me?

Warmth runs through my body, and unconsciously, I lean into his touch.

Ronan smirks. “Good boy. You’re such a good, nasty boy. Aren’t you?”

I wrestle with my feelings on that, but suddenly, I realize that Ronan’s pants are gone. As are his underwear. The hand that used to be holding my hair is now stroking his dick.

His very long dick.

His very long dick that’s in my face.

I yank back, but Ronan’s hand snatches me up quickly under my jaw. “No, no. Watch.”

“No.” I push back, but the grip right under my jaw is sending electric currents straight to my dick. And the alcohol is doing something to me because I think I fucking like this. I think I fucking like this, and my dick is so fucking hard.

“You can tell me no, but that word means nothing to me.” Ronan leans closer, and his breath brushes against my forehead. “Because I know what you really want, Dakota Stewart.”

“And what’s-s-s-s,” I get hung up on the word, sending a bolt of anxiety through me. Ronan just waits. “What’s that?”

He grins. “Me.”

Then, Ronan tucks his hand up to the side of my head, yanking me to the inside of his thigh. My face is so close to his dick that I actually flinch back. Ronan just laughs and strokes it lazily.

“Now, you’re gonna be a desperate little slut and watch me get off, but you can’t touch yourself. Got it?”

My dick is throbbing, but I wouldn’t dream of touching myself. That would be disgusting.

“This is so bad,” Ronan whispers, stroking up and down his shaft. “So wrong.”

It’s like he’s saying the words that run on repeat through my head. They both make me want to panic and bring me alive at the same time.

“Yes, good boy. Watch me play.”

I can’t keep my eyes off Ronan. Mostly from curiosity, it has to be. Can’t be that my dick is pulsing hard, and I haven’t even touched it.

Ronan strokes his dick differently than I do. He pays much more attention to the head, rounding his hand over it on every upstroke. The longer I watch, the rougher he gets, stroking himself harsher and harsher. And the sounds he’s making…it’s mostly low grunts and unsteady breaths.

I shift, the movement causing pleasure to tingle up my spine.

“Don’t…touch,” Ronan moans. “Nasty boys don’t get to come.”

Fuck. I’m fucked up because my dick is painfully hard. I want to jack myself off to relieve some of the intensity, but some weird part of me also wants to…please him.

“Good…boy.” Ronan is moving faster now. Fast and hard, and I can see his balls drawing up. It fills me with a forbidden excitement, and I can’t pull my gaze away.

“Watch me as I –” Ronan groans, suddenly moving. His leg beside my head is gone, and he pulls his feet up on the bed. Quickly, he yanks his socks off and then jerks himself a few more times. “Come for you.” And then, he’s exploding into his hand. His body jerks and he comes into his hand, over and over, cum oozing down his palm.

Ronan is groaning, and I’m locked onto the sight. He’s all masculine power and need.  And then, Ronan moves his hand down to his feet. He smears his cum there, then grips the side of my head again with his cum-coated hand.

Ronan looks me in the eyes, his gaze dominating and mean. “Lick it, freckles.”

“What?” I sputter, looking down at his feet and then back at his face.

“I said,” he leans in closer, “lick. It. Clean me up, nasty boy.”

A wash of heat runs across my face.

“Lick my feet. Worship me like the disgusting little slut that you are.”

Against all odds, I’m harder than I’ve ever been. Ronan keeps me gripped, looking into my eyes. His glint with something mean and full of lust but also intense interest. In me.

“I’m not going to tell you again.” Ronan pushes my head down toward his foot. I recoil for a second, but he just keeps pressing. Then his foot is right there, in front of me, covered in evidence of Ronan’s orgasm.

I glance up at Ronan, and he’s watching me intently.

Fuck, I’m so hard I can barely think about anything else. I never expected to be faced with this in real life. And it’s fucking hot.

A hot man wants me to humiliate myself for him. The alcohol in me is screaming that this is my lottery ticket. I’ve watched this in porn and come to it so many times. And it’s even better in person.

But that requires me to admit that I like it. That I actually want to obey Ronan.

“It’s okay, freckles. I’ll make you.”

His words send a thrill through me, and then he’s pressing my face into his foot. Ronan gives me no choice, and when I’m there, I find myself sticking my tongue out, tentatively licking the top of Ronan’s foot.

Ronan moans, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. I get the courage to look up at him, and Ronan’s eyes are shuttered. I’ve never tasted a man’s cum before, but it’s not bad. Salty…and kind of tastes like…stamps? And better than that, Ronan likes it. I see it in the tremble of his Adam’s Apple. The stiffness in his body.

“More, freckles. Make me feel good.”

I lick more, taking bigger swipes this time. The humiliation of cleaning him, mixed with the pleasure of obeying, rushes through my body. The more I lap at his skin, the more Ronan moans, gripping the side of my head in more of a caress than force.

I clean the tops of both of his feet, tasting nothing but cum and sweat. And it tastes fucking…good. When the tops are clean, I move toward his toes, cleaning those off too. Tentatively, I put a toe into my mouth, looking at Ronan. When I close my mouth around it, he drops his head all the way back, letting out a moan.

“Fuck, freckles. You’re going to get me into feet too.”

His praise turns me on more than anything I’ve experienced. I’m bucking against my pants, trying to get any level of friction through them.

“Fuck yeah, good boy. Get yourself off for me.”

But I hesitate.

Then Ronan’s grip moves to my hair, and he yanks painfully. “Don’t disobey now, freckles.”

My eyes water and my hand automatically moves to my pants. I reach under them and grab my dick. It’s already so hard, and my underwear is slick with precum.

“What a sick boy. My sick little boy.”

And then I’m coming, all over my hand and in my pants.

For the second time.

FIFTY-THREE

PRAY 4 ME - LaLion

That was fucking hot.

I can just imagine Buffalo now: fucked for freckles and fucked for feet. Fucking hell.

I pull Dakota up beside me, then collapse back on the bed, breathing heavily. Watching

Dakota wrestle with himself and do exactly what I said was mind-altering.

That’s it. I’m a dom now. A dom? But I also like it when Logan does the same for me. So maybe a switch?

I close my eyes. I feel light. Light and spinny and fucking…happy? A switch. Like a light switch. I giggle a little, letting the feeling wash over me.

Dakota stiffens beside me. I laugh a few more times, then turn my head to see what’s bothering him. As I do, I realize with a start that I’m feeling things. I’m feeling happy and…fucking warm.

It’s a good feeling. And I sit in it for a second before I pause.

Whenever I feel these things, life has a weird way of knowing and kicking me in the nuts right after. And I definitely don’t like the way Dakota has stiffened. Partially because…oh fuck. Do I care if he’s okay?

Oh fucking hell, Ronan Carter cares.

NO. Turn the light switch off. This is bad news. I should just wash up in the bathroom and pretend this didn’t happen. Maybe if I do, I won’t be happy enough for the happiness to be ripped from me.

Dakota tries to get up.

I roll to face him. “Hey. You good?”

“Go a-a-away.” He sits up on the bed, facing away from me, his back stiff. 

Oh, so it’s a challenge. I grip his shoulder, pulling him around to look at me. “I asked you a question, cub.”

He snarls back at me, defensive. “Don’t l-l-laugh at me.”

Laugh? When did I laugh at him?

Dakota just shoves me off him. “I’ve seen your l-l-l-i-s-s-s-t.”

I blink, staring at him for a second. What is going on? And then, I process his words. “What list?”

“The thing-s-s-s you’d never d-d-d-d-o again.”

I pull in a breath. A slight hit of defensiveness hits me while I try to remember what was on the list. But also, Dakota is so worked up. He was barely stuttering before, but now it’s back. “Okay?”

“S-s-s-o, don’t you dare judge me.” Dakota sits up straighter.

“I’m not?” I frown, staring at him. That was hot as fuck. I came once and almost came again, watching him worship me. What has gotten into him?

“Whatever.” Dakota goes to get off the bed, and I trap his arm. “I didn’t say you could leave.”

“I know the kind of peopl-l-l-e you guys-s-s are.” Dakota says it like it’s an insult. Like he can’t stand the kind of people we are.

Defensiveness flares in me. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. S-s-s-stuck on revenge. S-s-s-poiler alert, it won’t work.”

“What won’t work?” I don’t like the way the happy feeling is leaving my body. The way it’s evaporating and the familiar anger is taking over.

“Murdering people. It won’t bring Greys-s-s-son back.”

And suddenly, my world freezes. Again, I whip my gaze to him. “What?” The question comes out choked. Dakota knows about Logan’s first lover?

“It won’t bring him back.” Dakota rips out of my grip, and this time, I let him. I didn’t ask Logan what happened to Greyson. I never even thought to ask. I’d been so wrapped up in my jealousy.

“What happened to him?” I follow Dakota to the bathroom, where he tries to shut the door on me. I slam it back open, and Dakota just ignores me, going to the sink and washing his hands.

“What happened?” My voice is angry now, demanding. Why didn’t Logan tell me? And why would Dakota know?

“You don’t know?” Dakota looks genuinely surprised.

Fear, defensiveness, and anger wash through me at the same time. Dakota turns to face me, and I think about strangling the answer out of him. But there’s a brief, tiny flash of fear in his eyes, and that alone is enough to keep me planted right where I am.

Why would Dakota assume we’re murdering people to bring back Greyson? “The only people we kill are pedophiles.” I step into Dakota’s space, and his nostrils flare. “Or people who protect them. We don’t just kill to kill.” Or to bring people back to life.

Dakota just silently watches me.

“Tell me,” I demand.

“As-s-s-k your boyfriend.”

A sinking feeling fills my entire body. It feels like everything in me has been replaced by lead.

Oh no. No, it can’t be happening again.

Was Greyson…a victim?

And then, everything clicks into place. Of course he was. Of course he fucking was. That would explain why Logan won’t talk about him. Why Logan kills the people he does. It was right in front of my eyes, and I was too blind to see it.

A victim. They’re all victims. Because pedophiles never stop. No matter how many I kill, they’ll never fucking stop.

Suddenly, I have a million questions. Who was the abuser? Is he dead? I pat my pockets for my phone, not finding it. Because I left it in the fucking living room. I move there, dialing Logan.

He picks up on the first ring. “You okay?”

“Is he still alive?” It’s the only thing I can grind out.

“Who?” There’s a note of alarm in Logan’s tone.

“The person who hurt Greyson.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. For so long that I ask again, “Is he dead?”

Logan’s voice is dull, “How do you know about that?”

“Were you going to tell me?” I’m spiraling. I can feel that I’m spiraling. It’s a dizzy kind of spiral, not the gentle kind. The kind that feels like everything is happening all over again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Because I don’t think there is. I think I’m stuck in this loop.

I should have known better than to feel happy. A kick in the nuts is what I get for that. And a reminder that my job isn’t over yet.

FIFTY-FOUR

Habits (Stay High) Rain Paris

I’m happy again!

‘No, you’re drunk again.’

Same thing, Buff. Same thing.

But deep down, I’m sensing that there is a difference. I used to think being drunk was being happy. It was the only time I truly felt at ease.

Until now. Until Logan and his annoyingly protective and slightly obsessive interest. His rings and syrup and dominating power. Until Dakota and his scared, sweet submission. His Cheetos and freckles and Sir Ellington.

As soon as Dakota confronted me, I downed a few more shots to keep the world in place. And yet, everything is still spinning out of control. It’s happening again. I can never get away from the injustice. No one ever gets justice. Not Ember. Not Dakota. Not Greyson.

Not me.

I’m back, spinning in the same circle. But this time, it feels worse. This time, I’ve actually been…happy. So this time, when the past happens all over again, dragging me down with it, it feels even more cruel.

I stare at the wall in Dakota’s bathroom. I’ll never defeat this cycle. I was never meant to. I’m the clean-up sponge. I’m the opened mayo jar.

I was always meant to expire, which is cruel because maybe this is the first time I actually didn’t want to.

I squeeze my fists together.

The rage is back. It’s my old friend. It smothers the happy parts in me and makes me feel like I’m in a fog. But, occasionally, it makes me funny, so I guess that’s cool too, right? 

Logan told me that Greyson’s case was swept under the rug. That the cop barely spent any time on it, giving some bullshit excuse about why they couldn’t investigate. It turns out Apex has been around for a long time, even before I started my shift. Because power breeds corruption, and there will always be a little pedophilia in corruption.

I stare at the sunscreen on the sink.

Logan said that there’s a new player that Callum and Vox work for—some Damien Ryker shit. He’s the guy who we pissed off by our kills. Because he has a soft spot for the money that high-level pedophiles have. And he employed the cop who let Greyson’s abuser go.

It’s clear that no one else will demand justice. Just me. Just me speaking up for all the voices who could never speak up for themselves. I came to this conclusion as soon as I quit my job all those months ago: This is my contribution—to take back power for every child who couldn’t do it for themselves. To kill until I’m killed. It’ll never reverse time and make things right. But it will make things fair.

Buffalo’s voice comes into my head, ‘But if you have to pick between being fair and being happy…why don’t you pick being happy?’ He sounds….sad.

“I don’t get to pick.” I stare at the bottom of the sink, the drain where everything gets washed away.

‘Maybe you do.’

I don’t, though. The rage that’s been my constant companion is already here. It’s already filling my body in a manic, murderous state. I can’t get rid of it. I’ve tried. Nothing makes the injustice better. I wish I could wash it away. Open my head, get in the shower, wash the rage out, then go back to life as normal. But I can’t do that. Nothing can.

Nothing except me getting my own justice for those who couldn’t.

FIFTY-FIVE

Red Vineyard - Diggy Graves

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I feel like I’m suffocating, so I roll the window down, letting the air rush around my head.

I shouldn’t have gone back to my place. I shouldn’t have left Ronan and Dakota alone. I’ve been caught up in anxiety the entire time, watching the tracking software I have on both of their phones. Neither has left.

But after Ronan called me, I’m afraid he will. He was pissed, demanding to know more about Greyson. And I should have told him. It’s not like I’m trying to keep secrets from him. Fuck, I really do care about Ronan. But this shit is so hard for me to think about. I try not to. Because, much like Ronan, I can lose my mind a little bit when faced with trauma. Only for me, I see things.

Ronan asked if Greyson’s grandfather was dead, which made me defensive all over again. He is. He died of a stroke before I could get to him. It’s not like I didn’t try. After Greyson died, I went to the cops. I showed them the letter. They asked if I saw Greyson write it. Asked if he was truthful. Told me the letter didn’t say expressly what happened. Which filled my rage to the top. They were cops. They were supposed to help. But they didn’t. They didn’t do a thing.

So, I decided I was going to take matters into my own hands. It’s probably where my little murderous streak was born. But before I could get justice, Greyson’s grandfather died. Just keeled over, dead. No justice. Very little suffering. I blacked out most of my last year of high school. I don’t remember who I was or what I did, only that a black cloud followed me everywhere I went.

I feel that black cloud following me now. I don’t like thinking about Greyson or even looking at his picture for this very reason.

I suck in a breath. The car is loud, fluttering the papers I retrieved on the passenger floorboard. The movement sends a bolt of fear through me, and I shut the window.

I went to my trailer to get the sheet music Greyson left in my mailbox before he died. I figured…I don’t know what I figured. But it was fucking stupid.

I slam my fist against the steering wheel, my rings hitting against the leather. I thought this would help, thought it would help me heal. But now, all I want to do is spill blood.

Because there is someone who’s still alive. The cop who shrugged off Greyson’s case like he didn’t care. And I wonder now if that was an isolated incident or if Apex was around even then?

Suddenly, all I smell is sunscreen.

It kicks me straight back to Greyson. It’s almost like he’s here again, and for a brief moment, I’m excited.

And then my stomach sinks. Anytime it feels this strongly like Greyson is here, he usually is. I’ve hallucinated Greyson and others from that time before. It’s why I try not to look at the picture in the hat. It sends me into psychosis.

I sense a presence in the passenger seat beside me, but I don’t look over. If I don’t acknowledge it, it won’t be real, right? This is just trauma. I’ve researched it. It’s just my brain trying to heal the wound by giving me what it thinks the medicine is: Greyson.

The presence is unnerving. I know he’s not real, but I see movement. Greyson’s playing with a ring on his hand, spinning it over and over.

My mouth is suddenly so dry. “This doesn’t help,” I grit. It’s never helped. The first few times I saw Greyson, I broke, crying that I’d avenge him and begging him to forgive me. I’d killed my first few people in the most brutal way I could imagine—my tattoo machine through their eyes. Somehow, though, Greyson never accepts that. He just…keeps appearing.

“You’re not real.”

He just keeps spinning the ring. But it looks familiar. I glance over at it, and it’s the first ring I gave Ronan. The one with the skeleton holding the gemstone. He took it from Ronan.

Immediately, anger rushes through me, and I snatch at it. But my hand goes right through Greyson’s hand. Because of course it does.

Then, guilt pushes past the anger. Why am I mad at Greyson? He didn’t do anything.

“Please. Just go away.” I hate the way my voice cracks. I don’t want to see Greyon’s pretty hazel eyes.

“No.”

I startle. Greyson has never said anything to me in the hallucinations, and I snap my gaze over. And for a horrifying minute, Greyson doesn’t look like Greyson; he looks like Ronan, all grown up with his pretty skin and a cocky arch to his eyebrow.

I gasp, and the car goes over the rumble strips, shocking me back into looking at the road.

“You’re not real!”

I want to hit my head against the steering wheel. Will I crash? Is the car real at this point? But as soon as the thought enters my head, it goes away. If it is real, I’ll wreck into the ditch going 60 miles per hour and won’t be able to see Ronan again. Or Dakota.

Greyson, or Ronan, is still sitting there, but I don’t look at him. The only way I’ve ever been able to get rid of the hallucination is crashing out.

“I’m going after that cop.” I drone the words, almost out of habit. That cop who slid Greyson’s case under the table still hasn’t seen justice. Maybe that’s the solution. Right?

It doesn’t feel like it.

Also, Greyson is still there. I hate it. I fucking hate it! How dare my brain be so fucking stupid. So fucking painful.

“I met someone,” I spit the words into the void.

There’s no movement beside me. Because of course there isn’t. Maybe I’m not going hard enough. “A few someones. You’re dead. I can’t keep pursuing you.”

Nothing.

Fuck, why does it hurt so bad? And why am I feeling bad?

“They need me.” I justify. As if I didn’t just tell my hallucination ex that I replaced him. Fuck, I’m an evil dick. I don’t want to be. I just want to be okay.

“I’m being the friend that you were to me.” I swallow harshly. “The best of friends.”

Silence. Suddenly, I sense that Greyson is gone. I glance over, then blink.

There’s no one there.

Greyson is gone.

FIFTY-SIX

I miss you, I’m sorry - Gracie Abrams

I rip into Dakota’s kitchen, my heart racing. Is Ronan still here? Is Dakota still here? My eyes lock on Dakota, sitting on the couch in the mid-afternoon sunshine.

“Where’s Ronan?” I can’t keep the breathiness out of my voice.

Dakota looks disheveled. His hair is sticking up, and his sweats are slightly offset. Is it because they were fighting? Did he hurt Ronan?

“Just thought you could keep a kill from me?” Ronan stalks into the room, leaning against the hallway.

It’s like someone filled my lungs with hot water, the weight and comforting warmth making me want to fall to the ground. Ronan is okay.

He looks at his nails. “Been stuck inside too long, boss. Trigger finger’s feeling itchy.”

I can’t help myself. I have to make sure Ronan is real. I move over to him, grabbing his shoulders. His very real shoulders. Very warm shoulders.

“Okaaay.” He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. “You good?”

I look into his eyes, which are so similar to the ones I just saw in the car. But his are glassy and vibrant and fucking real. I want this Ronan to stay real. I want him to stay here and alive. I don’t ever want to see a hallucination that looks like him again.

So, I default to the only way I know how to get rid of them. “I have a mark.”

Ronan’s gaze shifts, and he looks between both my eyes and then down to my mouth. “I think that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said.” 

Suddenly, his lips are crashing down over mine in the most consuming kiss. The smell of whiskey crushes over me so powerfully that I feel it catch in my lungs. His kiss feels like pain. The raw way he bites and nips at me matches what I feel in my soul.

I slam Ronan back against the wall, kissing him back with just as much energy. Ronan and I are fucking bombs, just waiting to be triggered. It’s dangerous and destructive and fucking addictive.

Movement catches my eye, and I dart my gaze over to Dakota, who’s moving toward the garage door.

Christ. I rip myself away from the mutually destructive tornado and point my finger at Dakota. “If you leave, you know what happens to your mom.”

Dakota freezes.

I almost forgot about the other piece in our puzzle, and a little sense of balance folds over me. Keeping Dakota in line gives me something to do other than spiral about the man in front of me and the man inside my ball cap.

And fuck, I needed that grounding. Because this isn’t just me anymore. I have to plan a murder where I keep Ronan safe. Where I wrangle Dakota to help us. And where I can still achieve justice.

I clear my throat, letting go of Ronan as much as I don’t want to.

“Where we going?” Ronan watches me with hooded eyes.

“Nowhere until I get some things taken care of.” I spend the next hour or so prepping. Researching the cop, finding out where he lives, what his schedule is, and how far up in Apex he is. Which isn’t far, considering he’s now retired. I briefly check the location of Damien’s goons. It’s been bothering me that they haven’t come after us again. I know we’ve been hidden, but they haven’t even tried. Either there are bigger fish to fry, or for some reason, Callum and Vox aren’t carrying out orders.

Once I have everything nailed down and I’ve briefed them a hundred times on how this is going to go, I load both men into the car.

“Can we do it my way?” Ronan is practically vibrating. His pupils are huge, and he looks manic as fuck.

“No,” I answer for the tenth time. Ronan’s way is dangerous. Flashy.

This is all dangerous. Fuck. I look back at Dakota in the rear view rearview. “If either of us gets hurt,” I motion at myself and Ronan, “then we’re going straight to your mom’s house. Got it?” I’ve already told him this. Probably three times. But I need to know he understands.

“Yeah. To fuck her,” Ronan mutters.

I whip my head over to look at him.

“Fuck, I forgot the gay thing.” Ronan throws his head back. “I can’t even make your mom jokes? This sucks.”

Dakota is looking between the two of us. I turn my glare back on him. 

“Got it?” I ask again. I need Dakota to be very, very certain. Because I only want to worry about one thing on this trip—doing things right and keeping Ronan safe.

Dakota’s nostrils flare, and he looks like he wants to snarl at me. “G-g-got it.”

“Good.”

It’s time to kill a man with my boyfriend and our lapdog. It’s not justice because if it was, this would have happened a long time ago.

But it’s the best I can do.

And for the first time, I’m not doing it alone, which squeezes my heart and makes me think that maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

FIFTY-SEVEN

WAR - Phix, Call Me Karizma

Killing the ex-cop was fuuun. Logan let me batter his chest in, which just keyed me up more. And I almost kissed him for letting me do that. Honestly, it was the most romantic thing he’s done.

Now, we’re in the woods where Logan’s decided we bury him.

I hop around the grave while the wind kicks up and rattles the leaves. We’re back in the woods. Again. Because it’s truly the only place to get rid of a body in this state. Hard to bury one in a field when everyone can see you from miles away. Of course, you could always get rid of them in a tub. But Logan’s being a mother hen about that. Something about the cops watching acid sales now, blah blah fucking blah. Although, deep down, I’ll admit that it’s cute that he’s worried.

Logan digs while Dakota stands by, looking pale. I stare at the corpse, and for a second, two more appear right beside it. 

‘It’s mutating!’ Buffalo yells.

Then, the body moves back into one. I blink, focusing hard. The body just stays as one, and disappointment fills me. I’ve never played pirate eye with three bodies at the same time.

I pull out my gun and point it at the head, which wavers for a second. Technically, Logan had already destroyed one of his eyes. So I’m curious if the blowout will be even more violent with less tissue to stop the pressure?

“What the fuck!” Logan jumps back.

I squint, trying to keep the body in focus.

“Hey! No!” Logan rushes out of the grave and at me. I glance at him, breaking my sight picture.

“Pirate eye!” Buffalo says it at the same time as I do.

“No, Jesus. People will hear it.” Logan’s warm hand wraps around mine. He yanks the gun from me. I try to react, pulling away and swinging, but everything moves in slow motion. Logan has yanked my holster away, too. He backs off, moving to Dakota.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“You’re fucking drunk.” Logan starts to hand my weapon to Dakota, then pauses.

“Give it back.” I try to move their way, but why rush? My body feels so relaxed.

“If either of us gets hurt,” Logan says, staring into Dakota’s eyes, “you know what will happen.”

Dakota’s jaw twitches, then he nods and takes the weapon from Logan.

I stick out my bottom lip. Logan is no fun. There are hugs in the air—doesn’t he feel them??

“Ronan.” Logan turns to me.

“I heard you, fucker.” I hope the words came out sounding sober. I’m not that drunk. He’s a judgmental ass bitch. For once, I barely feel my past. Can’t he understand that?

Logan narrows his eyes, then slowly goes back to the hole.

‘Daddy said no. No fun!’ Buffalo is yelling, ‘Ask him again…beg him–’ Buffalo is interrupted by Logan tripping on a branch. He windmills his arms, trying not to fall into the hole.

I laugh. “How was your trip?”

“Fuck you, fucker.” Logan scrambles back down into the hole. “I didn’t see that.”  

Logan would have fallen on the bloody corpse in the hole. I can’t keep the laughter from bubbling out. “If you fell on him, I would have laughed my ass off.”

“You’re already laughing,” Logan mutters, then says louder, “I wasn’t going to fall on him.”

The hugs in the air are floating around me, and everything is funny. I start singing, “Logan and the body, kissing in a grave. K - I - S–” Suddenly, a sharp pain explodes along the side of my head. I cry out, grabbing my head.

Logan smirks at me, turning around and pretending like he didn’t just throw a rock at me.

I’m having fun. I’m fucking having fun, and I should have known that meant I needed to focus. Because as I’m laughing at Logan, two other men show up. They stalk into the clearing,  one pointing his gun at Logan.

I blink in slow motion. What is going on right now? Is this the dead cop resurrected and mutating? I blink, looking back down at the body, which is very much still a body. Then I look back up at the newcomers, registering the ugly ass gunman accompanied by…fucking Callum Walker. The man who’s been trying to kill us.

The short man with the gun is aiming at Logan, and I realize way too late that he’s about to shoot him. And that brings a pang of real fear through me, and suddenly, the alcohol haze vanishes. I need to save Logan, but I’m too far away to jump in front of him. I can’t reach him in time.

And that’s when Callum’s foot darts out and trips the man with him.

I watch in slow motion as the man crashes to the ground. My gaze darts between Callum and the man with him. Did he just…do that on purpose?

“What the fuck!” The man’s heavy jowls are turning a bright red, and he turns to yell at Callum. “You fucking FAGGOT!”

My mouth drops open. What the fuck did he just say?

‘I think fucking not!’ Buffalo yells from his place on my pack.

Nope. Not happening. I turn to Dakota, who’s standing in shock a few paces away from me. Snatching up my gun from his holster, I point it back at the man who tried to attack Logan. “Oh, hell no.”

Then, I fire off one round straight into the head of the threat.

I’m not entirely sure what happens next. I know I hit him ‘cause I watch his head snap back and him fall to the ground. But my brain is working on autopilot. My previous training wants me to shoot him a few more times, even though I know I got him the first time.

Suddenly, Logan is beside me, pulling at my hand. No, not my hand. At my gun.

“What the fuck!” Someone is screaming, but I’m not really paying attention. The man on the ground’s eye…is it there? I move my head to see, but it mostly looks like the right side of his face is a messy tampon. Yep!

I make a finger gun and point it at the man on the ground. “Pirate eye! Buff, write that one down.”

I did it! I fucking did it. There’s a brief moment of elation, and I feel it. That tiny sense of peace. Two kills in one day! And then, an annoying voice laughs and pulls me out of my victory. “Are you talking to a stuffed animal?”

FIFTY-EIGHT

Detonate - G2, Jeris Johnson, YONAKA

I stare at Callum. He’s fucking tall and handsome and is managing to make a hoodie look hot. But as I stare at him, my drunk brain slowly realizes two things: one, Callum’s eyes are glassy, and he’s weaving back and forth, and two, he just made fun of Buffalo.

Callum hiccups and waves. “Hey guys.” His words are slurred. “Which one of you is shooting me?”

‘He’s so hot. Let’s add him to our harem.’

The hugs are gone. Completely evaporated with rage.

This man tried to kill my man. He tried to touch my man.

“Fuck you, Buffalo!” The words come out angry. I’m hot. Everything is hot. How could Buffalo suggest that? Callum tried to kill our man. And he’s a fucking pedo protector.

‘Fuck you! He tripped the man.’

“He’s one of them.” I look around, but there’s no weapon close. Logan took my gun. He took my fucking gun. I stride up to Buff, snatching him off my bag and turning back around. The alcohol is rushing through my body, making my rage burn with an intensity that washes my whole body in heat.

“Ronan,” Dakota finally speaks up, and he sounds hesitant.

“And fuck you too, Dakota.”

No one wants to stand up to these people? No one ever wants to stand up to them? Fine. I will. The fucking dirty sponge at your service.

And then I rush past Logan, straight at Callum.

I race towards him as fast as I can, intending to use my body as a battering ram. “Fuck you, you fucking pedo lover!”

Callum’s face changes in an instant before I crash into him. He lowers his body, collecting the impact of my hit and keeping on his feet.

“What the fuck did you just call me!?” I feel the growl of his words as I realize that Callum isn’t going to fall. So I raise my fist to punch him in the face. The fist that’s still holding Buffalo. I notice that a split second before I rain down hit after hit on Callum’s head.

“Pedo lover, you fuck! You disgust me!”

I can feel the hatred everywhere. It’s right under my skin, boiling up with nowhere to go.

Every time. Pedophiles are protected every time. There is no justice. There will never be justice. There will only be me.

‘Ronan!’ Buffalo is screaming at me, but I ignore him. The time for talking is over.

“Pedo lover!? I fucking kill pedos, you dumbass.” Callum’s words are slurred. I see his fist coming from the side and duck down into his waist, using his distraction to tackle us both to the ground. As soon as we hit the forest floor, I’m back to swinging, hitting Callum in his pretty face over and over again.

‘Ronan!’ Buffalo’s a blur as I use him to batter the man underneath me.

“Don’t lie. You work for Apex.” I hit Callum over and over while he tries to get away. “We know you’ve been trying to protect all these fucking pedophiles! You’re Damian Ryker’s goon! He’s, like, the pedo king!”

I know this is true. Logan briefed me on it before we even started this trip. Because you cut the head off one snake, and three more appear in its place.

Callum goes still for a second, his whole body freezing. I want to make him my third kill. See if his eyes explode out of his skull like crushed jello packets.

Then, Callum’s moving. And he’s not just moving; he’s grabbing Buffalo.

White hot rage rips through me, and I yank back. How dare he. How fucking dare he! Suddenly, Callum rolls me so I’m under him. Still, I rip with all the violence I can muster, and then there’s a horrifying tear, and the tension is gone. My arm flies back, gripping the bottom half of Buffalo, leaving Buffalo’s head in the hands of Callum Walker.

FIFTY-NINE

Boy In The Bubble - Alec Benjamin

I’m watching the scene, but it doesn’t really feel real. There’s no way it’s real, right? Nothing has felt real since I was kidnapped in my own home, wrapped up in a whirlwind of sex, and then taken on a field trip to kill someone. To kill someone. Now Ronan is rolling around, fighting a dark-haired man he clearly knows.

It feels like my body is torn in half. One part wants to sit here and watch, and the other part wants to intervene. But I have no idea what’s happening.

Suddenly, Ronan screams. It’s a bloodcurdling, shrill scream that cuts all the way to my heart and squeezes it. Something is majorly, horrendously wrong.

And then I remember Logan’s words: if either of them get hurt, they’ll go after my mom.

Instinct takes over. I’ve trained for years on how to handle threats. So I whip out the gun Logan gave me, momentarily thrown off by the size of it. This gun is smaller than the one I’m used to carrying. Why is it smaller? And where is my vest?

The sounds of fighting continue, and I focus back on the threat.

My training drones through my mind. End the threat. End the threat. End the–

Bang!

The gun goes off as I squeeze a round into the man’s torso. Immediately, he crumples to the side.

Gunpowder. The scent fills my nose, and I stare down the barrel. Ronan has stopped screaming, and the woods are silent. Silent except for labored breathing.

I just shot a man. I shot a man.

I shot a man.

SIXTY

Sacrifice - Nevertel

Dakota just shot Callum right over Ronan. For a split second, I think he shot Ronan, and my whole world slows as I stare at both men on the ground. For a second, I see Greyson, not Ronan. His face is gray, and his lips are blue.

I blink. There’s no blood. Why is there no blood?

“Dakota! What the fuck! You shot him!?” I think I’m saying something, but I’m not quite sure. It takes an agonizingly long time to make it over to Ronan. Even falling to my knees seems to take ages. But I see that Ronan is breathing.

He’s fucking breathing. Ronan looks at me with wide eyes as Callum slumps sideways over him.

“Dude, you okay?” I can’t keep some of the panic out of my voice.

Ronan’s eyes close at slightly different times. Then, he doesn’t open them again. He might be saying something, but I’m not paying attention.

What the hell? What the hell, what the hell, what the hell? I check Ronan’s pulse, but it’s fine. Then I look over Callum, who’s in a state of shock, his hair looking even darker against his pale skin. I see no weapons, and I see no injuries except for Callum’s side.

And then I see it. Buffalo. He’s ripped and clutched in Ronan’s arms, his stuffing pink and gloopy.

Movement catches my eye, and I look up to see the other man, Vox, come running up to the clearing. Immediately, I point my gun at him.

“V-Vox,” Callum slurs.

Vox stops and raises his hands, looking at me. His entire face is pale, and his body looks poised on the edge. I expect him to yank out a weapon, to take out as many of us as he can before we get him, but he doesn’t. He just gives me a tortured look.

“I’m sorry! I thought he stabbed Ronan or something. Fuck, Ronan, why did you fucking scream like that?” Dakota’s voice is panicked.

I just continue to stare at Vox. What the hell is going on with these two? I saw Callum trip his partner. Why did he save me? If he hadn’t done that, I would have been shot for sure. It’s the only thing that keeps me from killing Callum and then Vox.

Vox keeps watching me. He tilts his head, asking without words if he can check on Callum. He hasn’t rushed me. He hasn’t threatened me. He’s just…asking. And the desperation I see in his eyes mirrors the fear I felt when checking on Ronan. I feel it.

For some unknown reason, Vox isn’t here to hurt us. He’s here for his friend.

I nod back, lowering my gun slightly, and Vox rushes forward. He checks Callum over, huffs, and then pulls Callum to his feet and away from Ronan.

The relief I feel when they separate is massive. I barely notice when Ronan starts screaming again. Dakota is on him, trying to calm him down. But I’m watching the threat. The threat that I’m not sure is a threat.

Am I just going to let them leave?

Ronan starts screaming, and immediately, everything tunnels to focus on him. Is he hurt? Did I miss something? I look back down, running my hands all over Ronan again, checking him for injuries.

“Buffalo!” Ronan screams, and my stomach sinks. I look up to see Buffalo’s head in Callum’s grip as he presses it to his wound. And then, they disappear into the forest.

SIXTY-ONE

Grave Bell - Diggy Graves

Buffalo's gone. Buffalo’s gone, Buffalo’s gone, Buffalo’s gone.

I clutch his decapitated body to my chest, squeezing so hard that maybe it’ll make the pain go away.

But it won’t. If it did, the last few days of holding him would have changed that.

I’m sober. Painfully, body-shakingly sober. And not willingly, either. Withdrawal has been a bitch, and Logan, an even bigger one. He physically slammed me against the wall in the kitchen when I tried to go for a snack. An alcohol ‘snack,’ but Logan went over the top crazy. Screamed in my face about how it was killing me, blah, blah, blah.

There are times I want it to kill me. And then there are times that I want to kill everyone else. Especially Callum Walker. And then there are the times I feel nothing and the times I cry uncontrollably. Nothing feels stable. Nothing feels right.

And Buffalo hasn’t spoken to me once.

So now, I’m curled up in Dakota’s bed, facing the closet, and clutching what’s left of Buffalo’s body. I feel like I’m being crushed. I’m cold and hot at the same time, sweating and shivering. I’m pretty sure Logan would have dragged me to a rehab facility by now, but I guess if you check the box: ‘I’m a murderer,’ they’ll call the cops or some shit.

It’s late. Not that time means anything to me anymore, but I try not to sleep. Sleeping means dreaming, and I’m tired of seeing the kids. Tired of having that conversation with Caroline about her stuffed dog at home, tired of seeing Bethany’s hair fall into her face as she refuses to look at Buffalo, tired of seeing their abuser’s faces as they walk free.

My eyes burn with tears yet again just as the door cracks open. Immediately, I freeze, and then anger washes over me. They can’t just give me two fucking minutes? Let me rot, please, for the love of god, some human decency??

Soft footsteps pad over to my side of the bed.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I should kill whoever just walked in here. Kill them for seeing me so…so…

“Hey.”

Fuck. It’s Dakota. I was hoping it would be Logan so I could lay into him about what a royal cunt he’s been.

“Fuck off,” I growl. I don’t want to talk to Dakota, even though he shot Callum. Which I should be grateful for, but also, he didn’t kill him like he deserved. Callum silenced Buffalo. And he’s the only one I want to talk to. 

“L-l-l,” Dakota gets stuck on that word for a second. “Logan said to drink this-s-s.”

I keep my eyes closed because I’m pretty sure if I open them, I’ll keep crying, and that can absolutely not happen. I keep my voice gruff. “Logan can kiss my ass.”

Silence.

Fuck, I’m fucking cold. A shiver racks through me.

I hear Dakota put something on the bedside table, and then the end of the bed dips.

Oh fuck. Did he think I was crying? I snap my eyes open to glare at him. “I’m just cold.”

Dakota just flops down at the end of the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Horror fills me. Is he staying? Oh fuck no. I extend my feet, gently shoving Dakota off the bed.

Yes, gently. I am a bit of a hero when I want to be.

Dakota gasps and hits the ground with a thump. “What the fuck?”

The sound of a grown man hitting the carpet is almost enough to make me feel better. Almost.

“It’s my bed, you know.” Dakota glares at me.

I stifle my smirk, then go back to staring at the wall.

“L-l-logan said if you don’t drink it, he’ll beat my ass.”

I snort. “Well, then, I definitely won’t drink it.”

There’s a silence, and then Dakota sighs and scoots so he’s sitting against the closet door.

“What are you doing?” Panic and apathy war inside me. Why can’t I get rid of this guy?

“Hiding.” Dakota closes his eyes, leaning his head back.

Panic wins over the apathy, and I snarl, “Oh, are you already on the outs with your new bestie?” Logan and Dakota have spent the last few days in the living room. It’s unbearably bright in there, so I’ve been in here. Plus, I don’t want to see anyone.

It’s still made me jealous.

“We aren’t friends.”

Sure they aren’t. Dakota distracted me while Logan took what was left of Buffalo and cleaned the dried blood off of him. It was a violation of the highest degree. I didn’t want anyone’s hands on him. Not after…

Tears burn in my eyes, and then horror follows quickly after. I don’t want Dakota to see me cry.

“Get out,” I bark, but it doesn’t come out as commanding.

Dakota just sits there. Then, his words come out quietly, “You know, for what it’s worth…I’m s-s-sorry.”

Oh fuck. The words dig deep into the wound that’s already there, and I can’t help the shuddering breath I draw in to keep from crying.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

I need a distraction. Anything! Where the hell is Buff when I need him to make some inappropriate comment?

And that makes me cry for real. It’s silent, but the huge breath I suck in isn’t. It hurts. It fucking hurts so bad, and I need it to stop. I need it to fucking stop; I can’t take it any longer.

I sit up so fast it makes me dizzy. I need a drink. I don’t care if I have to fist-fight Logan for it, I’m gonna get that damn drink.

SIXTY-TWO

Psycho - Puddle Of Mudd

I hate seeing other people in pain. It grabs ahold of something deep down in my heart and pulls painfully.

Seeing Ronan cry suddenly shoots me back to when I was a child, when Dad left my room at night, and all I wanted to do was cry. No one was there to comfort me. But maybe I can be here to comfort Ronan.

“Hey,” I reach out, putting my hand on Ronan’s knee.

He flashes a tear-filled, vicious look at me. “Don’t touch me.”

Immediately, I take my hand back. I’m not exactly sure what to say. I know nothing will make it better. Being a cop, I’ve learned that people in crisis don’t want solutions. They just want to be heard.

Which is fucking hard to do. I just want to give solutions. Like, hey, why don’t you let me go and forget I exist? One less asshole to deal with. I swear I won’t tell anyone.

But I don’t say that. I drop my arms on my knees. “Don’t go out there. He’s being a fucking bitch.” It’s true. I know Logan’s worried about Ronan, but it’s made him storm around the house, threatening me, the fridge, alcohol, Callum, pretty much everyone and everything. Eventually, he’ll settle down and manically start sketching on his tablet, then inevitably throw his pen across the room. At this point, the pissy murderer is a better option.

Ronan takes the bait. “He always is. I’ll beat the piss out of his bitch ass.” He starts to storm to the door.

I rest my head against the closet. “You’re not going to wait?”

“What?” Ronan barely turns.

“Till he’s asleep? May be able to get a few good hits-s-s in before he wakes up.”

Ronan pauses this time. He turns fully back to look at me and narrows his eyes. “What do you care?”

“Well, he threatened my mom.” I close my eyes. I still haven’t figured out how to get out of this mess. I’ve been in survival mode after shooting that man.

I shot a man.

The panic rushes through me again. I’m fucked. I’m so fucking fucked. And what does that mean for me? I can’t go back to my job. Can’t go back and pretend like I don’t deserve to sit in jail for what I’ve done.

I suck in a shaky breath. “I brought you something.”

I know it’s wrong. Well, Logan would say it’s wrong. He went through my cabinets and drained any alcohol down the sink. Then broke all the bottles, cussing up a storm. But he missed one tiny bottle of cinnamon whiskey way back in the freezer. I forgot I had it until I was searching for dinner the other night.

I hold the liquor out. It’s not much. But it might help Ronan’s body adjust to complete sobriety. I know most people do a gradual wean if it’s this bad.

Ronan’s eyes widen a second before he darts over. He rips the bottle from my hand like I’m going to take it away. There’s a second before he downs it where he watches me, staring deep into my eyes.

“Why?”

I shrug.

“Is this drugged?”

I look up at him sharply. Drugged? It takes me a second to process that. No, I didn’t drug him. Where in the fuck would I get drugs? And if I had them, why wouldn’t I have used them by now? “No.”

Ronan just watches me a second longer, then takes a single sip. He swallows slowly, closing his eyes briefly.

I would ask him why he drinks. But I think I know. First of all, what cop doesn’t drink? Secondly, I saw his list. I saw the turmoil.

Ronan Carter is passively suicidal. He doesn’t want to live, but he doesn’t want to die.

I wince. There was a time when I thought that if I just died, my dad wouldn’t punish me anymore. That everything would just…end. That I would finally be free.

When I look up, Ronan is still clutching the mostly full bottle, staring at me. Like I’m a puzzle that he can’t figure out.

I shake my head. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Ronan doesn’t look like he buys it, so I keep talking, “Maybe I’m just buttering up the one person who might let me go?”

Ronan grips it tighter. There’s a long silence where I think he won’t say anything, then Ronan mutters, “You know we can never let you go. Right?”

I wince, lowering my head. Deep down, I know that. As long as I’m living, I will be tied to Ronan Carter and Logan Sutton. And they will be tied to me. My stomach does a weird twist at that.

“Give me some of that.” I motion at the drink.

Ronan yanks it away from me.

“Chris-s-s-t.” I let my head drop back onto the wall. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ll never be free. As if the other events didn’t secure it, pulling the trigger sure did. And man, I get it. I don’t want to be sober for this, either.

Because part of me is terrified of this new future, and part of me is excited that I get to stay with Ronan and Logan.

And that’s the part that is going to get me killed.

SIXTY-THREE

Make Believe - Memphis May Fire

Dakota’s spinning out. I see it in his heavy breathing and tense body. He’s so pale that he looks sickly.

Maybe he and I can escape together. Surely, two cops are both enough to take on Logan.

But even at the thought, I feel something inside me crumbling. Take Logan on, and then what? Go where? Plus, my stomach is doing some weird, guilty twist just thinking about beating Logan’s ass.

The drink in my hand is both killing me and giving me life. The first sip felt like heaven and hell at the same time. Fuck, at this point, I don’t even want the buzz. I just want to feel better.

To feel better? Or to stop feeling?

I glance back down at the hot man on the ground in front of me. The man who brought me what he knew I wanted, even if it put him at risk.

Why? There has to be a reason. I stare at him and realize that I don’t really know Dakota very well. Logan and I just barged into his life and made ourselves at home. Dakota has been shy and quiet and…fucking sexy. Sure, he’s naive, but I also…like that about him? It reminds me of a time when I also believed cops were the good guys and saved the world.

To feel better, or to stop feeling? As I stare at the bottle, I realize the feel-nothing option is going to kill me. One way or another, whether it’s through alcohol poisoning or a run-in with the cops.

I’m just scared of the feel-better option. I know there’s going to be a lot of shit I have to go through before I get there. And that shit might kill me too.

Dakota’s rubbing his temples now, and there is a little crease between his eyebrows. Then, so quietly I can barely hear it, he mutters, “Will it get better?”

“What?” I stare at him.

“The killing. Does it get easier?” Dakota refuses to look at me. Just picks at a piece of skin around his nail.

I swallow harshly. No. It doesn’t ever get better. Somehow, killing solves everything and nothing at the same time.

Instead of answering, I just slowly offer Dakota the bottle.

He looks up at me, fatigue turning to surprise.

“Just a sip,” I say. We can share. He’s joined our ranks, so he needs it almost as much as I do.

Dakota hesitates for a second longer, then reaches up and grabs the bottle. For a second, I hesitate. What if he doesn’t give it back? What if I lose my last grip of control?

So what if I do? I’ve already lost it anyway.

And so, I let go.

Dakota watches me silently. Then, slowly, he takes a sip. It’s just a sip, and I watch with excruciating closeness. Then, he hands the bottle back.

“Tastes like shit.” Dakota winces, coughing a little.

I just stare at him for a second, then slowly, I chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah it does.”

“I can’t believe I used to like that shit.” He shakes his head.

I take another swig, then hand the bottle back to him. Dakota hesitates once again. “Uh, it’s okay, man.”

“No, if you drugged it, you get to go down with me.” I say it like it’s a joke. But in reality, I can see the struggle in Dakota. Which I’m sure I’m partially responsible for. And some part of me doesn’t like seeing the pain on his pretty face.

Dakota takes it, taking another drink. He hands it back, and I sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s your drink of choice?”

Dakota huffs. “Probably wine.”

Yep. Seems pretty gay to me. I just stifle a snort.

“What?”

Dakota is watching me. Apparently, I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.

I shrug. “Well, I don’t know. That’s kind of the girliest drink you could pick.”

“Drinks aren’t inherently feminine or masculine.” Dakota frowns at me.

“Big words there, freckles.” I take a drink.

He frowns. “I mean that it’s not girly or manly to pick a certain drink. Drinks don’t have genders.”

I pull in a breath. Sure they do. But the more I think about it, the more I suppose he’s right. Like hell if I’ll ever admit that, though. “Whatever.” I stare at the last swallow of cinnamon whiskey in the bottle. I can’t tell if I feel better because of the alcohol or the placebo effect.

“You take it.” Dakota grunts as he moves to stand, stretching. “Fuck, that floor is hard.”

Taking the last sip, I grunt as my arm is jostled from the side, spilling the last bit of the drink.

“Fuck! S-s-s–” Dakota stares at me as he rights himself, surprise in his gaze. Then, that surprise changes to fear. “Sorry.”

My first reaction is anger, then I force myself to slow down. He bumped into me by accident. If anything, I should be mad at myself. This shit is poison.

“S-s-s-orry,” Dakota says again. “I’ll get you a towel.” He darts to the bathroom, and I tilt the bottle up to get the last drop. Then Dakota comes out again, stammering with a wet towel.

“It’s okay.” I don’t like the look in his eye. It looks like he thinks I’m going to hit him or some shit. “Dakota, it’s fine.”

“No, s-s-s-s-s-” he gets so hung up on the word it twists something in my chest. I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Dakota. It’s okay. It’s fine.”

Slowly, the ring around his golden eyes goes down, and for some reason, the stress inside me does as well. He’s so close, and his breath is whispering across my face. Those freckles are pretty scattered all over his cheeks.

And right here, I realize that if I never feel again, I’ll never be able to enjoy kissing those freckles.

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, “Clean me off.”

“What?” Dakota’s eyes widen.

“Clean. Me. Off.” My body is hot, but for another reason besides detox. I can’t seem to help myself. I’m around the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. And he’s also kind and considerate and so damn cute I just can’t help but get hard.

And I actually want to get hard. I want to feel. Even if it’s just for this short moment.

Dakota’s pupils are wide. He licks his lips, and I watch the movement closely.

“Do it, freckles. Lick me clean.”

SIXTY-FOUR

POISON - Arankai

I’m so hard I’m throbbing inside my pants. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My whole world is crashing around me, and yet I’m here, staring at one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen and getting aroused. And the other attractive man is the asshole in the other room who’s been winding me up all day with all his aggressive comments.

“Do it,” Ronan dares. His gaze is so intense I can barely look away. But I do. Staring straight at his lips. I swallow. “I can’t…”

Then, Ronan’s lips are crushing against mine. He gives me no choice, pressing into my lips and licking at the seam until I open. I open my mouth, and his tongue comes rushing in, licking and tasting and consuming me, tasting of cinnamon whiskey. I’ve never liked it, but suddenly, it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt in my whole life.

But still, that shame that’s followed me around since childhood continues to follow me. My cheeks burn, and I pull away. Just in time to hear the bedroom door open.

“Have you…” Logan’s demanding voice trails off as he sees us, and I whip my head toward him. Logan looks huge in the doorway. A tattooed blonde surfer stacked with muscles. And against my will, my mouth waters again.

Slowly, Logan starts to smirk. “Oh. I see.”

“Fuck off, Logan,” Ronan mutters, pulling back slightly.

“Yeah?” Logan’s gaze hardens as it lands on Ronan. “You wanna get mouthy with me after all this shit?”

“All this shit?” Ronan sits up straighter, and I can feel the tension mounting in the room. I try to pull away, but Ronan reaches out and grabs the back of my head. “Keep going. I didn’t tell you to stop.” The demand curls through me with a hint of pleasure.

Ronan turns his full gaze on me. “Have you ever sucked dick?”

I suck in a breath, curls of shame and arousal coursing through me.

“Ronan.” The demand from Logan sounds like a warning.

“Have you?” Ronan ignores Logan, staring at me.

I blink, shaking my head slightly. I’m worried about Logan, but I’m even more worried about the man holding me still right in front of him.

“It’s okay. You can be my good boy and suck me off while Logan watches. Right?” Ronan arches an eyebrow, waiting for me to reply. His hand on the back of my head is firm, and I wonder, with a blast of arousal, if he’ll make me do it.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ronan asks, and I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Logan. There’s no response, and Ronan yanks down his pants, exposing his dick. His very hard dick.

I swallow. How am I supposed to fit that in my mouth?

“You can do it, can’t you?” Ronan is asking in a half-crooning, half-mocking tone. And I’m ashamed that it does something for me. It does a lot for me. I’m throbbing inside my pants so much it aches.

“Good boy. Take my dick in that pretty little mouth. Let’s show Logan just how much he’s missing.”

SIXTY-FIVE

CONCRETE JUNGLE - Bad Omens

Ronan guides Dakota’s head to the tip of his dick. It’s throbbing against his stomach, hard and thick and fucking ready. It enrages me and also turns me on so badly I’m uncomfortable.

Ronan hasn’t done shit for the past few days, and I’ve been more scared than I’ve ever been since Greyson passed. I’ve constantly checked on Ronan just to make sure he’s still breathing. Every time I come in, he is. And yet, it never makes me feel better because I don’t think Ronan wants to stay alive.

And that makes me want to implode. And then, instead of imploding, I decide that Ronan doesn’t have to want to keep living. I’ll just force the will to live into him. If Ronan has to hate me to keep living, then so be it. At least he’ll still be here.

Ronan is glaring at me, even while he gently guides Dakota to do what he wants. It’s clear Dakota is uncomfortable but not unwilling. This may even be his first time, and that thought also shoots a shiver through me.

Dakota opens his mouth, and Ronan guides just the tip of his dick inside. Dakota closes his mouth around Ronan, who throws his head back, his whole body tensing. I’ve never seen Ronan take charge before. I didn’t know he liked that shit—or maybe he just likes messing with me. Either way, it’s hot as fuck watching Dakota submit to him because Ronan taking charge means he has the will to do something.

Dakota pulls back, cheeks pink. “I…I can’t.”

“You’re doing perfectly. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Ronan tries to guide Dakota’s head back.

“No, I mean…I can’t.” Dakota’s voice gets higher. More panicked.

His panic triggers my own heart to start racing.

Dakota pulls back even more. “I can’t…this is-s-s-s–”

I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say he isn’t gay. That he can’t do it. And he’s going to run. And it makes that little part in my chest freeze up.

It’s happening again.

Dakota pushes off the bed, and as he does, I catch the movement of something there.

Not something. A tiny liquor bottle.

And then, everything stops. I stare at the bottle, and as I do, it’s like the world crashes down around me. Like every bad thing I was afraid of happening was happening all at once, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

And it’s happening again. I move up to the bed, grabbing the bottle. Immediately, Ronan stiffens.

Cinnamon whiskey.

But it’s not just whiskey. It’s the thing that’s killing the man I’ve started falling for. Anger rushes over me until I remember that it’s not the whiskey that’s killing Ronan.

It’s Ronan.

And that makes me angry. Deeply, bone-achingly angry.

I hurl the plastic bottle at the wall. It bounces off with a crack, and both men stiffen. Dakota pulls away from Ronan.

“Oh, good. Just be a dick, and that’ll solve everything,” Ronan growls.

I turn my gaze on him. “Do you think about anything other than yourself? Ever?”

There’s a flash of anger and hurt in Ronan’s gaze. Christ, I hate that look. I’ve gone too far. But I’m so angry, I can’t fucking stop myself.

“Fuck you, Logan.”

Dakota pulls away, but I snap my gaze to him. He gives me a look with those brown eyes that can only be described as deer in the headlights. “No,” I snarl. “Keep going.”

Dakota freezes.

“Don’t let me interrupt you. Keep fucking going.”

There’s a tense pause, and then Ronan sits up.  “Don’t tell him what to do.” He squares up with me.

“Yeah?” I straighten, taller than he is, even on our knees on the bed. Then, I snap my hand out and lock it around Ronan’s neck, slamming him into the headboard. He allows me to do it, not even fighting me. And that makes me even more mad.

“Do you know?” I hiss in his face. “Do you even know?”

“Know what, asshole?” Ronan’s face is red from the pressure I’m putting on his neck.

“How Greyson died?”

The room goes still. It’s so quiet that all I can hear is our breathing and the blood rushing in my ears.

I snap my gaze back to Dakota, sneering, “You know, don’t you.”

Dakota’s eyes narrow.

Yeah, he goddamn knows. He’s a cop. He looked at the files.

I move my gaze back to Ronan’s. He looks…guarded.

“Greyson killed himself.” It feels like my throat is closing up. I hate talking about it because it feels like it’s happening all over again. “And every time you nearly drink yourself to death, it feels like it’s happening all over again.”

There’s a silence so loud that I feel like the whole world is looking at me. I rip my hand away from Ronan’s neck. My arm is shaking. In fact, everything in me is shaking.

“So you,” I point at Dakota without looking at him, “are going to keep going. Keep sucking him off until he comes. No running.” I move to Ronan, who has sat back up. “And you are going to start living.”

SIXTY-SIX

MAKE ME CUM - Witchz, a calmer place., Erika Sirola

The room is tense and silent. Logan’s staring at me after making his demand. It both enrages me and turns me on, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. So I look Logan in the eye and say, “Make. Me.”

He moves so fast that I can barely track it. Suddenly, I’m slammed against the headboard again. It hurts, but it also makes me feel alive.

“I’m trying to make you,” Logan hisses. “Trying to make you safe. Make you happy. Make you seen.” He leans in, those blue eyes so fucking tortured it kills me. “But here’s the thing. You have to let me.”

My first instinct is to tell him to fuck off. To fight off the stifling hold he has on me. But then, I realize how fucking tired I am. And how fucking good that sounds.

For the first time in a long time, I think I actually want to let someone be there for me. I think I want to let this broken, bossy, beautiful man bulldoze through my bullshit and make me feel. Make me live.

But I’m scared.

Logan’s watching me closely. His hand around my neck is no longer tight. He’s just…holding me. His thumb strokes up and down my neck. His voice comes out soft…broken, “Please, Ronan.”

I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared. But at some point, I either have to die or decide to live. Before, living was always alone. But maybe, just maybe, right now, I have someone else? That has to be worth something, right?

I stare into Logan’s eyes for long enough to see every emotion flash through them. I’m feeling all of them too—fear, anxiety, depression, rage…and also, a new one. A new one that floats around like a tiny, flaming ember: hope.

Finally, in a quiet voice, I whisper, “Okay. Make me.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

I Might Run From U - Tawnted

The two men having a moment makes my heart squeeze. I can practically see the brokenness spilling out of both of them. But for some reason, their broken pieces fit together so perfectly.

And here I am. Once again, the odd man out. And it makes my heart break just a little. Because as fucked up as these two are, what they have is kind of… beautiful. And private.

I’ll just… go.

But as soon as I move, both men snap their heads towards me. I freeze, feeling the energy in the room shift.

“Going somewhere?” Logan cocks his head.

“Jus-s-s-s-s-t the bathroom-m-m-m.” Fuck, the words barely come out of my mouth.

“I’m not done with you yet.” Logan jerks his head towards the bed. “Come.”

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Whatever he wants to do is going to fuck me up. Probably forever. I already feel so tied to these men in a way I can’t escape.

“You’re going to finish what you started.” Logan motions at Ronan, whose pants are still down.

Fear shoots through me. It’s not that I didn’t like it. In fact, I loved it. But the voices in my head got too loud. And I don’t think I can face them again.

“Kota. Now.” Logan’s voice has become demanding.

I calculate if I can make it out of the room before he catches me. Logan must see me looking because he laughs humorlessly, his voice getting dark. “Go ahead. Try and run. It’ll only make it more fun when I catch you.”

His threat sends shivers down my spine.

So, I run.

I dart toward the door, snatching up the handle and slamming it behind me. There’s a thump and a scramble as I dart toward the kitchen. Logan has a habit of leaving his keys on the counter.

“Kotaaaa,” Logan singsongs. “Run faster.”

I slide on the laminate, scrambling for traction. There! The keys are sitting right where I knew they were. Then I’m darting to the door for the garage.

“Going somewhere?” Ronan slides in front of it right before I can get there.

Fuck! I whirl, only to come face to face with Logan. He’s grinning meanly. “Told you to run faster.”

I turn so I’m facing both of them, shooting Ronan a betrayed look.

He shrugs. “Sorry. You’re fun to chase.”

“Kota.” Logan’s voice is deceptively calm, and he takes a step in my direction. I want to take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go.

“S-s-s-top.” I gasp in a breath, but I’m not fully scared. My body is also so turned on right now I can’t handle it.

“You have two choices. Sit on the couch after I carry you there, or sit on the couch by yourself like a good boy.”

I feel the coats on my back. There’s nowhere to go.

I cross my arms and open my mouth to tell Logan to fuck off, but he doesn’t give me a chance. He darts in, snatching me up around my waist and lifting me up.

“One thing you’ll learn, Kota,” Logan smacks my ass. Hard, “is never run from me.”

“Put me down!” I struggle for a half second before trying to wrap my arm around his neck to get him in a neck restraint. Logan just ducks down, and before I realize it, he throws me on the couch. I try to get up, but then Ronan is there, banding his arm around me like a seatbelt.

“Traitor.” I struggle to get away while Logan steps back with a smug look.

Ronan wipes the sweat off his forehead with his free hand, and I freeze. I forgot he doesn’t feel well.

“Sorry, freckles. But I’m curious what your dick would feel like in my mouth.”

His hand moves towards my dick, and then I freeze. A man’s hand hasn’t been this close to my dick since… There’s a ringing in my ears, and all I can hear is my dad’s voice.

Disgusting. Evil. Backwards.

I want to start fighting Ronan with everything I have. I think about pushing him off me, but I’m frozen. I’m stuck there, watching him move towards my dick, stuck. Just like I was as a kid.

“Kota.” Logan’s voice breaks through the ringing in my ears.

I blink, still staring at where Ronan’s hand is at my waistband. But he’s stopped.

“Kota?” Logan’s voice softens.

There’s an odd panting sound, and it takes me a second to realize it’s coming from me. I blink, staring up at Ronan and Logan. Both have slight furrows between their brows.

“Hey,” Ronan says softly.

Oh fuck. Fuck, they’re going to think I’m weird and damaged, and they’re going to be disappointed. The thought of these two being disappointed in me brings way more anxiety than it should.

“Jus-s-s-s-s-” I’m hung up there for so long that I know my face is burning. “Just do it.”

Ronan narrows his eyes at me, but it’s Logan who speaks. “You know you don’t have to, right?”

Don’t have to? Fuck, they’re going to pull away. And maybe I want them to pull away? Thoughts of Logan’s pleasure-filled face when Ronan sucked him off fill my head, and I feel my dick throbbing in my sweats.

“I s-s-s-said fucking do it!” My words come out pissed, and I’m not sure why I’m pissed. I shouldn’t be pissed; neither man has done anything wrong. In fact, they’ve been nice. Fucking nice? Are they trying to hide how disgusting they think I am?

Part of me screams that I’m not disgusting, but I shove that part down. I want them to confirm I’m the disgusting piece of shit I’ve always known I am without all the fake kindness.

“Do it!” I pull my sweats down, exposing my dick. It’s so hard that I can feel every pulse of my heartbeat in it. “If you let me think about how wrong it is-s-s-s-s, I’ll fucking s-s-s-s-s-stop.”

Suddenly, Logan is in my face. I suck in a breath as he cocks his head slowly. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I…” I go blank because Logan’s blue eyes are narrowed, and he’s pissed.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

What did I say? I’ll stop?

“The part about it being what?” Logan’s clenching his jaw so hard his words are coming out in a hiss. “Let’s get one thing straight. Dick sucking is not wrong. Gay sex is not wrong. I’m so fucking—” He yanks back, fisting his hand and pressing it to the strap of his ball cap. His chest heaves. “You’re not gonna run, Kota. Cause I won’t let you.”

I’m staring at Logan, unsure how to react.

“Sorry, Logan’s PMSing.” Ronan leans in and bites my nipple through my shirt. “Shall we get on with what you’ve begged us to do?” He shoots Logan a glare.

Logan glares right back. “It’s not fucking wrong.”

“Too much talk, not enough show.” Ronan purrs, running his mouth down the slope of my abs. When he hits the skin of my waist, his hot breath makes goosebumps run down my thighs. My dick jumps, and I suck in a breath.

Logan turns his blue stare on me. “The only thing I want to hear from you is how much you like it and what a good boy you are.”

Logan’s jaw is so strong, with the slightest hint of stubble there. It makes my mouth water.

“Such a good boy.” Ronan’s voice is grumbly, and he runs his finger up and down my hip.

“Agree?” Logan narrows his eyes on me. “If you don’t say what a good boy you are, we stop. Got it?”

What? Fear runs through me as the past wars with the present. I want to enjoy this right now. I want it. But I’m also scared. Is there a reality where this is okay? 

I’m frozen again, but then Ronan wraps his hand around my dick. My hard dick. He starts jerking me, and I’m already feeling so fucking good. I let out a small moan.

“This is okay.” Logan’s tracing my jaw. “You’re okay.”

I clench it, my whole body stiff. Is this really happening?

Disgusting. You’re fucking nasty. But even as those words run through my head, Logan’s overlap on top. “You’re allowed to like this,” Logan says.

I close my eyes.

“No,” Logan demands, and my head is yanked to the side right as Ronan’s hot mouth closes over the tip of my dick. I gasp, my eyes snapping open to see Logan holding my chin. He’s watching me with a look that is far too knowing for my taste. “Keep your eyes open. Stay with us.”

Stay with us.

I open my mouth to argue, and Logan arches an eyebrow. “Say anything else, and you don’t get to come.”

There’s a disappointed groan around my dick, vibrating pleasure through me. I also groan, crunching over.

“There you go. You’re taking it so well.” Logan reaches his other hand out to tangle it in Ronan’s hair. Then, he shoves Ronan’s head down on my dick.

Ronan chokes, and the following tightness makes me see stars.

“Dakota.” Logan smirks when I look at him. He lets Ronan up, then tells me, “Say it. Tell me what a good boy you are.”

Ronan sucks in a breath, then gets right back to work on my dick. And now I’m working to keep from coming. He’s wringing every ounce of pleasure from me, and it feels so fucking good.

“Ronan,” Logan says.

Ronan grunts, then reluctantly pulls off me with a pop.

“I-I-I,” I’m stuck on the word. It’s trapped in my fear. I don’t want to say that. It feels like screaming my truth into the world, and I don’t want it to be heard.

Ronan gives a grunt of frustration, staring at my dick. “Just do what his bossy ass wants. I need you.”

I clench my jaw as Ronan shifts on his heels.

“I’m a g-g-g-good boy.” As soon as the words are out, Ronan drops down on my dick like he’s starving, wrapping his mouth around me. Immediately, the hot, wet pleasure is back.

“Good boy.” Logan pets my head. “You have no choice but to enjoy this. I’ll make you enjoy it.” Then his voice drops softer, “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

I can barely process his words, with a mixture of pleasure and confusion running through me. It feels so fucking good.

“Say it again.” Logan gets up, rounding behind Ronan and running his hands down Ronan’s back. Ronan groans, getting up on all fours and vibrating my dick in such a pleasant way I almost come.

“Kotaaa.” Logan’s pulling Ronan’s pants down now, and I stare as his ass is exposed to Logan. Then, Logan’s gaze snaps up to mine in a warning.

“I-I-I’m a good boy.”

“Yes, you are.” Logan reaches around, grabbing Ronan’s dick, making him moan again. My hand snaps down into Ronan’s hair, wanting to both pull him off me and push me deeper. It’s all so much, the pleasure wrapping around my whole body.

The hand Ronan isn’t using to grip the base of my cock moves down to fondle my balls, and immediately, I feel them draw up.

“No,” I gasp, pulling on his hair. I’ll come right now. And I… don’t want to. I want to keep feeling this for a while longer. Just in case… just in case this is the last time I get to feel this. Because fuck, if I don’t like it. In fact, I love it.

Then, Logan’s pants are down. He pulls a bottle of lube out of his pants and dribbles it on his dick, stroking it up and down. His rings glint in the light and somehow look so manly on his huge hand wrapped around his huge dick. That, combined with his powerful body and his beautiful ink, makes my mouth fucking water.

“Again, Dakota.” Logan moves his hand down to Ronan’s ass. “Tell me you’re hot.”

I stare at them. Is he going to…

Logan stops. “Tell me you’re hot, or I’ll stop.”

Ronan tenses and then looks up at me. He doesn’t take me out of his mouth, but I see the demand there. He wants me to do it.

“I…I’m h-h-hot.”

“Good.” Logan massages Ronan’s ass. “Good boy.” He presses his hand in and out of Ronan’s ass, and he grips the base of my dick so hard I grunt. It’s quite possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever been involved in.

Logan lines his dick up with Ronan’s ass. He presses slowly, and Ronan groans. Logan looks like he’s holding himself back, his veins standing out on his neck and forearms. “Fuck, Ronan.”

Ronan sputters, coming up for breath, then gasps, “God.”

Logan laughs, and then his hips buck forward. It pushes Ronan into me, and he grips my thigh with his free hand, digging his nails in. It makes a bolt of pain run through me, which makes my dick throb.

“Oh fuck, Ronan.” Logan breathes heavily, pulling back and then pushing back in. Then he raises his hand and spanks Ronan. Hard. “You feel so fucking good.”

Ronan shivers. I watch the goosebumps run up his stiff arms. Logan keeps hitting, spanking that same spot over and over until it blooms bright red. It’s hot as hell, and it makes me want to both comfort Ronan and be him. I run my hand through his hair soothingly.

That seems to bring Ronan back, just barely, and he once again swallows my dick.

This time, I don’t hold back the moan. It comes out of me all breathy and needy.

“He’s so hot, hmmm?” Logan looks at me as he pumps into Ronan, digging his fingers into the red spot on his ass so deep I’m sure his nails are digging in.

I just nod, my mouth dry.

“Say it. Say how hot he is.”

“So hot,” I gasp.

“Look at both of my sluts.” Logan draws his hand back, raising it to slap Ronan on the ass again. In the spot that’s starting to bruise.

Ronan nearly bites down on my dick, and I hiss.

Logan tosses us a smirk. “Such good sluts for daddy.”

Right then, Ronan grips me hard and sucks with such pressure I think he’s going to suck the soul out of my body. Then, his other hand moves south, tracing the tips of my toes and up the arch of my foot.

The pleasure crashes through me like a wave, overriding everything else. My balls draw up, and my dick stiffens.

“I’m going to–” My eyes roll back, and suddenly, I’m coming. Pleasure short-circuits my brain, taking over everything as burst after burst of heaven fills Ronan’s mouth. He sucks me eagerly, his throat swallowing around me, only prolonging my pleasure.

It feels like it goes on forever. As I slowly come down, Logan purrs, “Say thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Ronan,” I say automatically.

“And me?” Logan raises his eyebrow.

“Thank you, Logan.” It takes me a minute to realize I didn’t stutter on the L. I’m doing something I never thought I’d be allowed to do, and yet my brain feels a level of comfort?

I vaguely notice Logan increasing the force of his thrusts. When Ronan lets go of my dick, I hear him grunt.

“Come,” Logan demands.

Ronan gives a breathy laugh, “Make me.”

And then Logan does.

SIXTY-EIGHT

POSSESSED - Witchz

Ronan passed out on the couch next to Dakota. For once, Dakota also looks completely relaxed. He’s sitting up partially against the armrest, mouth open and snoring softly with Ronan’s head in his lap.

It fills my heart with a swelling feeling, watching them both so at peace. It feels like my chest is a sponge, filling up with liquid until it doesn’t fit in me anymore.

Ronan trusts me. He trusts me. And Dakota didn’t run. Well, technically, he did. But he wanted to be caught.

Swallowing is hard past the tightness in my throat. This is everything I’ve wanted, so it can’t be real. Fuck. Maybe this is real. Could it be? I’m pretty sure out of all the people in this world, I’m not the one who deserves to have a happy ending. But Christ, if the world is offering, I’ll take it.

I grab what’s left of Buffalo, tucking it in with Ronan before setting myself up on the floor. I know Buffalo means everything to Ronan, and it breaks my heart that he’s sad. Could I get the head back? I grab my phone, load up Vox’s number, and my fingers hover over the keys.

This is serious. I’m about to start a war over a stuffed animal. But it’s important to my boyfriend.

My boyfriend.

Jesus. This is so real.

A sudden fear hits me. Greyson ran when I tried to make things serious. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed that day, he would still be here.

Maybe I shouldn’t push this.

No. No, I want to.

But does he want me to?

He would want to do this.

Christ. As soon as I think it, I realize it’s true. Ronan feels helpless. He has for a long time. Taking control is the way he takes back his safety.

I drag in a tight breath.

Maybe part of making Ronan safe isn't taking away all of his control. Maybe it’s giving him a choice and protecting him no matter what that choice is. Like I should have done for Greyson.

Fuck. I rub my forehead.

Loving someone is scary. The more you love, the more you can lose.

Slowly, I put the phone down. I think I have to fucking stop letting fear get in the way of my love. Right now, that means I need to let Ronan take his power back.

And fuck if I’m not scared to do that.

SIXTY-NINE

Inside My Head - Until I Wake

When I wake up, I’m still groggy.

Someone kicks me again. I look around and realize that I’m on the couch with Ronan and Logan. At first, I panic and stiffen. Then, when nothing happens, slowly, I relax.

I’m okay. Nothing bad is happening. I let out a sigh, then realize how much I need to pee. I can just see the oven clock from here. It’s mid-morning.

I try to untangle myself from the limbs, causing some groans. But I need to pee. And shower. I’m fucking grimy.

I squeeze out of Ronan’s arms and go to the shower. I take my time getting fully clean and checking in on how I feel about last night.

Of course, I still feel fear, but I also feel… satisfaction. I feel relief. And fuck, if it isn’t the most addictive feeling ever. I want to keep feeling it.

When I come back out, both men are up, and I smell coffee. Ronan offers me a cup. I look at the rim suspiciously and decline. Ronan laughs, saying he’s going to the bathroom.

Logan’s on the couch on his phone. Then, I hear a ding. A familiar ding. My phone.

I pick it up, feeling odd. I haven’t used this in so long. I see I have a text. I’ve been added to some group chat with Ronan, Logan, and some guy named Vox. Vox, as in the friend of the person I shot.

Ronan: Return Buffalo’s head, or else! *three water gun emojis*

My mouth drops open. Oh fuck.

Logan sits up on the couch, muttering, “I told him to take it easy.”

Did they start a group chat with the guy who saved Callum?

Vox: *raised eyebrow emoji*

“Oh god,” Logan moans. “Here it goes.”

My phone dings.

Ronan: YOU THINK I’M JOKING!?

Logan slaps a hand over his eyes. “Oh yeah! Let him do it, you said. It would be fun, you said.”

“Uhhh…” I stare between my phone and Logan, who ignores me. He types on his own phone.

Logan: Relax, baby, we’re talking to the mute. He’s not going to be very forthcoming.

Vox: *checkmark emoji*

Logan goes back to typing.

Logan: Listen, we need the cow head back. We’re willing to call a truce if your buddy returns it.

Vox: *sick emoji* *blood emoji*

Logan gives a bitter laugh, then types.

Logan: Yeah, we know he’s hurt. We’re the ones who shot him.

My mouth drops open more. First of all, I’m the one who shot him. And Logan’s taking collective blame for that? Some fucked up part of me feels warm. Wait a minute, no. That’s fucked up. The tingling continues.

Ronan: LOL

“Uh,” I blink at the screen. “What are you doing?” They’re aggravating the people who put a target on our backs. Theirs first, and now mine.

“It’ll be okay. I’m letting him have control.” But Logan doesn’t look okay. In fact, he looks the furthest from okay. He looks like he’s going to have a stroke.

Vox doesn’t like the way the conversation is going and sends an angry emoji. I shoot out one of my own: the facepalm emoji. Because really? This is how they negotiate?

Logan: Once he’s better, let us know if he’s willing to meet up to return the cow’s head. No weapons. We just want the cow head back and to talk.

I stare at the screen, then at Logan. He’s sweating. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen bulls with more tact than these two.

“What was that?” I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.

“It was fine. I helped. Just helped, I let him do it.” Logan’s pacing tight laps in front of the couch, pulling his hat off and on.

“That was… oh my god.” I throw my hands up. “Next time, let me do the negotiating. Yeah?”

And then I realized what I offered. I offered to help. Not because I had to. Not because they were threatening me. But because I actually wanted to.

Oh fuck. I’m fucked.

Ding.

Vox: *thumbs up emoji*

Relief rushes through me. Against all odds, somehow, that didn’t end in threats. I can tell how much Buffalo means to Ronan. And I hate to see people in pain.

Ronan comes back into the room. “I do my best texting while I’m shitting.”

“That was not taking it easy.” Logan’s face is red.

Ronan just laughs.

Part of me feels relief seeing Ronan come back to life. The first few days after we got back, I wasn’t sure if he was going to be okay.

And it’s weird that I feel relief that my captor is going to be okay. Is it weird, or is it Stockholm?

Oh, for sure Stockholm.

When I glance at my phone again, I happen to notice the date. I feel like it should be something important for some reason. What is with that date?

Suddenly, panic rushes through me. The wedding. The wedding is today, and I’m supposed to be going. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I don’t realize I’ve made any sounds until both Ronan and Logan are looking at me.

“Everything okay?”

Fuck. I’ve been in a daze, but I remember I took the week off for the wedding so I could get drunk both before and after. My parents will be expecting me, and I’m supposed to bring a date.

“Dakota,” Logan’s voice is concerned.

“Uh, I have a w-w-wedding.”

Both men glance at each other. “Uh, okay?”

“I’m supposed to bring a date!” I’m panicked. I’ll have to cancel. I know my dad will yell at me. He’s always been one for punctuality and showing up when you say you’re going to show up.

“Okay…I can go with you.” Logan shrugs.

“No, I can!” Ronan sits up straighter. “Take me.”

“No way,” Logan’s voice is sharp.

“I’ve sucked his dick. That means I have first dibs.”

“Weddings are drowning in alcohol.”

Their words blend into the background as the idea of facing my dad hits me square in the chest.

He’ll hate me. He’ll hate the choices I’ve been making.

“Whoa.” Suddenly, Logan is beside me, steadying me. “What’d we miss?”

“I’m not…my dad doesn’t…he d-d-d-d,” Fuck, the words are getting tangled. “Doesn’t know!”

There’s the slightest flinch in Logan’s gaze, then it’s back to normal.

I suck in a breath. “I have to go with a date, and it has-s-s-s-s to be a woman.”

SEVENTY

NOTHING AT ALL - LaLion

What a load of bullshit. Dakota can take whoever he wants to the wedding. Fuck what his parents think. Especially, fuck what his dad thinks.

In fact, fuck his dad.

“I’ll kill him,” I offer, but the words feel a little bit hollow as soon as they leave my mouth. Killing sounds… exhausting, especially without Buffalo. Plus, I still feel like death. I could use a fucking drink.

Logan snaps his gaze over to me. “No.”

I shrug.

Dakota just gives me a wide-eyed look.

“Fine… I’ll just kiss you. In front of him.” Then I mutter, “And kill the pedo later.” Because it’s not fair that Dakota has to face his abuser. And the only way I can think to make it better is by killing him.

The room is silent, and I look up to see Dakota staring at me, pale. He looks stricken. “Y-y-y-ou…know?”

Know what? I glance between Dakota and Logan. Dakota looks scared.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Dakota didn’t tell me his dad was a pedophile. It was Logan who told me that. I glance at Logan, who winces.

“W-w-w-w-” Dakota gets stuck, then says, “Wait. You know?”

I swallow harshly.

“Kota, I uh…” Logan says. “When I was researching Apex and your dad, I ran across your file.”

Silence. It’s a painful silence. I didn’t realize that Dakota didn’t know that we knew. Fuck, this is the worst.

“Sorry,” I say.

Dakota’s pale. “I’m gonna… I need to shower.” He looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Do you need Zofran?” I look around for my meds, and Logan pulls them out of his pocket.

“Here.”

Dakota barely shakes his head.

“Kota, I’m sorry.” Logan starts to reach out toward Dakota, then pauses. “We don’t think less of you. What he did was fucked up, and he deserves the worst of the worst.”

Dakota just shakes his head and then moves down the hall. The defeated way he’s walking makes me mad. This isn’t fair. It’s not fucking fair.

As soon as he’s gone, I whirl on Logan. “We have to kill him.”

Logan sighs, still gripping the meds. His knuckles have gone white. “It doesn’t work like that. His dad is high up in Apex.”

“So what?” My voice is rising. I have no control. Once again, I have no control.

Logan reaches out, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me to him. He crushes me against him in a hug, squeezing so tight I’m stuck.

“We have to kill him!” The words just feel like a rehearsed script. I struggle, but Logan just holds me still.

“You’re still sick, and to kill someone that high up, we need resources. We need an in.”

“So we’ll find one.” I’m already out of breath. Which is fucking scary. I’ve never been this weak. “We’ll use Cal and Vox.”

“Ronan.” Logan puts his nose in my hair. “The guys we shot?”

I’m scrambling. “They shot at us first! Dakota can take us to the wedding! We’ll just… punch his dad in the face if he says anything.”

“You can’t force someone to come out, Ronan.”

Fuck. I know this. I’m still not out to my own parents. Or anyone, for that matter.

I sag in defeat, and Logan catches my weight. He just holds me, breathing into my hair. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck. I want a drink. I want to make it all better. I don’t want to feel like this.

But I do. Partially because I don’t have a choice, and Logan won’t let me go, and partially because I’m just fucking exhausted. I sit there, allowing Logan to hold me, just sitting there. Just… feeling.

And fuck. It sucks. But Logan breathes into my hair and rubs my arms. Reminding me that I’m not alone. That someone else is here, too. That whatever I have to face, I won’t face it alone.

And then I realize who is alone.

Dakota.

SEVENTY-ONE

Real As Ever - Jack Harris

I have a panic attack in the bathroom. It feels like I can barely breathe. I’m burning up, and I rip my shirt off.

I hate thinking about my past. I actively try not to. Like, maybe if I forget it’s there, then it won’t bother me anymore. But to hear Logan and Ronan talk about it like it’s real reminds me that it is real. It wasn’t a dream.

I don’t know how long I’m curled up on the bathroom floor, fighting my brain. The cool tile helps, and I focus on the coolness and the grooves between the pieces. When the floor gets too warm, I shift to the cool spots.

At some point, the door opens, and both men come in.

“Fuck, freckles.” Warm arms wrap around me, pulling me up.

I don’t fight them. Because I just need something to anchor me. Someone else slides down, and then Logan wraps us both in his arms.

“S-s-s-s-” I try to apologize, but the words won’t come out.

“Don’t apologize,” Ronan says. “We can beat Logan’s ass for snooping later.”

I let out a puff of air. I snooped, too. I found out about Greyson.

They just hold me in silence for a long time. It seems like it takes forever before I feel like my chest isn’t caving in and I’m not having a heart attack.

And then, once that feeling stops, I melt into them, just soaking in the comfort. Life is so weird. One minute, I’m afraid of them, and the next, they’re giving me the most comfort I’ve felt in years.

And I realize that I want them to come to the wedding with me. For some reason, I feel that my dad’s disapproval couldn't touch me if they were there.

Just as I’m working up the courage to say something, I hear soft snores. I glance around as much as I can. Ronan has passed out on top of me.

Logan chuckles softly, stroking my hair.

“D-d-d-do you want to come with m-m-m-me?” I ask.

There’s a silence. A silence where I’m scared he’ll say no and that I never should have asked. Why did I ask?

Then, Logan kisses the top of my head. “I’d be honored.” A delicious warmth spreads through my whole body. Somehow, nothing is okay, but everything is okay at the same time.

“But,” Logan continues, “let’s play hooky. I’m worried about your safety if your dad sees you with us.”

Fuck. I didn’t think about that.

“Plus, we are suspects in your case. We may have to let the heat die down a little.” Logan laughs gently.

Fuck. I also didn’t think about that.

“But, I promise, when it’s safe, I’ll take you on the best date ever. In public. If you’re okay with that.”

My cheeks flame. “Oh, I…uh…yeah. But you don’t have t-t-t-” Fuck, why the hell am I stuttering. I get so stuck on that word I can’t get it out.

“Hey.” Logan shifts us so Ronan’s passed out on my lap, and it’s just Logan facing me. He touches my face.

“S-s-s-s-” I try to apologize, but it’s not working. Why the hell isn’t it working?

“Kota.” He traces his fingers up and down my face, his blue gaze kind. “Don’t apologize.”

I suck in a breath. “It’s-s-s-s supos-s-s-sed to get better. When I’m comfortable.”

Logan just chuckles softly. “Get better? This isn’t something you’re doing on purpose.”

I blink.

Logan brushes back my hair, then leans in so close that our noses bump. “I’m not going anywhere. You have time. You’re not an inconvenience. And I’m not waiting for you to ‘get better.’ Whatever the hell that means. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

My throat closes up. Fuck. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to hear, and it makes my throat so tight.

“Why?” The question comes out before I can stop it.

Logan tightens his grip on me. For a long time, I don’t think he’s going to answer. His blue eyes stare off at the vanity, and there’s the tiniest crease between his eyes. But then he says, “I want you to feel safe. I had a chance once before, and I fucked it up.” He swallows. “I get to try again, and I want to do it right.”

Fuck, the pain in his voice hurts me. I don’t want him to hurt.

Logan looks down at me with that backwards hat on and so much understanding in his eyes. And for a minute, I’m afraid to look too long in his eyes. The eyes that see so much of me.

“Do you want this?” Logan barely blinks. It’s like he’s sucked up all the energy in the room, and it’s hard for me to breathe. All I can do is look at his face. His handsome, chiseled face and full lips.

Logan’s eyes dart down to my own lips. He licks his, looking back at me with a question in his eyes.

And yes. I think I do want this. But I’m scared.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Logan leans down. And I don’t pull away. He gets closer and closer until Logan brushes a feathery kiss across my lips. The touch makes electricity run through me, and I suck in a breath.

Then, a phone dings. I settle in under Ronan’s weight as Logan checks it. He sighs. “Fuck. They want to meet.”

SEVENTY-TWO

NJ Legion Iced Tea - A Day To Remember

Normally, I like driving. But Logan’s car is quiet. I can’t hear the wind roaring through the door, and it’s getting to me.

My leg is shaking. I opted to sit in the back seat with Dakota. And by I opted, I mean Logan stuck his rifle and bag of supplies in the front seat ‘for easy access’ and told us to get our ‘sexy asses’ in the back seat. I told him I drive better than him, to which he said this isn’t a cruiser. I neglected to say I’ve hit a few things with my cruiser.

I wouldn’t say I’m nervous, but I’m definitely nervous. Logan did a deep dive on Callum and Vox before we left. I mean, deep enough that he found out Callum wore a doped-up hoodie with STFUATTDLAGB on it to Tomorrowland when he was 16. Oh, and that Callum has a boo thang, Ryan Fairview. Who, get this, owns a funeral home.

Logan was very interested in Ryan, which ruffled my feathers because Ryan is cute. I mean, red-headed freckles all over cute. Logan just rolled his eyes at me and said that Ryan was Callum’s weakness, which means that Ryan is the most important player in this situation.

I say the most important player is Buffalo. I have the ripped part of his body with me, tucked into the seatbelt. And the silence reminds me of how much I miss him. Of how much I want to burn the world down to get him back.

My skin feels hot, and my gut twists. We’re meeting Callum in the same woods where Dakota shot him. I still can’t believe Dakota shot him. Fucking mental. And it makes me fucking hard.

Pleased warmth shoots through me, and I glance over at my own freckled man. He gives me a quick look, then his gaze darts away. Is he…nervous?

I reach over the seat, grabbing Dakota’s hand. He looks at me in surprise, his body stiff. I squeeze. “I’ll do the shooting today, freckles.”

“No shooting.” Logan’s voice is tense as we approach the woods. “I’ll be the only one who shoots if this goes wrong.”

I want to roll my eyes. “You’re the one who has a Callum turtle bite on his arm.”

“What?” Dakota looks at me, a crease between his eyes.

“We’re here.”

Fuck.

The other cars are already here, and I can see Mr. Cocky himself leaning up against the passenger door of a murdered-out G-wagon as if we didn’t shoot him just a little bit ago. And I have to say, I kind of admire him for it.

“Dakota and I will cover. You talk.” The back of Logan’s neck is red.

We already discussed—argued—about who would be talking. Logan wanted to cover and talk at the same time, which earned him a lecture from both the cops, saying that was stupid and that you can’t focus on threats and negotiating at the same time. Logan said I’m shit at talking to people—rude—and that Dakota better not open his mouth because Callum has every reason to return the favor.

So we unanimously decided that I would be talking, and Logan and Dakota would be covering.

We roll up slowly, and I pop the door open while the car is still moving.

“Ronan,” Logan hisses, but I’m already out.

“Hey, I see you met my hole-puncher.”

Callum immediately narrows his eyes on me. Someone tries to push open the passenger door of the G-wagon that Callum is leaning on, but he shoves back against it, forcing it closed.

Behind me, Logan and Dakota get out of the car.

“I said stay in the fucking car, ginger snap!” Callum snarls to whoever is trying to get out of the vehicle.

“Oh, is that your boo thang?” I try to peer past Callum.

Callum’s eyes darken with rage. “None of your fucking business, pig.”

“Cal! Let me out! This is ridiculous. We’re supposed to be here making an alliance. Vox is going to be pissed.” Cal’s (not so) secret passenger whines from inside the car.

“Fine, but keep the mask on, baby. I don’t want to have to add more people to my fucking kill list if they see your face.”

I snort. Callum assumes we haven’t done a deep dive into any possible threat? “You mean this guy?” I pull up the funeral home directory with Ryan’s smiling, freckled face and turn my phone around to face him. “He’s cute.”

Cal takes one look at the phone and groans.

“Jesus fuck, Ryan! I thought we talked about reducing your digital footprint! You told me you took that photo down!”

“By all means, keep having your lover’s quarrel. All we need is Buffalo.” I cross my arms.

Cal rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah. Fine.” He steps away from the car, and the ginger-haired funeral director scrambles out of the front seat. My eyes zero in on the fuzzy orange head clutched in Ryan’s hands.

“Here,” Ryan says, his voice gentler than I would have expected from someone who’s supposed to be my enemy. “We cleaned him up as best we could. He was a little bloody after the accident.”

“Cute and thoughtful, what a guy,” I coo, stalking up to Ryan. But Callum darts his arm out to shove me back, which makes Logan yell something, and people scramble behind me.

I just dart my hand out and snatch Buffalo’s head, immediately moving back from the two strangers.

“Touch him again, and I’ll rip your head off next, bitch boy.” Callum snarls at me, and it immediately makes me want to touch Ryan again.

On instinct, I wait for Buffalo to make a snarky comment. Buffalo’s head is back. He’s back.

I wait, but there’s nothing. I try not to immediately panic. I just need to reattach his head to his body, and it’ll be fine. It’ll be fine, right?

Cal’s eyeing me warily. I wait for him to say something shitty to me, but maybe my change in mood is showing on my face. His expression softens imperceptibly, and he cocks his head to the side.

“What’s wrong?” Cal asks, and if I didn’t know any better, I would say there was legitimate concern in his voice. “Isn’t he happy to see you?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I back away toward the car. There’s nothing wrong. I’ll just reattach Buffalo’s head, and it’ll be back to normal. It’ll all be back to normal.

Right? It has to.

It fucking has to.

SEVENTY-THREE

Before You Go - Lewis Capaldi

Something is off with Ronan. I step in front of him, keeping my gun at the low ready.

I startle a little when Ryan steps forward with his hand outstretched to shake good-naturedly.

I gape at him, wondering if this dude is alright in the head. When he gives me a smile so genuine and sincere, I immediately know he’s never killed anyone in his life.

“Hi, I’m Ryan, Ryan Fairview. Nice to officially meet you.”

Predictably, Callum grips Ryan by the shoulder and yanks him away from me. I don’t blame him. If Ronan had strolled up to them, ready to shake hands like we were two peewee teams congratulating each other on a game, I would have ripped his arm out of his socket.

“What!?” Ryan whines. “Vox said we’re supposed to be trying to make friends with them.”

Callum snorts. “Vox didn’t say anything, Ryan. He’s a mute.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. It was implied. Come on, angel. They’re trying to take down Apex; you’re trying to quit Apex. We need friends right now more than we need enemies. And none of them have tried to shoot you since we’ve been here.”

Callum growls, though he is looking at Ryan in a way that confirms what I already know. Callum Walker is deeply and irrevocably in love with Ryan Fairview. If Ryan told him to jump off a cliff, I’m pretty sure Callum would do a backflip just to impress him.

“Fine. But if one of them hits on you again, the friend deal is off!” He snarls.

“You’re trying to quit Apex?” I ask, legitimately curious. That explains why Callum tripped his own partner that night in the woods.

Callum turns untrusting brown eyes on me and purses his lips, but he nods.

“Yeah. I didn’t know… about the kids. I  mean… I suspected, but I didn’t know for sure until recently and…” He seemed to be struggling with his own guilt at having been aligned with anything that had to do with child trafficking to begin with.

Ryan slid his hand into Callum’s and squeezed, clearly trying to comfort him.

“Callum was poached by Damian Ryker when he was ten years old. He groomed him to be a child soldier and has been brainwashing him using really insane torture methods for most of his life.”

Ryan looks like his heart is breaking as the words tumble out of his mouth.

Callum flinches, literally flinches, as Ryan tells me his past as quickly as he can, like ripping off a bandaid.

I stare at them, waiting for my bullshit meter to go off. But oddly enough, it doesn’t. Both men look genuine, and from what I’ve learned about Apex, it doesn’t seem outside of the realm of possibility.

“Uh, okay.” I’m not sure what to say to that.

Callum doesn’t seem to know what to say either. He seems to be shutting down, and Ryan gets this determined little look on his face, and he steps forward, almost as if he’s shielding Callum from me.

“Callum’s too injured still to fight back against Apex, but Vox currently has my funeral home set up as a sort of defensive base. We know that Damian will retaliate at some point. He’s not just going to let Cal get away with quitting. Since we both seem to have a common enemy, we were wondering if you guys would be open to teaming up against Apex since you guys already seem to have it out for them anyway.”

I stare at Ryan. This seems too good to be true. I mean, he’s offering an alliance even after we shot his boyfriend. What’s the catch?

I’m about to ask as much when Ryan glances over my shoulder. For a moment, I wonder if Ronan and Dakota have returned from the car, but when I glance back to see what he’s looking at, there’s no one there.

“This might sound weird, but do you know someone named Greyson?” Ryan asks, and suddenly, the ground is tilting beneath my feet.

“Wh-what did you just say?” I rasp. What the fuck?

Ryan nods, his expression solemn. “Yeah, Greyson. He’s been in touch with me, and he wanted me to tell you that he’s happy for you, and he thinks Ronan and Dakota are exactly what you need and deserve. He said he loves you, and he’s sorry.”          

For a second, there’s nothing but shock. Then, anger flares through me. Who the fuck does this little bitch think he is? Was he going through my trash? Did he get his little hacker friend Vox to fucking dig up shit on Greyson?

How fucking dare he?

My blood is boiling, and I’m about to shoot this little fucker point blank for daring to use Greyson against me like he was some sort of bargaining chip when he smiles at me sadly and says, “He also said pretzels on a sandwich are still gross.”

There is a whooshing sensation in my ears. Callum is looking back and forth between Ryan and me like he’s trying to decode some huge, complex puzzle.

“How… how did you-?”

“Funeral director.” Ryan winks at me. “I have a way of communicating with all sorts of folks.”

Callum and I narrow our eyes on him, but Ryan doesn’t elaborate.

Though, I’m getting the impression this cute but weird freckley man is trying to tell me he can talk to dead people, and Greyson had just sent me a message from beyond the fucking grave.

The skeptic in me wants to completely reject this information. However, there is literally no one on the planet who knows about Greyson and my argument about pretzels on a sandwich. Which makes my heart hurt.

Ryan is watching me closely. I want to straight up ask him if he can see dead people, but I can tell that Cal doesn’t seem to know about this weird shit, and for some reason, it doesn't feel right getting in on that lover’s spat.

“So… friends?” Ryan asks hopefully, and I find myself nodding, still reeling from the information.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” I say, my voice rough for reasons I’m not willing to examine too closely.

The smile on Ryan’s face solidifies my decision. No one could fake a smile like that and be anything less than genuine.

Callum and I exchange a look, and he nods at me too, though notably more grumpy about the arrangement than his man is.

“Friends,” he agrees, and we both turn to leave at the same time. I notice that Ronan and Dakota aren’t there, and for a brief second, I panic. But then I spot them in the car, and the most overwhelming relief washes over me.

They’re safe. My men are safe. They’re fucking safe, and I’m going to be the one to keep them that way.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Home (with Machine Gun Kelly, X Ambassadors & Bebe Rexha)

I still feel shocked, going back over and over what Ryan said. Is it really true? There’s no way that it’s true, but how in the hell did he know that fact about Greyson?

Ronan is deathly silent, and I keep checking back, but he just stares out the window, gripping both pieces of Buffalo.

“Ronan, are you okay?”

No response. I glance at Dakota. “Is he okay?” Christ, maybe he got hurt when I was busy and didn’t notice.

Dakota shakes his head. “He said he wants Buffalo back.”

He has him back? As I risk another glance back though, I see he’s not fully back. Buffalo is still in pieces.

Okay. I can fix this. We can put him back together. I focus on the problem immediately in front of me. How do we put him back together? “Dakota, do you have a sewing kit back at home?”

Dakota snorts.

Yeah, I should have known the answer to that. Maybe I can go out and buy one? But then I realize I’ve never sewn a day in my life. Then, I remember who has: my moms.

Okay. Yes, I can fix this.

I haven’t talked to either of my moms in a few weeks. I dial up ‘Mom’ since I know ‘Momma’ is probably at work.

“Logan!” Her voice is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “How are you?” She sounds excited.

“Good, hey,” I glance in the rearview mirror, “mind if we stop by? I have a favor.”

“We?” Mom’s voice gets higher, like she’s a shark smelling blood in the water.

“Yeah, I’m,” I consider my eardrums before saying the next words, “bringing my–” I stare at Dakota. Is he ready to be outed? “Boyfriend over?”

The resulting screech makes me yank the phone away so loud I know both Ronan and Dakota can hear her yelling. It’s a happy yelling, and I’m fucking happy too. In fact, I’m proud. I glance back at the men with me—my men—and Dakota looks slightly horrified. Ronan just shakes his head, muttering, “Loud.” I’m just glad to see him respond.

It takes Mom a minute to calm down. She pulls herself together, likely trying not to scare me off, and then I hang up.

“I didn’t want to… tell her if you weren’t okay with it.” I glance back at Dakota, who shrugs.

“You don’t have to tel-l-l-l her if you don’t want to.” He’s staring at his hands.

Oh hell, did he get the wrong idea? “Kota, look at me,” I demand, wishing I didn’t have to keep looking at the road.

His gaze snaps up to mine in the mirror, and I say, “I want to.”

There’s a slight flush to his cheeks, then he looks back down, muttering something.

“What?” I have to rip my gaze back to the road.

“Okay,” he says. I take a quick glance again, and he’s grinning slightly.

I’ll fucking take it.

It doesn’t take long to get to the trailer that I grew up in, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say the closer I get, the more my knee doesn’t bounce. I’ve never brought anyone except Greyson here. Especially not after he left. I moved out as soon as I could and rarely came back.

“Hey, uh,” I clear my throat. “It’s probably going to be messy in there. Mom and Momma are a bit… Well, they’re collectors.” Of junk, but I don’t say that.

The car is quiet, and I see Ronan is back to staring at Buffalo. Dakota speaks up. “Hey, I kinda have a zero item policy…so like…if anyone has-s-s-s things in their home, I have to go.”

I yank my eyes off the road to meet his. His pretty lips turn up in a teasing smile.

Oh shit. Kota is making a joke.

Suddenly, I’m warm, and my leg doesn’t want to bounce as much.

I can do this. I can do it.

When we get out of the car, everything is so familiar. It’s like I’m taken back fourteen years, and I’m that scared kid again.

Only, I’m not. I have my two men here with me. I can fucking do this.

Mom is waiting at the door when we arrive. She still has blond hair like mine, although hers is graying heavily. Her smile lines deepen as she flings her arms around me, squeezing me tightly even though she’s tiny and short.

“Mom, these are my boyfriends.”

I motion at the two, and her eyes go wide. There’s a silence where both my men look tense and like they don’t know what to do. Then my mom explodes in excited chatter, “Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet you!”

Dakota lets out a surprised grunt when Mom hugs him. She pulls back, grabbing Ronan’s face. “Oh god, you are so perfect. How did you meet?”

Ronan flinches back, and I immediately step forward. “Mom.” I motion at the cow in Ronan’s hands, trying to distract her from Ronan’s flinch. Fuck, why did she have to grab him? “Can we go inside?”

She looks at the toy. “Oh god, of course! Come in.”

Mom bustles inside, and I step in first. I don’t want them to feel like the place is unsafe with all the things piled up. It’s not. Not really, just cluttered. The house is just as messy as I remember it. There are still random objects piled high all along the walls and on top of each other.

“Can I get you anything to eat?” Mom moves to the kitchen. “It’s almost dinner. I was going to make a sandwich, but now I can–”

“No, sandwiches are good.” I smile. Mom cooking things is usually a disaster.

Both Ronan and Dakota are standing around, being polite. They look so… big in this cluttered house it almost makes me smile. Two big criminals standing around trying to be polite to my Mom. It’s cute.

Mom rattles on, asking them rapid-fire questions as she makes food. The questions involve where the men work, if they have kids, how long we’ve known each other, and if we are engaged? With that question, she motions at the ring on Ronan’s hand. My ring.

It makes me more smug than I should be. We’re not married, but they are mine. Ronan and Dakota each answer her. Dakota gives short answers and doesn’t stutter, and Ronan puts on a polite show. They both slide into what I would imagine is their cop demeanor.

“Hey, Mom,” I interrupt her tirade. “Do you think you can fix this?” I wave at Buffalo.

“Oh sure, yeah. What is it?” She finishes making the sandwiches and comes over, pulling her glasses down her nose. I notice she didn’t wash her hands before coming over, and I know Ronan’s not going to want to give over Buffalo.

“Just a… toy. It’s important to… one of the kids I work with.” Ronan clutches him.

“Oh damn, that’s a good tear there.” Mom laughs and reaches out to take the piece.

Ronan doesn’t give them over.

“Can I see it? I want to see how thin the fabric is.”

Ronan trembles a little and finally hands Buffalo over. Mom looks him over, examining the tear. “Yeah, I can fix it. No problem.”

“Can you do it now?”

She looks up at me in surprise. “Now?”

I nod. Ronan won’t want to be away from Buffalo for long. I already saw how stiff he was when he gave it over.

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I give her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m gonna go show them my room. Okay?”

“Sure, yeah, no problem. Oh god, I’m so glad Logan’s finally met some nice boys.” She grins, and I push Dakota in the direction of the hallway.

When we get to my room, I move them both inside and shut the door.

And that’s when all the feelings hit me. All at once, like a big punch to the face. Greyson may have sent me a message from the grave, and now I’ve brought my boyfriends back to the same place he and I used to haunt.

“Oh fuck. This is old.” Dakota sits on the edge of my bed, grabbing my game controller.

I cough, trying to get some semblance of control back. Ronan must notice ‘cause he traces his hand down my arm.

“Oh, is that what your tattoo is from?” Dakota looks at my arm. The one with the sleeve that ends at the game tattoo on my wrist.

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “It used to be Greyson’s favorite.”

“S-s-s-ick.” Dakota flops on my bed. “Mine too.” He stares at me for a bit. “What’s under the blackout?”

I glance down at my arm, not sure how he knew. But both men are perceptive as hell. “Uh, other tattoos that reminded me of… him.” I clear my throat. If I’m ever going to heal from this, I need to at least talk about it. “Greyson.”

“He sounds cool. I bet we would have gotten along.” Dakota sits up straight. “A keyboard.”

I glance around. Sure enough, Mom must have dragged the keyboard in here, and I didn’t notice. Dakota gets up, searching for a place to plug it in.

Ronan moves quietly to the bed, sitting down. A twinge of worry goes through me. I hate seeing Ronan quiet.

He looks at me and gives me a sad smile.

Dakota finds the plug and plays a few keys. “It works!” Then he plays some notes to a song while awkwardly bending over because there is no chair.

“You good?” I sit next to Ronan.

“Peachy.” He tries to put on a show, but I see what he’s doing.

“Same.” I sigh, leaning back to watch Dakota, who’s rolled into playing a pretty classical piece. The music washes over us, and I slowly let it relax me.

Ronan must relax too because slowly, his head falls to my shoulder, and he sighs. Then, the quietest words come out, “It’s so quiet.”

I let out a whoosh of breath, looking around the room. It takes me a second to realize that Ronan’s talking about Buffalo, not the music. Putting my hand on his thigh, I stroke it there, back and forth.

“It’s not fair,” I say quietly. Because it’s not. It isn’t fair that Greyson died. It isn’t fair that Ronan’s seen more than his share of trauma. And it isn’t fair that Dakota has lived more than his share of trauma. But, as the music plays around us, I realize that it also isn’t fair that I’ve found the best men to be by my side. I don’t deserve them, and yet here they are.

And maybe, just maybe, it was true that Greyson forgives me. And that he understands. And at that thought, I realize something. I still have the music Greyson left for me before he died. The music I’ve never heard.

I bolt up, startling Ronan.

“Be right back.” I dart out of the house, find the papers I had put in the glove box of my car, and then return with the papers clutched in my hands. They’re hand-drawn music. When I come back in, Dakota stops playing, and he looks a little startled.

“Can you play this?” I push it at him, breathing heavily.

He looks at it. “What is it?”

“Uh, Greyson… left it for me.” My heart is racing. I never tried to play it because I never thought that I was ready. I didn’t even look at it. I’m still not sure that I’m ready.

“This is for the guitar.”

I have one in the closet. I have to push mountains of stuff out of the way, but I find it and give it to Dakota.

He gives me a small smile. “Thanks.”

Ronan pats the bed beside me, and I sit beside him, taking a minute to center myself. Then, Dakota starts playing, and immediately, I’m caught up in a melancholy song that’s hauntingly familiar. It’s the song Greyson was playing when I first met him.

I’m caught up in the music with tears in my eyes when Ronan pulls something out of his pocket. It’s the ring. The silver one with the gears. He spins it round and round, then says softly, “I need a drink.”

I sit up straighter, immediately turning to him.

“Need, but won’t get.” Ronan spins it furiously, then looks at me. “But if I’m healing, then you have to also.”

I stare at him.

“It’s not fair.” He scowls. “You can’t just be this fixer for the rest of us if you’re broken too. Don’t ask me to do all the work.”

I swallow, my throat tight. Dakota keeps playing, starting the song over and starting to hum. The sound is the most beautiful and sad thing at the same time.

“I miss him.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.

The corner of Ronan’s mouth tips up. “I know.” Then he says even softer, “I know.”

And, in that moment, nothing is okay, and everything is okay all at the same time. Life isn’t fair, but it’s also so, so beautiful.

I reach out, tracing my hand behind Ronan’s head and pulling his face to mine, suddenly needing him more than my next breath. Then, I smash my lips to his, kissing him brutally. Kissing him so hard it hurts. And he returns it, also grabbing the back of my head and pressing me to him.

The kiss grows deeper, and I’m shoving Ronan onto his back. He falls with a muffled whoosh, and I’m pressing my lips to him the whole way. Breathing in his sounds and pulling him into me as much as I possibly can. Trying to melt him to me.

I need him. Desperately. I shove up just enough to yank my pants down. “Dakota, come.”

The demand is back in my voice. I want to watch Dakota’s face as I press into Ronan. Want to watch the desire unfold there in the most intoxicating dance.

“Your mom,” Ronan says, but he’s still trying to pull his pants down.

“Guess you’ll just have to be quiet then, hmmm?” I’m stroking my dick, but I don’t need to. It’s already rock hard, leaking precum all over my hand. I cover my dick in it. Then Dakota is there, standing beside me, looking unsure.

“Pants,” I bark at him. If I’m not inside Ronan in two seconds with Dakota’s dick in my hand, I think I’ll lose it.

Ronan pulls his shirt off and starts to flip over, but I pin him with a quiet growl. “No. Face me.” Ronan’s eyes go wide, and for a second, I watch him consider fighting me.

I press against his ass, harsh and insistent. I don’t give him time to roll away because I know he doesn’t want me to. Ronan loves when I take control.

So that’s what I do.

Ronan’s back arches off the bed, and he lets out a moan as I push the tip into him.

“Never any lube?” Ronan’s gritting his teeth, and I slow down, grabbing Dakota’s pants and yanking them down.

“You like a little bit of pain.”

Ronan looks up at me, and I’ve never experienced this intimate position before. His dick bobs on his stomach, hard and veiny. I grab Dakota, who’s also hard, and it sends sparks through my whole body.

This is where I’m meant to be. With these men.

And then I see the scars on Ronan’s chest. The scars that I left. The ones that read: dead.

My chest seizes, and I stop completely, staring at Ronan. My heart squeezes for multiple reasons. I was so lost when I did that to him. And I hate that I did that to him.

Ronan seems to notice where I’m looking. His look softens, and he grabs my hand, squeezing it. “Hey.”

“Christ, Ronan,” my voice is shaky.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Fuck, if I wasn’t convinced you were going to kill me, it would have been hot.”

“Jesus, you guys are kinky,” Dakota mutters.

“I’m sorry.”

Ronan’s gaze hardens. “You’re gonna be sorry if you don’t hurry up and fuck me.”

I let out a stuttered laugh, pushing into Ronan. “You guys mean the world to me.” My voice is strained, both from the attempt to keep from coming and from the emotion. “You make me so happy.”

Dakota groans as I stroke him. He’s already so hard, and I love the way he responds.

“And I will do everything I can to make you happy,” I grunt, pushing into Ronan in little increments. His body wraps around me in a heavenly squeeze, making my balls draw up already. Fuck, Ronan makes my long game a thing of the past. Or maybe in the past, I just didn’t care about anyone I messed around with.

Dakota grunts loudly, thrusting into my fist, and I give a strained chuckle, “Quiet, cub. Don’t want anyone hearing you.”

He makes a strained sound.

“Or maybe you’re into that?” I look over at him, and Dakota flushes.

“Oh fuck, you nasty boy.” I also grab ahold of Ronan, stroking his dick and making him moan. If I’m not going to last, then I’m taking them with me.

My whole body is full of pleasure and fire. Because I have my men. And it’s my honor to get to love them fully. To make them safe and happy, even as they do the same for me.

When Ronan comes, shooting cum all over his stomach and abs, his ass squeezes me, milking my own orgasm out of me. I grunt, coming deep inside Ronan. Dakota follows shortly after, and I jerk the cum onto Ronan’s stomach, then force Dakota to clean it all up with his tongue.

And Christ, if it isn’t the most happy I’ve ever been.

SEVENTY-FIVE

Lost My Mind - Alice Kristiansen

Logan is taking me on a date. A real date to the tattoo parlor. Which tickles me more than I’d like to admit. He wants to hang out with me.

When we arrive, Logan grabs my hand and pulls me into the parlor with a grin on his face.

“Wait…” I hang back a little, which just makes Logan tug me harder. He wants to hold my hand in here? Like…just in front of everyone?

“Come on, they won’t bite.” Logan pulls me into the most eclectic, dark tattoo parlor. There are knick-knacks and pictures all over the walls, and the decor is maximalist, but the space is clean. Logan tugs me past a man tattooing a client to a corner with decor that’s a little less chaotic. He looks around with a smile.

“Oh, so you are alive.” The other tattoo artist sounds salty. He’s a hot blond man around our age, and immediately, I feel a strange twinge.

“I only called you a hundred times.”

“Got sick.” Logan barely glances at the other man, and his gaze is only for me. “What do you want today, baby?”

I blink, looking around. “I didn’t…bring any m-m-m–”

Logan gives me a harsh look. “Don’t be stupid. You get the boyfriend discount.”

There’s a huff across the room.

Logan winks at me, and I flush.

“Here. Let me look at what you have.”

I don’t tell him that he looked at it already. In excruciating detail. Last night. His tongue may or may not have been all over every piece I have.

Logan just winks at me again. “Come here.”

I follow him sheepishly to one of the private rooms in the back.

“Had to take your shirt off, so I figured I’d give you some privacy.”

“What are you doing?” But Logan’s already pulling at my shirt.

“Just an excuse to see you naked.” He laughs as he gets my shirt off and pretends to look at my sleeve again. “Oh yes. Fuck, you have the perfect skin.”

Logan kisses my shoulder, and I shiver. It’s still weird to have him worship my body like he does. But weird in a good way.

Suddenly, Logan grips my shoulders and turns me, pinning me against the wall. “Hmmm,” he hums, “such a pretty back. We should definitely expand your piece back here, too.”

I have a dragon that my artist started a while back, but I never fully finished the wings or the fire. I’d love to have it done. And bonus, I won’t have to worry about sunscreen very often back there.

Then, Logan’s pressing his whole body up against mine, grinding against me, and I suck in a breath. “Logan.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles.

“We’re…people can hear us!”

“Don’t you like that, cub?” He nips at the back of my ear.

Fuck, the thrill of it races through me. The forbidden nature of it.

“I think you do.” Suddenly, his hand is pushing my pants down.

“Logan!”

“Shhhh.” His hand is around my front, gripping my hard dick before I can stop him. Not that I really want to stop him. The smooth glide of his rings mixes with the warmth of his hand, and the sensation makes me shiver.

“What would you think about matching tattoos?” Logan asks, a little louder, projecting his voice.

“Wh-what?” I try to focus as he pulls on my dick, and I hear him shuffle behind me. Suddenly, I feel something hard against my ass. It’s his dick.

“How do you feel about them?” Logan asks, and suddenly, I wonder if that’s what he’s really asking as his dick nudges against my ass.

Is he going to take me right here?

“What if someone catches us?” I hiss.

“And? I’m not ashamed of you,” Logan responds.

My whole body warms just as his dick pushes against my entrance, and I stiffen.

“I’ll make it good,” Logan murmurs in my ear.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Suddenly, Logan’s hand is gone, and I hear the snap of a lid open. Then Logan’s dick is back, and it’s coated in something slick and cold. Lube.

Fear races through me, mixed with excitement.

“What a sweet, nasty boy. You want this, don’t you?”

I can only nod. Because I do. And I’m tired of hating myself for that.

“Good boy,” Logan croons. “Now be good and quiet for me, yeah?” And then he’s pressing against my entrance and reaching around at the same time. Immediately, I stiffen. The pressure feels weird.

“Easy.” He strokes me until I loosen a little, the pleasure making me chase his hand.

Logan chuckles, and this time, when he presses in, it doesn’t hurt. It’s uncomfortable for a brief second, and for that second, I struggle to stay relaxed. We’re so close to everyone else. What if they hear this? But Logan keeps stroking me, making pleasure curl through me.

There’s a bump somewhere in the store, and I stiffen.

Logan doesn’t care. He keeps going, manipulating my body so there’s a perfect mixture of pleasure and pain.

“Nasty, nasty, letting me fuck you where anyone could see.” Logan says the words, but they no longer feel dirty. They just feel…hot.

I stifle a moan.

“You’re my nasty boy. Here. I’ll help you stay quiet.” Suddenly, he’s shifting, and then something is in front of my face.

No, not something. Logan’s hat.

“Bite it,” Logan whispers.

“What?” I gasp, and he takes the opportunity to shove the cloth part of the hat into my mouth. It’s salty and degrading and so fucking hot.

“Shhhh,” Logan chuckles, working me up to a frenzy, pushing more of himself in me until he’s rubbing against a special spot that makes stars explode across my vision.

I mutter into the hat, not caring how loud I’m being anymore.

He licks up my neck, saying softly, “Yeah?”

I groan again because I think I’m going to come.

“Do it. Be my nasty boy and come for me. Paint these walls so I have something to remember you by.”

Everyone on the other side of this wall could just walk in and see what we’re doing. What Logan’s doing to me. What I guess my boyfriend is doing to me. And that’s what pushes me over the edge; the forbidden pleasure is taking over my body. I explode all over the wall in front of me, stifling my moans into the hat as much as possible.

“Fuck, cub. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” Logan pumps into me from behind, ramping up the tempo, grunting quietly until I feel him stiffen inside me. And then he’s coming, filling me with pump after pump of cum.

And after, he cleans me up with such care and concern that I can’t help but blush. And I still feel dirty. Dirty and nasty in a way that I control.

It’s hot and sexy and safe, and I fucking love it.

SEVENTY-SIX

Home - Good Neighbors

It’s been a few weeks since I got Buffalo back and in one piece. It’s hard to tell his head was ripped off as Logan’s mom rearranged his fluff to cover the spot.

I spin the ring on my finger. The one I meant to throw out, but now has become a permanent fixture on my hand.

Buffalo still isn’t talking to me. I’m sober now, and it’s hard. It’s just as hard as I thought it was going to be. But Logan and Dakota have been there every step of the way.

They’re on a date at the tattoo shop now, which is the cutest and most disgusting thing ever. I could have gone, but I just wanted to stay back. Most of my days have been trending up, but today, I want to wallow.

With Buffalo. Today is the six-month anniversary of our friendship. Or, at least, when he started talking to me. I think we were friends long before that. When he’d sit in the interview rooms with me and talk to those kids. Those kids, who I still haven’t forgotten about, but now, each time I think about them, it’s less distressing.

And fuck, it hurts not to hear him anymore. I suppose that’s what happens when you get sober. I’d like to dick-punch whoever made those rules.

Fortunately for the guys, I’m still funny. Annoying is what they call it, but I know what they mean. Life has been good. And I can’t believe I’m saying that. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Obviously, things have been different. I feel less manic. I think I’ve downgraded from a grippy sock vacation to something that resembles… peace. And it’s discomforting because I’ve never felt that before in my life. We still get into trouble. In fact, Cal and Vox have needed some help with Apex, which I swear has given Logan a hernia. But it’s fun. It’s what I was meant to do.

But there’s something about Logan and Dakota that brings it out of me. Well, that and Logan fucks the shit out of me every time he thinks I’m thinking about drinking. Which is a lot. He often recruits Dakota for an extra hand, too. 

“Well, Buff, you man whore.” I put him on the kitchen table. “I’ll make us some dinner.”

I make the only thing I’m good at—flat scrambled eggs—and as I am, I notice something on the counter. It’s something wrapped with a bow on it, and it has my name.

What the fuck? Instinctively, I wait for Buffalo’s commentary, and when it doesn’t come, I pick him up so he can open the item with me.

It’s oddly shaped, and when I unwrap it, I frown. It’s… syrup? I turn it over to see the label has been scribbled out, and in its place is written “weenie drizzle.” I snort. Oh, this fucker thinks he has jokes. Upon closer examination, I see that the syrup has sparkles in it. It’s glittery weenie drizzle.

Jesus Christ.

I realize that under the syrup is a note. Opening it, I see it’s addressed to me.

Tears fill my eyes. This stupid motherfucker. I’m laugh-crying, and I squeeze the stuffed animal. He truly was my best friend. And now I have more.

Suddenly, I hear the garage opening. I sniff back my tears because I gotta keep up my image. Gangsters don’t cry and all that.

Then Logan and Dakota come in, arguing about something. Dakota is laughing. “That’s stupid.”

“No it’s not!” Logan cries in a fake-injured voice.

“Jesus Chris-s-st, he will not want that on your body!”

“What about you?” Logan’s trapping Dakota against the wall.

“What are you talking about?” I join in, grinning at the deer-in-the-headlights look Dakota gives me.

“Oh, uh…n-n-nothing.”

“You’re the worst liar.” I laugh.

“Dakota doesn’t think you’d want me to get a WWBD tattoo.” Logan pouts.

I blink at him. “What the hell is that?”

Logan throws up his hands. “What would Buffalo do? No one gets it.”

I stare at him, trying to keep my mouth from dropping open.

Dakota snickers. “See. I was right.”

“Oh no.” I turn to Dakota. “You shush. I’m processing.” Because I do like it. I like it a whole hell of a lot, and I’m getting the tingles over Logan being willing to do that.

Dakota grins, a glint coming in those pretty brown eyes, and I know what he’s about to say. He starts to get the words out, “Make m–” Then I crash my lips down over his, shutting him up. I’ll fucking make him.

Dakota instantly parts his lips for me, letting me in. I moan into his mouth, never getting tired of doing this. Because, even without the whiskey, I think I might be a little gay.

Logan’s hand falls on my shoulder, and I feel infinitely grateful. For the note they left for me. For helping me get sober. For kidnapping me.

Fuck. I’m definitely fucked in the head because 10/10 would get kidnapped again.

I try to deepen the kiss, but Logan pulls me back, laughing. “Wait, before you fuck.”

I growl at him. How dare he interrupt this? Dick is fucking ready to go.

“I have a proposal. A tattoo idea.” Suddenly, Logan looks shy, which makes me focus.

“I uh, wanted to… give you… Well shit, let me just show you.” Logan pulls up his phone, handing it over to me. His hands are sweaty when I take it.

What the fuck?

And then I see it. It’s a drawing of a highland cow in stunning detail. The same one that he had shown me all that time ago. Every detail is beautiful, and I’m caught up in the thick, messy hair. Jesus Christ, Logan is so talented.

He clears his throat. “If you don’t like that one, I did a few others, but…you know what, they’re stupid. It’s okay.” Logan tries to take the phone away, but I yank it from him.

“I love it! It’s stunning.”

Logan’s face gets pink.

“For real, it’s so insanely cool.” I’d love to have it on my body.

“Cool. Then you don’t need to see the rest.” Logan reaches for the phone again, which means I absolutely have to see the rest. I swipe, only to see a cartoon highland cow with two machine guns and a cigarette hanging from its mouth. It’s captioned: got beef?

I stare at it, and the room goes quiet. Then Dakota’s snickering. “I told you he’d like it.”

“What the hell?” I keep scrolling and find another cartoon cow, but this one’s riding a hotdog slathered in syrup.

“It’s just a joke.” Logan lunges, and I jump back. No way in hell is he taking this gold away from me. I fucking love them. I scroll through image after image, each more wild than the last. Logan is red, and Dakota is mocking him for it. They get into a little scuffle, and all I can think is how fucking lucky I am.

Life isn’t fair. And sometimes, I’m glad for that. Because I don’t deserve these two fuckheads, and yet, here they are.

Suddenly, a text comes through on Logan’s phone. I feel my own vibrate, too. It’s Ryan, to the group chat I’ve affectionately named: Kissing Ass and Taking Names.

Ryan: Hey, guys. Any chance you’re willing to help your new friends out?

Vox: *Three knife emojis and a bomb*

I glance over at Logan and Dakota, a smile spreading across my lips.

“You guys up for some fun?”

EPILOGUE

Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon

6 MONTHS LATER

Ronan: SOS

I stare at the text for a second, then panic runs through me. Ronan’s calling an emergency? I dart up from my desk, grabbing my coat while I call him up.

“Ronan! What’s going on?”

“Outside. Meet me.” Then, he hangs up.

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I rush out of my office. I’m still working at the police department. We decided it would be best to keep me on the inside to keep tabs, and because I always minded my own business, it’s easy to stay under the radar. Ronan and Logan’s cases were quietly filed away under closed, pending further leads.

And any further leads went right into the void of my filing.

I dart to the back lot where Ronan’s sitting in his small car. I rip open the passenger door and slide in.

“What’s-s-s wrong? Are you okay?”

Ronan waves his hand at me. “Everything's fine.”

I continue looking him over, checking for anything that could be off. Then, his words hit me.

“Everything’s…fine?”

He just puts the car in drive and tears out of the lot.

“Hey, I’m working!” I turn to look at the disappearing PD, then yank my gaze back to Ronan. “Why’d you text me SOS?”

“Logan wants us.”

Oh fuck. Is Logan okay? My mind is running a million miles an hour.

Ronan pulls out his phone and shows me a text from Logan.

Logan: Meet me in the place I first fell for you *heart emoji*

What the hell? I stare at Ronan, hoping he fills me in. Logan doesn’t seem to be having any issues. Ronan doesn’t say anything, so I dial Logan up. He doesn’t pick up the first time, which spikes my anxiety. He always picks up. Finally, on the third ring, he answers.

“You’re supposed to be finding me. This is cheating.”

“What is going on? Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, why?”

I groan, slumping back in the seat. “Ronan texted me SOS! I thought you were hurt.”

Ronan mutters, “It was the only way to get you outside.”

I turn to him, taking a long time to register what he just said. “It’s because…I have a job? I can’t jus-s-st leave??”

“You just did,” Ronan says.

“Okay. Turn around.”

“Nope. Finders keepers. I found you, I’m keeping you. Or however the rules go.” Ronan grins at me. “Hang up. You’re cheating.”

I don’t realize I still have Logan on the phone, but when I check, Logan has already hung up.

These fuckers. Why am I the only responsible one here?

I know Ronan won’t drop me back off. Mostly because he’s a stubborn brat, and he loves making me do things I don’t want to do. So let’s just do whatever it is we need to do. I cross my arms, faking being upset. But really, it’s a relief to be with Ronan and outside those walls. I’ve really become a little simp in the past few months, and I’m just as addicted as I was.

“Meet him where he first fell for us.” Ronan takes a turn. “The movie theater.”

The movie theater? I frown. “You mean where Logan almost killed me after you killed someone in front of me?”

“Not in front of you. Before you got there.”

“Oh, my bad. Details, details.” I roll my eyes.

Ronan snickers and turns on the radio. Almost as soon as he does, his phone dings, and he digs it out of his pocket.

“Hey! No texting and driving.” I wrestle the phone out of his hand.

Ronan just gives a frustrated snort. We’ve done this song and dance a few times. I want him to be safe. He likes to bitch and moan, but he’s added my face as a passcode to make it easier for me to help.

“It’s Ember.” I read the text on the screen. “She says: don’t forget Mom’s birthday, or I’ll kick you in the nuts.”

Ronan told us about her and their step-grandpa. Of course, all of us were ready to murder, but Ember told Ronan in no uncertain words that she wasn’t a “fucking kid” and she could handle it her “fucking self” and to back the “fuck off.” They must get their love of cussing from each other. Of course, Ronan wanted to ignore her request, and Logan fought with him over it. He told Ronan that Ember’s choice was taken away so long ago, so don’t take it away again.

Ronan laughs, bringing me back to the present. “Tell her I accept the offer, but it’ll cost her a knuckle sandwich.”

I just roll my eyes and do as he asks.

We keep rolling through town, and some country song comes on the radio.

“Sweet Home Alabama! Love this song.” Ronan cranks it up over the sounds of the wind in the car door. Ronan sings along to the song, spinning the ring Logan gave him over and over.

I huff. I should be at work right now. This is a soft kidnapping. I’m even wearing a gun, and I’m letting it happen. My god, the daddy issues.

Speaking of, Logan’s been trying to find a way to take my dad down. My dad is now working as an auxiliary officer for one of the nearby sheriff’s departments, which just rubs me the wrong way. My dad doesn’t deserve to have that spot. He’s not a protector. He’s an abuser.

It took me a while to come to that conclusion. Logan and Ronan helped me, reminding me of what love actually looks like. Once I learned that, I felt a massive weight lift from my shoulders. I feel free. Except for the fact my dad is still in a position to harm people.

I told Logan he could try to take my dad down, and he could do that however he saw fit, including telling my story. I just…didn’t want to be the one to do it. The memories still hurt deeply. But I told him it also had to be safe. No putting himself or Ronan at risk. I didn’t include Ronan in the conversation. Ronan has grown so much, but he’s only six months sober, and healing takes time.

We pull up to the movie theater, and Ronan is grinning ear to ear. “What do you think he wants to show us?”

I follow him inside, remembering that first day we met. Little did I know it was going to start the best days of my life. Although, that first day didn’t feel so good.

“I don’t think Logan meant this when he said fall for us.” It’s the middle of the day in the middle of nowhere Ohio, so of course, the theater is abandoned. Ronan walks us right past the ticket area, and the employee doesn’t even look up. He drags me to the bathroom, but it is empty, as I expected.

“What the fuck?” Ronan turns in a circle and then opens each stall door.

I can’t help but smirk.

“This is the first place we were all together.”

I think about the text. Fell for us.

Oh fuck. I know where he is. And my knee-jerk reaction is to get pissed.

“I know where he is.” I drag Ronan out to the car. He won’t let me drive—asshole—so I direct him to where we need to go. At first, he has no idea, but then he starts to understand.

He doesn’t argue as we park, and I drag him out of the car. When we get close, I see that I’m right. Because there, in front of the place we buried our first body together, is a pop-up camper with lights strung up all around.

Logan comes out, grinning at us. “Where I first fell. Get it?” He’s practically vibrating.

Ronan puts on a grumpy face. “This is bullshit.” But I see the way he’s trying not to smile.

“Date night!” Logan grins.

It’s not technically night, but I just stifle my grin at how happy Logan looks. It’s stupid how sappy all of this is. And yet…I kinda love it.

We spend the afternoon fucking in every position possible. Logan makes me crawl to lick his feet, then Ronan fucks me from behind, then we switch it up, and both Logan and I team up on Ronan. Then, when we’re panting and hot and completely spent inside the camper, Logan turns on a movie. He makes popcorn over the stove, then settles in next to me.

“I got something for you.”

I turn to look at him. His blue eyes are smiling. He hands me an article that he has printed out. It’s a news report. ‘Officer Stewart Retires After a Career of Service.’

I sit up straighter. That’s my dad in the picture. He’s shaking the hands of the sheriff.

“He’s…retired?” How did I not know this? My dad didn’t want to retire. 

Logan grins. “A little…persuasion.”

I turn to him. “You did this?”

He just gives me a small smile. “I know it’s not–”

“No. This is…everything.” My heart wells up, and my throat is tight. I’m conflicted about actually killing my dad, mostly because I’m fucking terrified it’ll put my men on Apex’s radar even more than they are. But also because…it won’t change anything. My dad did what he did, and it’s over now. I just don’t want him to have the power to do it to anyone else.

“What are you guys whispering about?” Ronan butts in, grinning and tossing popcorn in his mouth.

I grin at him. “About how you could probably fit two dicks in your ass at the same time.”

Ronan’s eyes get comically wide. “Well fuck!”

Logan laughs. “That wasn’t a no.”

“No!” Ronan turns to me. “You’re the bottom, that’s all you.”

Oh fuck. This turning around on me was not what I wanted.

Logan turns a lazy smile my way. “I could go again, couldn’t you, Ronan?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Get away from me.” I scramble up, part fear and part excitement running through me.

“Make me!” Ronan sings.

I don’t even get to the door before they catch me.

And I’m not even mad about it.

The End

BONUS EPILOGUE

SIR ELLINGTON

Waltz of the Flowers - London Symphony Orchestra

My rescued person is late. Again. Ever since I rescued Dakota, I’ve tried to train him to be better. Normally, I don’t get my tail in a twist over his absence, but today, today, it’s a problem.

The loud one—Ronan—has dressed me up.

Again. And this time, it’s absolutely unbearable. I look like an idiot.

When Ronan put this outfit on me, I tried to bite him.

And missed. All the treats he sneaks me are making me fat. 

I glare at Ronan through the tank. Come at me again, motherfucker. I won’t be that slow.

Ronan just grins, grabbing the treat bag and offering me another.

I sniff and look away. He laughs, then drops the treat in my bowl.

Then, I hear the house rumble, then the door opens. Dakota comes through, juggling bags.

‘Fucker! Hey! Come help me,’ I yell through the glass.

Dakota ignores me.

“How was the store?” Ronan is smirking. He throws a look my way, which I narrow my eyes to.

“Fine.” My man calls from the kitchen. I hear him putting the food away.

‘Hey! Look what he did to me!’

“Come here.”

“Fucking bossy,” Dakota mumbles, coming into the room. “What?”

‘Look at me!’

Ronan just grins.

My man just looks around. “What, fucker?”

Ronan motions at me.

Finally, Dakota comes over. His eyes widen. “What the…” He looks over at Ronan. “Why is Sir Ellington in a ‘I heart my mommy’ hoodie’?”

And a top hat. Does he not see the top hat??

“Welcome home, mommy.” Ronan makes little kissy faces with his mouth.

“You–” Dakota lunges at him.

‘Hey!’ I shout, but they ignore me. The two grapple on the couch, wrestling over each other, trading hit after hit. Because of course they do, the ogres.

Then, the third ogre comes out of the bedroom. “What is going–”

He’s hit with a flying fist, and then they all join in.

‘Come help me!’

But, of course, no one does. Instead, they wrestle down the hallway, continuing to fight. And as much as I’m pissed, I’ve never seen my rescued person this happy. Not even when he was playing his music.

‘Now you know what it feels like.’

I glance over. Buffalo is sitting next to the tank. As usual, he has tufts of hair sticking up from all angles.

Buff sighs dramatically. ‘They have all the fun and never let us join.’

‘Gross.’ I sniff and turn to the pile of treats in my tank. I dig into the food Ronan left me. If I’m going to continue to deal with this, I’m going to need sustenance. And by this, I mean Buffalo. Ronan thinks he’s stopped talking, but if anything, he’s been talking more. And now I have to suffer.

Which is bullshit, and I tell him that at least once a day. But deep down, I’ve always been a sucker for rescues. First Dakota, now Ronan and Logan. And Buff. Gotta do my good deeds because god knows the other three aren’t doing them.

Plus, I’m a bit of a masochist, and Buff is so annoying it hurts. In a good way, I guess.

‘They’re probably kissing right now. Hot.’

I twitch my tail. ‘Would you shut up?’

Buffalo looks down his fluffy nose, in only the way Buff can, and snorts, ‘Make me.’

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hello my nasties!! DNFing isn’t in your vocab is it? Hehehehe whether you’re here willingly or because you’re stubborn, thank you. It truly means the world to be able to share my stories with you guys. Thanks for hallucinating about some words on a page with me. You’re the real ones!

Special thanks to my besties Alex and Sarah. This book is our love child and I will happily share custody with you. Alex – it’s been the best experience in the world to write a shared world with you. Your characters and ideas are just MY FAVORITE. Not to mention you are the best friend ever. Thank you for being there and for giving all the best ideas. Sarah – my queen. You’ve been the bestest most patient and kind friend. Thanks for putting up with my million breakdowns about this book and for the best inspiration and for the best idea in the world – the epilogue. You guys are seriously my world.

And special thanks to my other beta, Laurelyn! Per usual, your ability to sniff out plot holes will be both my favorite and least favorite thing ever (boo editing lol). But seriously, your input is the best ever and I so much appreciate you.

Massive thank you to my editor and friend Taylor as well! You are the glue that holds me together, and I love your sweet soul.

Thank you to my sensitivity reader Rhiann. Your advice for Dakota was everything. Thank you so much for teaching me about your world and his. And thank you to Cesco, for helping me understand the multilayered dynamics in an MMM relationship and the complexity of the path from denial to acceptance. Also, you’re very right, the lube was necessary LOL. Thank you to Lindsay for requesting a MMC with a backwards hat, as well as a bunch of other fun tropes. And to BrittJoy who coined the term “weenie drizzle.”

Toaster.

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Kisses! Muah!