Chapter 30 #2
Movement up ahead. Someone’s hiding in the bushes.
I see the glint of the gun’s barrel before I hear it fire.
The paint bullet flies through the air, but I’m already gone, rolling into the underbrush, then crawling forward on my elbows and knees.
My attacker stands up, searching for me with the gun clutched tightly in his hands.
He’s in the shadows so I can’t see who it is beyond the fact that it’s one of the brothers, given how tall he is and the way his body is built straight up and down. Not a curve in sight.
Now that I’m a few feet away, I rise to my feet and pad noiselessly to the left, circling around him.
He doesn’t hear me, doesn’t know where I am.
Finally, he steps out into the light, and I see who is hunting me.
It’s Richardson. I freeze, not out of fear but confusion.
None of this makes sense. Richardson is one of the weakest of us.
He’s slow on his feet, still held back from that bicycle accident when he was ten.
He’s a weak fighter, every punch a few seconds too slow and never hard enough to do real damage, like he’s shadow boxing underwater.
Something’s off.
It’s like the High Council wants me to win.
Like they’re handing it over, making it easy to eliminate the threat to me.
For a second, I wonder if my father arranged this, as a gift to me.
A favor? I crush the idea before it can take root, before it sends those pathetic tendrils of hope crawling through my body, winding up my chest and into my throat just to choke me.
I should know better by now. That man never helps me.
If anything, he does the opposite. Constantly stacks the odds against me, makes everything harder.
He sets the bar high, then kicks it out from under me the second I reach it.
No, this isn’t an act of kindness, which means it’s one of cruelty.
My father’s words come back to me.
Trust no one.
This is a trap. I’d be an idiot to believe otherwise.
But how? Why?
Before I can figure out the mystery, Richardson fires. Right at me. The paint bullet whizzes by my ear, missing me by an inch.
What the hell?
I drop, roll behind a fallen log, and come up low right behind him. Richardson’s out in the open now, scanning the dark, his weapon trembling slightly in his hands. He still doesn’t know where I am. Didn’t even know I was that close. He fired out of panic, not strategy.
I move low through the underbrush, quiet as a ghost, circling wide. The paint gun in my hand is an extension of my arm, steady, cold, familiar. I creep forward. Every one of my steps is preplanned. Every breath controlled.
He shifts his weight, stepping to the right and then the left to scan deeper into the woods, and that’s all the opening I need.
I’m behind him in seconds.
I strike hard and fast, slamming my elbow into the back of his head.
He stumbles forward with a grunt, arms flailing, as he drops his gun.
I don’t give him time to recover. I grab the collar of his shirt, yank him toward me, and drive my knee into the back of his leg.
He collapses, hitting the ground with a muffled curse.
I’m on him before he can turn, one knee on his spine.
I hit him with the gun, aiming at the base of his skull.
He slumps forward, face first into the dirt. Unconscious.
Threat eliminated.
I stand slowly with my heart rate slowing. There’s a warm rush of satisfaction in my chest. The kind that comes from doing what I was built to do.
Fast. Clean. Efficient.
I don’t let it linger. Instead, I keep my gun raised, scanning the tree line with my breathing even and my brain alert.
Because in this game, victory can be bait. If Richardson was meant to be a distraction, then I need to know who or what’s coming next.
I see no one.
I take Richardson’s gun and tuck it into the back of my waistband.
I grab him under his arms and drag him over to a tree with a narrow trunk.
It may not hold forever, but all I have is my belt, so I tie him to the tree with that, wrapping the belt around his neck and cinching the buckle on the other side of the tree trunk.
I pull it tight with just enough pressure to make waking up uncomfortable.
To panic him, but not enough to cut off his air.
Richardson won’t be able to chase me like this.
He won’t even stand without strangling himself.
It’s crude but effective. The kind of solution my father would call resourceful.
The kind that says, I won.
I’ve just finished with Richardson when I hear footsteps over to my right.
Someone clomping along, not even trying to hide.
I follow the sound and find Thomson walking with his head hanging down.
My heart stops when I see the huge red stain across his chest, the one that makes it look like he’s bleeding out.
“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping forward to intercept him, with my voice high. If he’s hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s the only person who knows me, really knows me.
He startles hard, throwing his hands up to shield his face.
Pity stirs.
I know that reflex. It’s the instinct of someone used to being hurt. Of someone who’s learned that flinching early might save you from worse later.
I do it too.
“What?” He peers between his fingers. “Oh, it’s you, Carrson.” His hands drop to hang loose by his sides.
“You got hit?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger. “Fucking Samantha. I didn’t even hear her coming.” His shoulders slump. “My father’s going to kill me.”
I walk closer, put my hand on his shoulder, and give it a gentle squeeze. Not hard. Just enough to say I see you. I get it. “Sorry, man.”
A long, tired sigh. “Not your fault.” He straightens and asks, “Who’s your target?”
“Nelson.” I pause, studying his reaction.
Thomson frowns, his brow wrinkling. “That’s a weird choice.”
I throw up my arms, vindicated. “Thank you! That’s what I thought too. What do you think it means?”
“Dunno.” Thomson shrugs. “High Council’s probably up to something, but I have no idea what.” He catches the frustration in my face and adds a soft, “Sorry.” He glances toward the house. “I’d better get going. Time to join the losers in the ballroom.”
“Okay. I’ll see you back there after I take down Nelson.” He nods and walks off, dragging his feet like he’s on his way to the gallows.
I turn back toward the woods, gun in hand. Whatever game the council’s playing, I have a feeling the sooner I finish, the better.
I wander for the next twenty minutes, chasing sounds that never lead anywhere.
I hear the pounding footsteps of someone running, the thud of fists on flesh, but by the time I track them down no one’s there.
All that’s left is the aftermath. Crushed leaves, a few drops of blood glistening on the forest floor, but no people.
Eventually, I hear something else. It comes from a cluster of trees close to the lake. I approach carefully and then with less caution as I realize what’s going on.
“Oh, yes. Yes,” cries out a woman’s voice, breathy.
She moans just as I come around the corner.
It’s a brother and sister, both buck naked, their pale flesh lit silver by the moonlight.
They’re having sex, pressed up against a tree.
The man’s back is to me, but I can see the sister’s face with her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.
It’s Gwen. Which means the man is Peterson.
They’ve been a couple for the past year, basically inseparable.
“Fuck,” grits out Peterson, his hips pumping faster. “I love you so much.”
“Oh my god, I’m so close,” she gasps. “I love you too. You’re going to bond me, aren’t you? When we get to college.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. There’s only you, Gwen.”
I pull my eyes away from them to survey the scene. Their clothes are in a haphazard pile ten feet from where I stand. Piled on top are both of their paint guns.
Idiots.
They’ve left themselves exposed in more ways than one.
I stroll closer and lean against a tree with one ankle crossed over the other, waiting for them to finish. I don’t feel bad about watching. None of us would.
When we boys lost our virginity to the prostitutes at age fifteen, we came back from that night changed, louder, bolder, reeking of sweat and smoke and self-importance. Like sex was a disease, we quickly infected the girls. Soon they were as reckless as we were, choosing partners like chess pieces.
Add in the fact that we weren’t raised with normal boundaries.
Not with each other. Not with ourselves.
We fought together. Bled together. Grew up in one another’s bedrooms and backyards.
By the time sex entered the equation, we’d already erased the lines that were supposed to keep things separate.
That’s why we don’t think twice about fucking in front of each other.
It’s a show of dominance. A way to prove who you belong to and, more importantly, who you can own.
So no, it doesn’t bother me when Gwen and Peterson keep going, moving faster, moaning louder, like I’m not even here. Finally, Gwen opens her eyes mid-thrust and spots me. She lets out a startled squeak, her legs tightening instinctively around Peterson.
He whips his head around, his eyes wild, but when he sees it’s me, he just scowls. “Are either of us your targets, Carrson?”
“Nah. You’re safe.”
“Then fuck off,” he growls, dragging his lips along Gwen’s neck. She tilts her head for him, eyes fluttering shut again.
“I will,” I say casually. “Just one question. Either of you seen Nelson?”
Peterson keeps moving, slow and deliberate now, fucking her like they’ve got all night. Gwen breathes, “Last I saw, he was down by the boathouse. Hiding.”
“Perfect.” I straighten. “Thanks, Gwen. Very helpful.”