38. Hayden
HAYDEN
A ll the damn money Callum has and he still drives this old truck that sounds like it has a sawed off muffler and one working wheel bearing. I silently remind myself not to invite him or his truck to the next murder I commit. Tristan would have lost his shit as soon as he cranked this thing on.
As we pull up to the cliffs, the entire campus can probably hear us and think a UFO is landing. Scott is already here, leaning against his car, probably thinking he’s about to meet Kirsten. His smug little smirk falters the second he sees us step out of the truck.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps, his voice shaky. This motherfucker knows what’s coming.
Callum chuckles, dragging the moment out like he’s savoring the panicked look in Skippy’s eyes. “I guess you were hoping to fuck your little psycho girlfriend, hmm?”
Scott’s face goes pale, and I step forward, locking eyes with him. It’s satisfying, the way his eyes widen, the fear creeping in. “Look. It wasn’t that serious,” he stammers, his voice cracking. “Kirsten said it was supposed to be a prank and?—”
“And you scared Madison, didn’t you?” Every step I take toward him has him backing up like the coward he is.
There’s a clink behind me, and I glance over to see Callum rummaging through the back of his truck, pulling out a chain and a hockey stick. He tosses the stick to me with a smirk. “Thought you might want this,” he says casually, like we’re gearing up for practice instead of what’s about to go down.
Scott’s hands go up defensively. “What are you going to do? My mother will?—”
“Shut the fuck up.” His mouth snaps closed, but Callum isn’t done with him yet. “Your mommy isn’t going to do shit when she finds out her baby boy killed an innocent girl because she wouldn’t fuck him,” Callum says, his tone jovial, like he’s enjoying every second of this.
“That isn’t why! Bethany was—” Scott starts, but I’m done listening to his bullshit.
“I don’t give a fuck about Bethany.” The words come out in a growl, my grip tightening on the stick in my hand. I take another step closer, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You scared Madison. You had her thinking she was going to be raped and killed in the woods, didn’t you?” My voice rises because all I can picture is how terrified she was that night. “There’s no coming back from that. You hurt her in any capacity, and I end you. Those are the fucking rules.”
Scott stumbles back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no words come out.
There’s no redemption for him.
Callum strolls toward Scott, casual as hell, like he’s just out for a midnight walk. Scott scrambles backward, his eyes darting around like he’s looking for a way out. He’s not going to find one. Callum’s grin is downright predatory as he keeps closing the distance, and Scott’s back hits a tree with a dull thud.
“Get the fuck away from me!” Scott yells, his voice pitching higher with every word.
Callum tilts his head, mockingly parroting back, “Get the fuck away from me,” with an exaggerated whine that makes me snort. His face shifts into something darkly playful as he adds, “No,” in a goofy sing-song tone, and then swings the thick chain he’s holding. It cracks across Scott’s face with a sharp, metallic whack, and Scott stumbles, clutching his cheek and spitting blood.
Callum doesn’t waste a second. He’s on him, wrapping the chain around Scott’s chest and arms, pulling it tight, and tying him to the tree like he’s done it a hundred times before. He steps back, admiring his handiwork, then grins over his shoulder at me. “Almost makes me miss home.”
I don’t reply, I just watch as Callum reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a puck, tossing it to me. I catch it easily, and then turn my attention back to Scott.
Scott starts screaming, panicked now as he thrashes against the chains. I ignore him, tossing the puck up lazily before swinging the stick in my hands. The puck hits Scott square in the mouth with a sickening crack, the impact shattering teeth and sending blood spraying.
His screams turn to garbled cries, and I take a step closer, my voice cold. “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty,” I say, catching the next one Callum tosses at me. My grip on the stick tightens, my knuckles white with restrained fury. “I’ll stop when I think you’re as scared as she was.”
Scott tries to speak, but it’s more of a mangled gasp. He spits blood and broken teeth before choking out, “Your sister?—”
My vision blurs with rage, my swing freezing mid-air. I lower the stick slowly, my voice deadly calm as I cut him off. “Is fucking dead. She’s got a bullet in her head because she couldn’t stay away from what's mine.”
Scott shakes his head weakly, his chest heaving as his breath comes in shallow, broken gasps. “You?—”
“I’ll rip this whole campus apart, piece by piece, to keep Madison safe,” I’m yelling, all of my rage coming out now.
I toss another puck into the air, my grip on the stick tightening as I draw it back. This time, when I swing, it’s a direct hit to Scott’s crotch. The satisfying crack of the puck meeting its target is almost drowned out by his strangled scream. He doubles over as much as the chain will allow, gagging and hyperventilating like he’s going to puke. Blood drips down his face, mixing with the rain that’s starting to come down again. He looks pathetic.
The low rumble of an engine cuts through the night, headlights flashing as two trucks pull up. Callum glances down at his phone and smirks. “My cousin’s guys are here to pick him up,” he says, tucking his phone back into his hoodie pocket. “They’ll drop him off on their way back to the Falls. Finish him.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I grab another puck, letting it roll in my hand before tossing it up. My swing is swift, and the puck smashes into Scott’s face with enough force to make blood spray so far this time that it splatters on Callum’s arms.
“Fucking hell,” Callum hollers, wiping his arm on the bottom of his hoodie. Scott slumps forward, his head hanging, and I stride toward him, yanking his hair to tilt his head back. Blood trickles down his neck, pooling at his collar, and I lean in close, making sure he’s really gone. His chest isn’t moving, his eyes are glassy. He’s done.
The truck engines idle behind me, and Callum claps me on the shoulder. “You head back. I’ll handle the cleanup with the guys,” he says, tossing me his keys.
I don’t bother asking how Callum plans to get back to the house. He’s got connections everywhere, and if anyone can make it happen, it’s him. Splitting up is smarter anyway. I give Scott’s lifeless body one last look, then turn and head for Callum’s truck.
The rain is coming down in sheets now, soaking through my hoodie as I walk. Skippy’s dead, and there’s only one thing left to do.
Get back to my girl.