Page 92 of Watched

I should’ve killed this motherfucker that first night.

Exiting the video, I call the contact labelled Headache. “Meet me at the garage. Bring our masks.”

Hearing the door roll up, I delete yet another video. People are sharing it on every platform and with each other. I’ve deleted eighty so far, but that’s barely scratched the surface. The internet is fucking brutal. It’s easy for people to sit behind a screen and a fake name and judge someone, believing their identity is hidden. I’ll expose every single one of these fuckers for what they’ve said.

Not every comment is bad—there are many supporting him, and others are disgusted that anyone would share this online and violate Rome’s privacy.

Slamming my laptop shut, I throw it to the leather cushion beside me and stand. Blade tosses me my mask, securing his in place and drawing his hood. My ragged breaths heat the inside of the mask as I draw my hood and pull on my leather gloves.

Every single fucking nerve vibrates with uncontrollable rage as I slide into the passenger seat, and then Blade takes off.

I take the master card from my pocket and tap it on the pad. Blade slides in behind to the dark room, positioning himself beside the door while I stalk to the kitchen island and lift myself up, waiting.

Connor lives in a Weston & Myer apartment complex. For five years, Rome could have been coming here, and I had no idea.

“Don’t tell me you’re only going to shoot the fucker?” Blade asks, already sounding disappointed.

I slide the knife out of my other pocket. “He’s going to wish for death.”

“I’ve taught you well.”

“You haven’t taught me shit.”

Blade’s the one who likes to drag out death. I opt for one shot to the head. Torture, while sometimes required, is messy and not always necessary, but Connor Row will pray for death.

My breaths strain against the plastic when the heavy door thuds, and Connor steps in. A started yell cuts the air as Blade grips his wrists, yanking them behind him and flicking on the dim light.

Connor frantically looks between us as he’s pushed to stand before me. “Wh-who-who the fuck are you?” he stammers.

I eye his styled blond hair, khaki pants and white polo, dumbfounded at what enticed Rome to seek his presence.

I point the knife at him. “Rome Aston.”

His face ghosts, but he plays dumb. “Who’s that?”

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” I sigh exasperatedly. “Handsome, kind, selfless. An addicting smile, smell, and presence. He’s a fucking god.”

Connor’s dull brown eyes narrow before he screams for help.

“Come on,” Blade groans. “You know this place is soundproof.”

“What do you want from me?”

Connor stiffens as I tap the knife against his temple. “To rid the Earth of a fucked up, selfish piece of shit.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong!”

I slide off the counter and look down at him, pointing my knife to where he was that night. “A month ago, you woke up there after drinking a glass of vodka.” His eyes widen. “I texted Rome from your phone that night and told him to come over. I then told him he was never allowed to see you again, or I’d kill you… I wish I had.” I raise the knife to dimple his cheek and his bulged eyes zero in on the sharp weapon. “You recorded it, didn’t you?” His lip quivers and he nods. “Rome wasn’t ready to come out yet. You took that choice away from him.” Blood trickles out, and I smile at his piercing scream as I cut to the corner of his mouth. “I also read your texts with him. You loved him, but he never felt the same.”

“He does,” Connor blubbers.

“Shit,” Blade laughs, holding Connor still as he fights. “He’s delusional.”

I want to tell Blade he is as well, but he’s very aware Alexa hates him. He just doesn’t give a fuck.

Connor’s tears mix with the blood, trailing down to where I poke the knife between his collarbone and twist.

“I’ll leave him alone! Please!” he begs.