7. 90 seconds
7
90 SECONDS
RIOT
After a meeting about the kid’s dead dad, the homicide detective bullshit, and this supposed ambush on Saturday night, we’re all sitting around the cafeteria, eating dinner and decompressing. I’ve never truly felt Moros was threatened until now. Reaper Corp is rich, powerful, and merciless, and if they want our town, they have the means to take it. But we won’t let them have it without a fight, and now that my home is being threatened for real, I’m realizing how loyal I am to it.
Moros is everything to me. It’s the one place where I fit. It’s powerful in its own right, has a history I’ve become attached to, and has given me the means and the comfort to be exactly who I am without needing to hide all the time. I might not know who I am at my base, but I do know that belonging to Vile House has given me the time and safety to bring forth my instinctual urges. Director watches over us, but he doesn’t tamp us, and fuck, I hate him sometimes, but I appreciate him for recognizing and accepting all our traits.
The world would see us as criminally insane; Director sees us as crucial evil. It’s the perfect balance.
Ghost has been gone ever since the meeting last night. After I made him important and pissed off Yates, Ghost will be suffering the downfall of that. I grin at my plate, my blood surging to life in anticipation of how he’s going to take it out on me.
After I left with Lockan, we walked down Death Row in silence. He smoked, and I stayed quiet, but he knew. He knows . My voice was modulated, but he’s a smart, perceptive man, and he wouldn’t have walked away from his gang with a Vile Boy if he didn’t have another plan up his sleeve. When we got to the dead centre of town, he stopped, looked at me in my mask, and said, “Assume you guys have a plan?”
I nodded, and with that, we parted ways. Guess we’ll see how his plans mesh with Director’s plans, but for now, I’m staying out of it.
The cafeteria door opens, and I look, immediately grumpy that it isn’t Ghost. Director walks in with Psych and Media, the latter going to fill their plates and the former coming right at me.
“Where’s Ghost?” Director asks.
I shrug, not even attempting to tame my grin.
“He’s supposed to watch Lock for me tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because Yates won’t let him go freely. They’ll be coming for him.”
“Seems like he can handle his own shit,” I comment.
“Yeah, but with Ghost not back, it falls on you to keep an eye on him tonight. I want to see how Yates reacts, but I also want intel on what Lockan does. If he’s going to be our ally with The Misfits, I need to know he has the power to control them.”
Oh, he has the power. I spied on them before making myself visible for the meeting, and inside the hall, the gang members all flocked to Lock for advice and guidance. In their minds, he’s the rightful leader, and an overtaking isn’t going to be hard. Yates is a shifty bastard, so he’ll put up a fight, but if he has Reaper Corp in his pocket, that’s a whole other issue.
“Monster?” Director asks, looking down the table. Monster looks at him but says nothing. Something triggered him a few days ago, and he hasn’t spoken since. The only one who can even get near him right now is Ransom, but Director still tries. Psych hovers nearby, waiting to see if Monster will agree to meet with her. He glares at her instead. “I need you with Riot tonight.”
Monster stares at Director for so long that the room goes hushed. Ransom is the only one who keeps eating dinner, not intimidated by the little one’s virulent energy. Eventually, Monster nods and looks away.
Great, a night with the angry one in the throws of a manic nightmare. This’ll be fun.
The cafeteria door bangs inward, and a second later Ghost rips me from my seat. We both fall backwards, and he lands on top of me, all fired up and pissed off—just how I like him.
“Hey, sweetheart.” I smile at his scowl.
“You fucked me over so hard!” he snaps at me, his fist following. I turn my face, but it still lands against my jaw. “You know what shit I’ve had to deal with all night thanks to you?”
“I made you important.” I laugh in his face. “You’re welcome.”
Oh, the rage. No one has a higher sense of self than Ghost does. Oh, wait. I do. But he doesn’t like being unimportant, so he shakes on top of me, weighing the pros and cons of killing me right here, right now. I buck my hips to press my cock against him, just to get him moving. He snaps out of it, his hands wrapping around my throat.
“Can’t chase me to death when you beat me there.” He strangles me, and I grin. I grin harder when he slams my head against the floor.
“Get the hell up. Both of you!” Director rips us apart, and I growl at him for intruding. “Out. Now.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ghost snaps at him. “You made this fucking?—”
“Out.”
Director doesn’t add much power behind his voice, but he doesn’t have to. He’s powerful because he’s proven he can punish us. I hate being told what to do, so I push past Ghost, ignore everyone else, and leave the room. Not because he told me to, but because I can’t stay in this room and not blow the fuck up. I don’t want these assholes to witness my breaking point in such a pathetic way. I don’t break. Not publicly. I don’t crumble or shatter or fucking crack. I’m Riot, the man in charge of creating chaos, not the man full of it.
Vile House is empty as I walk through it. But I’m not empty. My head is full of voices telling me I have to do better, try harder, be the best, and take down anyone in my way to get to the top. My chest is full of pressure that won’t release. Anger because Director doesn’t know what he’s doing. When he steps in, butting in between me and Ghost to try to create some semblance of peace between us, he doesn’t understand the dynamic of what works and what doesn’t work around here. Because if he takes my rivalry games away, he’ll find out real fucking fast where my attention goes.
Don’t crack. Don’t show them weakness. Don’t present any front except the one that shows you as nonchalant and powerful. Hide the rest. Hide the broken parts. Hide. Hide. Hide. Put the mask back on.
Climbing the stairs in a daze, I make it to my room and slam the door behind me. This room is safe. No one is watching me here. I can unravel and unwind, letting the imperfect parts of me rise to the surface to sweat them from my foundation. There’s no need for a charming smile or a double play. So, I stand in the middle of my room and drop all my guards.
Inhale power. Exhale weakness.
Inhale confidence. Exhale insecurity.
Inhale indifference. Exhale vulnerability.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I’m no longer the weak, inferior boy who watched his brother get abused and did nothing about it. I’m not the teen who fucked and sucked and felt nothing. I’m not the kid who hid his sickness so well that it caused my parents to focus all their hatred on my brother.
I’m stronger. Faultless. Supreme. I stabbed my dad fourteen times and watched my brother kill our mom. I learned to fuck and create stories in my head, manipulating the rumours and turning myself into a god through the tales my partners weaved. I learned to mask my sickness and turn it into my source of power.
I’m not Killian, the boy. I’m Riot, the man.
I rip my shirt off and toss it across the room. Stepping in front of my mirror, I spin, looking at my back to get the visual reminder of who I am. Riot. Vile House. White and black; complete contrasts, just like me. The skull cracked but grinning like I do.
My blood flow slows, calming me. Krypt uses weed to tell his mind to settle down, and I use visuals. We all have methods to tame our madness, but they’re never guaranteed.
It’s taking me too long to settle, to sink into a sane mind space that can rationalize what the fuck just happened. A scolding from Director, who claims to understand us, but didn’t today.
“Riot.”
My name comes from his mouth in a voice that doesn’t fit his anger. I turn to face him, making sure he sees how turbulent I feel right now, warning him away from warring with me until I’m more sane.
He doesn’t listen. He steps into my room, closes the door, and looks at my torso. Naked and scarred, inked and marred, toned and godly. I work for this body, and since I decided to stop being that pathetic kid, I’ve turned myself into a weapon that charms. Deceit is the mask I wear.
“Ninety seconds,” Ghost says.
It’s both a relief and a trigger. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. Ninety seconds is our rule, but we barely use it. I like to tell Ghost he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, but over the years, he actually has learned how to bite his tongue when it matters. The ninety-second rule became a grace period we started living by last year when we honest to god almost killed each other, but right now, I don’t want it. I don’t want the minute and a half to get my shit together. I don’t want to be careful around him. I don’t want him to see me as anything other than the raw, real, ravaged man I am. Because he’s the only person who looks back with the same level of hypocrisy.
Oh, we try, don’t we? We try to be the deities we think we are, but there are cracks in our foundations that’ll bring us down with the right pressure. I hide mine better than he does, but he always seems to show up right when I’m splitting in two. Maybe he causes it.
Vulnerabilities are a waste of time.
“Get out.” I open my eyes.
“No,” he says, stepping forward. Blond, brazen, bold. He’s silent when he walks, but the air around him ripples with his moods, even when he doesn’t want it to.
“Death wish?” I ask as a warning.
“You know it.” He grins. The bruises around his throat sate me, slowing my blood flow even more. When he’s right in front of me, his body heat radiating in my space, I subtly breathe in the smell of him. Cedar and spice. It’s a common body wash scent, comes in half the men’s choices at the shops uptown, so I don’t know why it smells different on him. “We’re not allowed to fight here. In this house.” He’s right in front of me now, a dangerous place to be while I’m so volatile. So vulnerable.
I look up, meeting his blue eyes, trying to peel them open to reveal what he’s actually thinking. What’s he doing here, so calm and calculated, when five minutes ago he was ready to kill me at dinner? Nothing about Ghost makes sense, and regrettably, that’s half the reason I like goading him.
“You follow rules now?”I ask.
He smirks at me, and everything else settles. Because being tumultuous around him is exactly my comfort level. He’s here, not to calm me down, but to rile me up so I don’t have to think about anything other than beating him. To challenge me. To be pissed off one second and deceptively settled the next. The ninety seconds are ticking down, and when they’re over, who knows what’s going to happen. Because pitting his narcissism against my sociopathic personality is a war no one can win, but fuck do we love trying.
“You follow me, don’t you?” he asks, voice lowering to a timbre that makes my bones rattle. “Following me straight to Hell.”
“Not following. Pushing.”
“Hmm,” he hums, looking down again. I have a lot of scars, but the ones on my inner biceps are the only self-inflicted ones. There are two fresh lines there from last night. He wasn’t around to take my troubles out on, so I bled them out instead. “Ninety seconds are up, Riot. Whose heart are we breaking? My brother’s or yours?”
“Neither,” Krypt says, standing in the doorway with Remi in front of him. I look, but Ghost doesn’t turn around. He keeps his eyes on me, leaning in to grab something off the dresser behind me. “You fuck up my bargain, I’ll fuck up your life. Brother or not.”
I grin at my brother. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”
Remi groans, but my attention dips down to my arm when Ghost trails the sharp edge of a razor blade over my inner bicep, adding another line. Bleeding me. Playing god when he has no right to the role. I don’t even tense or flinch because I’ve conditioned myself to associate the sting with pleasure and relief. The hardest part about Ghost cutting me is that he’s making me feel good in a way he shouldn’t be able to. I’m jarred by the audacity of the act, unsure why I’m not throwing him off, and mindfucked because he’s so casual about something so personal. Does he know why I cut? Does he understand what he’s bleeding me of? Is he doing it purposefully, or is he simply trying to get in my head?
Warm blood drips down my arm, and when the line is finished, he smears his thumb over it. Looking right at me, he wipes his thumb over his bottom lip, his tongue following in its wake to lick it up.
Fuck, it takes everything within me to withhold my anticipatory shudder.
He grins. I grin back. My cock gets hard, my thoughts turn dark, and the charm in my current smile isn’t meant for anyone but Ghost. Because he sees through the top layer to the diabolical need it masks. There’s a reason Ghost and I became competitors, and it has nothing to do with being in Vile House together.
It’s because he knows exactly how to speak to the part of me I keep hidden.
* * *
Monster hasn’t said a word since we left to follow Lock. Honestly, it makes him good company tonight. Because I’m stuck in my head about the new slice on my inner bicep. Nobody marks that area of my body but me, and I don’t know why I let Ghost do it.
“You ever cut?” I ask him as we sit on the rooftop of someone’s house, watching Lock get laid through the window of the next house over. No idea who the person is, someone who came to visit a friend, but Lock picked her up at Neon Demon and brought her back here to Glitch’s parents’ place. His former childhood home, too.
Monster shoves up his sleeves and shows me the scars inside his wrists. They look old, like he used to cut but doesn’t anymore. He usually wears cuffs, but tonight, his arms are bare.They aren’t obvious, but he has dot scars around his mouth, too. Like it’s been sewn shut, and selfishly, I’m glad for his mask so I don’t have to see them right now.
I nod at his wrists, shifting my eyes back to the sex show through the window. “I cut. Makes me feel less crazy. Less… pressured. Someone else cut me there today, though, and I’m all fucked up about it.”
Monster’s black and yellow mask turns in my direction, up-nodding to get me to show him. I take off my jacket, lift the sleeve of my t-shirt, and show him all my scars. The fresh ones from last night stand out, but not as brightly as the one Ghost gave me today. He reaches out to touch it, and I go stark still. He’s never touched me before, and I sure as shit haven’t touched him. Monster doesn’t like touch, just like Krypt, but Monster’s aversion to it is so much more lethal. A nurse once tried to turn his arm over so she could take his blood, and he hadn’t been expecting it. He bashed her face in with a clipboard, and Ransom had to finish her off before Director burned the body. Then we all got reamed out because we’re apparently not supposed to kill without reason. Monster claimed he had a reason, but Director didn’t feel it passed the test.That was years ago, and he’s learned a little restraint since then. And he knows how to feel guilt, so that dead nurse haunts him because he’s remorseful about it.
When his fingers fall away, I pull my jacket back on. “Why do you cut? To relieve anger?” I ask because he’s a pretty angry guy. When he shakes his head, I guess again, “Pain?”
He nods. A lot. So much pain.
“Why aren’t you talking?”
He shrugs.
“Monster.”
He looks at me again, his eyes shining through his mask. He just shakes his head as if to say he simply can’t. He just can’t talk right now. I lived a shit life with my parents, but it wasn’t because of how they treated me. I had to live with the inner shame that I watched my brother get neglected for so long before I learned to do anything about it—even my trauma is selfish. But Monster lived through true horror. From birth to eight he was used, abused, raped, sold, rented by the hour, and conditioned to believe the mentality of a serial rapist’s ways. Until Vile House saved him from the situation, but not from himself. Not even Psych can get through to him after all this time. Only Ransom can, and to be honest, none of us are clear on their dynamic. It’s none of our business, despite how badly I wish it was.
Monster holds out his phone, showing me a text from Ghost.
Yates on the move. I’m following him. Meet me at Janie’s Woods.
Knowing Lock isn’t in any danger he can’t handle tonight, I leave him a Vile House calling card with my white trademark on the front as a form of contact before we head out to Janie’s Woods. When we creep through the forest, I almost get nostalgic for the other night when I see the pond on Carnival Hill. Fuck, the way he drowned was glorious, but the way he came back was even better.
Why would Yates meet someone in Janie’s Woods? It's out behind the asylum, the closest forest to Vile House, and the riskiest for him to be caught in because so many of us spend time in these woods, tempting the history of Carnival Hill—a sacrificial piece of land that is still used today.
When we arrive, I don’t hear or see Ghost, but tonight, he’s masked as a Vile Boy, so there’s a high probability that we won’t see him until he wants to be seen. Fuck, can he move silently.