Tom slams the door so hard that the framed pictures on the wall rattle. One of them—some hideous oil painting of a buck—falls to the ground.
Benzos.
Benzodiazepines are a type of drug which includes rohypnol aka roofies aka the date rape drug.
Motherfucker.
My breathing quickens, and I tilt my head up to look at my wrists. The cuffs are attached to these thick ass wood spindles, but there’s a better chance of me getting them free than if I try my feet. The footboard is solid as fuck, and I am not sitting around to wait for Tom Muller to drug me. No goddamn way.
“You can do this Aaron,” I say aloud, taking slow, controlled breaths until my pulse has slowed. “For Kara, for Ashley, for Heather … for Bernadette.” Bracing myself, I yank on my right arm as hard as I can. Pain shoots through me, blinding and hot. I can feel my bones and joints protesting, but I don’t care. If I have to chew my own arm off like a coyote trapped in a canyon, I’ll do it.
I’m getting out of here.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
I close my eyes and think about that night when Hael and I took Bernie’s dress from her. She fought like a wildcat, scratched up our arms and faces. I remember getting back in the car and seeing Hael put his face in his hands.
“What are we doing, Aaron?” he asked me, his voice muffled by his palms. I didn’t know what to say to that. “If she wants to live this life with us, who are we to stop her?”
“Sometimes you have to love someone enough to let them go,” is what I’d said.
I yank on my arm again, so hard that for a moment my heart stops, and a strange sensation shoots from my fingertips to my brain. Pretty sure I just broke something. I ignore it.
We followed Bernadette home the entire way. We watched over her. No way in hell I’d leave my girl alone in the dark in a bra and panties. So even if she didn’t know it, we kept her safe. And then I fucked her. All night long. Over and over.
Another violent wrenching of my arm, and a scream tears from me that I can’t stop. Doesn’t matter though because I heard both David and Tom drive away. The fact that there’s nobody here to guard me means that Ophelia doesn’t have enough money to keep any of her hired thugs on retainer. She’s working with scraps right now. We have to keep her cash flow down if we’re going to win.
My muscles tense for another go, but my mind drifts back to a different night.
“I’m scared, Aaron,” Bernie said, curling her fingers through mine. We put our foreheads together, just naked and breathing.
“If you’re scared, we don’t have to do this,” I told her, and I meant it. If all I cared about was sex, I’d be my father. He’d screw anything that moved; it made my mother suicidal.
“Not of the sex,” she’d whispered, nuzzling against me. “I’m afraid that if we do this, we’ll get too close to each other. If I give you my heart, will you make me bleed?”
And she did give me her heart. And I did make her bleed.
I imagine if I were to die here tonight, Bernie would struggle to recover.
I can’t and won’t do that to her again.
With another scream, I wrench my arm against the cuffs, and something pops. For a second there, I must black out because the next thing I know, my arm is free and sitting bloody and limp on the bed beside me. “If I give you my heart, will you make me bleed?” My brain conjures Bernie’s face up and holds it there as I lift my eyes to see what I’ve managed to break—besides my arm or wrist or what-the-fuck-ever.
The bed frame is still nearly intact, but the spindle I’ve been yanking on has popped out of the horizontal piece above it. Looks like there was a peg on the end that I’ve managed to snap off. At great cost, I might add. Whoever built this goddamn bed deserves a medal; this thing is sturdy as shit.
My breathing is ragged as I try and fail to lift my arm. My right shoulder is screaming in pain, but if I don’t get moving then all of this is for naught. I’ll have hurt myself for no reason at all. It takes me a couple of tries, but my lips move on the syllables of one beautiful word. Bernadette. I know it isn’t healthy to live for one person and one person alone, but … I clench my stomach muscles in anticipation of the pain as I lift my arm up, a ragged sob tearing from my lips that I’m just glad nobody’s around to hear.
I bend my right leg as much as I can, straining my fingers for my bootlace. With another sob, I drop back onto the bed, soaked in sweat and bleeding at the wrist. I’ve really done it, truly and utterly fucked my arm up. And still, my gunshot wound isn’t fully healed either. I’m going to end up scarred and in constant pain like Callum.
Still, small price to pay to get out of this mess.
I try again. And again. And again. Just when I’m starting to think that the goddamn shoelace is out of my reach, my throbbing fingers snag it, and I’m able to grab hold. Fortunately for me, the style at Prescott High is to wear your bootlaces undone. I’ve done it for years. The tongue of this pair is particularly loose, the shoes well-worn, the leather pliable and broken from use. I get the lace in my hand and then collapse again to rest, staring up at the black and white buffalo plaid canopy above my head.
Get out of here, start running, don’t stop until you find Havoc.
My right arm is shaking so badly that I can barely lift it to my lips, using my teeth to pull the metal end of the aglet off to reveal the small square-shaped key inside. Oscar found these things online almost two years ago, and we’ve been wearing them in our shoes ever since.
Never thought I’d really have to use them though.
It takes me three attempts to get the key into the lock on the handcuff, but then there’s this blessed release and I’m groaning as the pressure on my joints finally releases, and I collapse into the bed with my upper body free.
I’m coming, baby, I think as I struggle to sit up, feeling that awful pain in my leg again. Yep, I’ve got a fracture of some sort, and I’m going to have to walk on the damn thing. This should be fun.
I struggle with the ropes for longer than I should, using my left hand almost exclusively while my right one bleeds and trembles. I do my best not to look at it.
“Fuck yes,” I murmur, kicking the last of the ropes away and swinging my feet to the ground. The first time I try to stand, I end up on my knees, cursing and leaning over to brace my left hand against the ground. My entire body hurts, but I make myself crawl toward the door anyway, using the jamb to drag myself to my feet.
If Tom or David or—god forbid—Kali shows up here and finds me, I’m done. I won’t get another chance to escape. So even though it hurts, even though each step is agony, and my right arm hangs limply by my side, I make myself go down the stairs, the same stairs where Kali rolled her boyfriend’s body just hours prior.
There’s still a bit of a bloodstain on the trim.
I ignore it, limping down the steps at a slow but steady pace and finding myself in a great room with vaulted ceilings, a ritzy-rustic kitchen (money just can’t buy authenticity, now can it?), and a living room filled with plaid sofas. It looks like a Black Bear Diner—that is, a rustic chain restaurant—threw up all over the fucking place.
I look at it for a minute, scowl, and then flip the place the bird. On my way out the front door, however, I find a barbecue with lighter fluid next to it. Whoever used it last left a lighter and a pack of cigarettes on the side of the barbecue, too, like they were just asking for this place to be lit up.
Huh.
I don’t really have the time to spare, but maybe if I leave a distraction behind, it’ll help throw anyone who comes here off my trail. After all, I can’t exactly move at a brisk clip.
“Light it up,” I murmur, taking the lighter fluid inside the house and squirting it all over the plush sofas, bearskin rugs, and leather recliners. I put a cigarette between my lips, light it, and then take a drag before putting the crackling cherry against the lighter fluid. There’s a whooshing sound as the flames lick across the sofa, starting a small but pleasant blaze. It’s not all fantastical or movie-worthy or anything, but there is no doubt in my mind: this cabin is going to fucking burn. “Good riddance.”
I turn and limp out the door, taking the lighter and the pack of cigarettes with me.
Bernadette Blackbird
Logan Charter is surrounded by his goons in the back corner of the room. There are whiny little Fuller High and Oak Valley Prep girls everywhere, using their long pinky nails to offer the boys bumps of coke.
“They’re snorting up a goddamn snowstorm over there,” Hael murmurs as we create a half circle around the Charter Crew. Not just the five of us, of course, but like a lot of the Havoc Crew members I’ve never met. I recognize a few from seeing them howl in the hallway, but I never bothered to learn their names. I understand it’s best I keep my distance; the mafia don doesn’t mix with their hired help.
“Good,” Vic says, watching Logan like a wolf stalking prey in the snowy woods. “Cocaine makes you ballsy and reckless. That’s what we need tonight.” With a derisive snort and a deep exhale, Victor moves forward through the crowd and heads straight toward Logan Charter. “Logan,” he calls, and I swear, the entire room settles into a distant murmur as people lower their voices and turn to watch. Kind of difficult to start a war with all these fucking cops around, but I’m assuming Victor knows what he’s doing.
“What the fuck do you want?” Logan asks, favoring his left leg as he turns and moves forward to meet Vic. Kyler is nowhere to be seen. Unsurprising, considering he just lost another brother at the racetrack. One by one, we’re picking them off. Doesn’t feel very satisfying tonight since we’re down one, too.
“Don’t stress,” Hael tells me, turning his head slightly to look down at me. I wonder what he sees when he stares at me, some tell I’m giving off that I don’t even realize, like Callum and his hood or Vic and his chin rubbing. “We got this, Blackbird.”
I try to force a smile, but it doesn’t come. My lips won’t part. Instead, my fingers itch for a cigarette, but I keep them still, my hands hanging at my sides as I watch Vic and Logan face off in the middle of the gymnasium. Above their heads is a giant net filled with balloons. They should probably be in Prescott High’s colors—some idiot decided once upon a time that we should be green and red—but they’re actually in Oak Valley Prep’s blue, gray, and silver.