Page 24

We emerge into a clearing, and the sudden moonlight is almost blinding after the dense darkness of the forest. Here, the light pins me down, making me the protagonist in this twisted story. He releases my ankle, and I curl into myself, every breath a new lesson in pain. When I manage to look up, I get my first clear, close view of my attacker in the silver light.

He’s tall—taller than me—with broad shoulders and the build of someone who spends serious time on physical training. The mask covers his entire face, a featureless expanse except for those glowing blue crosses where his vacant eyes are. There’s something almost mechanical about the way he moves, precise and economical, like he’s done this countless times before.

And that worries me a lot.

I struggle to my feet, swaying like a drunk as the world tilts and spins around me. It’s extremely difficult to breathe. Blood drips from somewhere on my scalp, running into my left eye. I’m running on my last fumes.

“Let’s finish this,” I wheeze, raising my fists in what must be the most pathetic fighting stance ever. “Just you and me, freak show.”

He cocks his head again, studying me like I’m some curious bug he’s about to pin to a board. Then, in a blink of an eye, he raises the bat and swings it with full force at my left arm before I can sidestep it.

The impact is like lightning striking bone. I hear myself scream, a sound I barely recognize as mine. My arm dangles uselessly now, definitely broken, the pain so intense that black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

He’s going to kill me.

But not without a fight.

“You fucker,” I growl through gritted teeth, fighting to stay conscious. “How do I strum the guitar now, eh?” I’m a southpaw guitar player after all.

With my last reserves of strength, I lunge forward, aiming low. It’s a sloppy move, born of desperation rather than skill, but somehow it connects. I catch him by surprise as my shoulder hits him just below the waist, and his balance falters. We both go down, a mess of limbs and desperation.

I land on top, straddling his chest, my right hand already curling into a fist. With a savagery I didn’t know I possessed, I tear at the mask covering his face. It comes away with a ripping sound, revealing pale features twisted in surprise—the first emotion I’ve seen from him all night.

“This is for Vivian,” I snarl, driving my right fist into his nose. Blood erupts, spattering us both. “And this is for me.” Another punch, connecting with his mouth, splitting his lip. “And this is for every fucking second of terror you put us through in what should have been our perfect night!”

I punch him again and again, my vision narrowing to a tunnel focused only on his increasingly bloody face.

I don’t stop when he stops struggling.

I don’t stop when his arms fall limp at his sides.

I don’t stop until my arm is too heavy to lift anymore, until the red haze of rage fades from my vision and I realize he’s not moving. Not breathing.

I sit back, chest heaving, every breath a fresh stab of pain. The adrenaline that’s kept me going is ebbing, and with its retreat comes the full awareness of my injuries. My left arm hangs useless and throbbing. My ribs scream with every breath.

And his head is in a pool of blood.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, staring down at the still form beneath me. “It’s over. It has to be.”

I try to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate. The world tilts sideways, trees spinning around me in a nauseating carousel. I’m going to pass out. I know it with absolute certainty.

As I topple backward, something catches me—no, someone. Warm arms wrap around me from behind, a familiar scent enveloping me.

“Andrew, hey… Andy... Don’t die on me, come on, we have a whole ridiculous bucket list of yours to complete!” Vivian’s voice is urgent, terrified, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

I try to respond, but my lips won’t form words. A smile is all I can manage as darkness claims me, the weight of my broken body finally too much to bear. My last coherent thought before consciousness slips away is that she called me Andy—like she did in high school, the one time she helped me up after those bullies knocked me down. And here I am, knocked down again.

Full circle, I think, and then there’s nothing but peaceful black.

Chapter 11

Vivian

After all this shit, dying would be a pretty lame encore

Andrew weighs a fucking ton. His unconscious body is draped over my shoulder in what’s probably the world’s worst shoulder carry, and every step I take sends shooting pain through my legs and my side, which are hurting like hell. I adjust his position for the hundredth time, grunting with the effort. His tattooed arm dangles limply, already swelling and mottled with bruises. The man who kidnapped me hours ago, the man I’ve fantasized about for years, the man who just killed someone to protect us—I’m determined not to let him die in this godforsaken forest.

“Come on, rockstar,” I mutter, trudging forward. “After all this shit, dying would be a pretty lame encore.”