Chapter 3 #2
By noon, the fog in my head has thinned enough that the floor stops fucking tilting.
Micah and I take the elevator down to the lobby, both of us pretending the gun tucked against my spine isn’t there.
The hotel restaurant where we’re meeting our bandmates is one of those overpriced rooftop places encased in glass.
But the food’s good, and Finnick and Kami are already waiting for us in a booth by the floor-to-ceiling window.
Kami waves both arms when she sees us, all red hair and sharp eyeliner and sunshine. “About time!” she calls. “We thought the paparazzi found you guys.”
Micah snorts. “Nah. Thank fuck.”
Finnick grins, dirty blonde hair a mess as usual. “Since you died on stage the other night, social media has been insane.”
“I haven’t bothered to look,” I mutter as I slide into the booth across from them. I genuinely never do. I’m never fucking active on social media, because I either see obsessive love, hate, or pictures of tits and, unfortunately, dicks.
He laughs. “That’s probably for the best, man.”
After we order drinks, something in my shoulders finally unclenches.
“So, last night,” Finnick starts, leaning forward on his elbows. “This drunk fuck tried to steal my bass when Kam and I were coming back into the hotel.”
“No shit,” Micah laughs. “Did Kam beat his ass or what?”
Kami nearly chokes on her strawberry margarita.
“No, no, but it was funny because the guy literally tried taking it from him. So Finn yanked back hard enough that he stumbled, tripped, and fell sideways into the fucking fountain in front of the hotel.” She reenacts the whole thing, flailing her arms like she’s drowning, and Micah laughs so hard he wheezes.
And I laugh, too. A real, full one. I miss belly laughs. I don’t get them too often anymore.
Kami beams. “See? There’s my guy. I knew you were still alive in there somewhere.”
“Debatable,” I say.
We’re still laughing when my phone vibrates in my pocket. One glance at the screen turns everything to ice. I refrain from groaning. “I need to take this,” I say quietly, pushing up before anyone can ask.
Micah watches me go with knowing eyes. I step out onto the open terrace, the city roaring below.
“Yeah?” I answer.
Nolan doesn’t waste breath. “Old mill on Tenth. Back entrance. Midnight. In and out. No witnesses. No need for a statement.”
I press a hand to my forehead, shutting my eyes. “Fine.”
“Good boy,” Nolan purrs. “Don’t fuck up.”
The line clicks dead.
I let the phone drop to my side. For a long second, I just breathe—slow, shaky—swallowing down the panic that rises with every task. I don’t know why everything feels this hard. Maybe it’s because I could die at any moment.
Shouldn’t I welcome that, then?
I’ve tried killing myself more times than I can count, but none of these fuckers will let me die. Overdoses, mostly—Adriana, Micah, Kami dragging me back when my body tried to quit before my mind was ready.
The worst one, though, was the night I broke my vow and texted Emma.
I was high and hollow and bleeding, and the message slipped out before I could stop it.
I blocked her immediately after—didn’t even know if it was still her number.
Sometimes I almost laugh imagining that text lighting up the wrong phone.
I fucking hate everything without you. I’m not well.
Micah found me in the bathroom of one of those boring, interchangeable hotels and kept me from bleeding out. Since then, I’ve mostly stopped trying to decide when it’ll happen. I figure it’ll come when it comes. Maybe one day the guy in the sky I don’t even believe in will save me.
When I return to the booth, Micah meets my gaze, and it’s all there: I know. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.
Kami brightens when she spots me. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie slips out easily. Practice makes perfect.
She smiles, and launches into another story. I nod and even manage another laugh when Finnick says something sarcastic, but the weight at my waistband feels heavier with every passing second. Like the gun already knows what I’m going to do tonight.
When I step outside after lunch, the smell of the city punches me in the face. I lean against the wall and pull a cigarette from the pack, glancing out at the street. My hands are steady when I light it. The first drag burns my throat. The second barely registers.
Smoke curls up and fades away in the gentle breeze. A couple walks past at the end of the alley, laughing about something small. I can’t hear what it is, and it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make them smile.
I watch them until they turn the corner and vanish. For a second, I wonder what it would be like to care about something like that.
The cigarette burns down faster than I expect. I don’t remember taking half the drags. My fingers are numb by the time I flick it away. I crush it under my shoe, harder than necessary.
Then I straighten up and go where I’m supposed to go.
Coke burns down the back of my throat as I tilt my head, snorting the last thin line off the motel nightstand. My nostrils sting, and my eyes water. I wipe the residue from my nose with the back of my hand and pull my black mask down.
Time to work.
The crumbling brick building sits ahead, windows blacked out, a hollow shell of whatever it used to be.
Perfect place to die. And to kill. My boots make no sound on the gravel as I move, sticking to the darkest parts, letting adrenaline drown out whatever is left of my conscience. Nolan’s words loop in my head.
Back entrance. Midnight. In and out. No witnesses.
I slip the gun from my waistband as I approach the rear door, my grip on it disturbingly steady. I blend into the wall, then ease the door open just enough to slip through. I’m wearing a black balaclava, a black shirt, and jeans.
Inside the building, it smells like damp wood and oil. My eyes adjust quickly. A single bulb flickers overhead, some dying thing struggling for life. Then I hear a quiet male voice. Ralph Calderón.
My jaw tightens, and I press myself behind a towering rusted machine, peeking around its side.
Ralph stands with his back to me, flipping through a stack of money.
A knife tucked into his belt. Broad shoulders.
Tattoos crawling up his neck like vines.
A man who wouldn’t hesitate to tear me apart if he saw me first.
He’s on the phone, speaking Spanish, fast, irritated. I catch enough to know he’s cussing someone out. I steady my breath, and focus. Just a bullet. Quick, clean, enough time to disappear before the blood even cools. I raise the gun, finger tightening on the trigger—
Then a floorboard groans beneath my boot. Ralph freezes.
Fuck.
He spins, reaching for the knife, but I fire first. The crack deafens the room.
The bullet punches into his shoulder, knocking him back.
But he doesn’t fall. My vision narrows into a tunnel.
Ralph roars, staggering behind a fallen beam.
His knife clatters away, but he’s scrambling for another weapon, maybe a gun.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
He lunges out with a broken bottle, swinging wildly.
I dodge, but glass scrapes across my arm, tearing skin open.
I can barely feel the pain with the adrenaline pumping through my goddamn blood.
I grab him, slam him into a support post hard enough to rattle the entire room.
He elbows me in the ribs. I grunt. The gun slips from my hand, skittering across the floor.
Shit.
We grapple, his blood smearing over my clothes.
He’s strong and desperate, which is the worst kind of fighter.
He’s a little shorter and less muscular than I am, so I have some leverage.
His fingers claw at my throat; stars explode behind my eyes.
I drive my knee into his gut. He collapses forward, wheezing.
My hand finds a jagged piece of metal on the floor. I don’t think...I just swing. It cracks against his skull with a sickening thud. He drops to his knees, then to his hands, blood streaming down his face. I grab the back of his head and smash it onto the concrete floor. And again. And again.
By the time he stops moving, my breath is shallow, and my ears are roaring.
My hands shake from the coke and the kill.
From the fucking spiral I can’t crawl out of.
Every kill drives me deeper. I retrieve my gun, wipe it on my shirt, and look down at the mess I’ve made.
This wasn’t clean. But at least Ralph Calderón is dead. So fuck it.
I slip into the alley behind the building, the black hoodie I stashed before I left resting along a back entrance railing. Thank hell I brought it. My clothes are soaked in Ralph Calderón’s blood. I pull the hoodie over my head, cinching it tight, and let the shadows swallow me as I move.
The walk back to the hotel is silent. My hands are shaking, but I don’t care. Numbness is preferable to thought right now. I don’t know how much worse this is going to get. Nolan just keeps wanting to push me further and further.
I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.
The elevator ride is achingly slow, and I stare at my reflection in its gold, mirrored wall. I’m a fucking demon. I take the stairs two at a time.
Micah is already there, sprawled across the couch in our suite, a half-empty bottle of water dangling from his fingers. He glances up when I enter, and says nothing. But I know he’s relieved that I survived. I nod. That’s enough.
The hoodie comes off, leaving my arms streaked in red.
I don’t dare wear my boots inside the suite, so I remove them quickly at the door.
My fingers dig into the grooves of dried blood on my jeans.
I don’t look at Micah while I make my way toward the shower.
I strip methodically, numb. Steam fogs the mirror.
I stare at my blurring reflection anyway.
Tousled hair, bruised knuckles, eyes glassy.
My gaze drifts down to my wallet. I pull it open with a stiff hand and slide my ex’s photo out.
I look at this fucking thing almost daily.
My throat tightens, and my stomach knots.
This one photo has kept me alive more times than I’d like to admit.
Once, I stared at her photo for two fucking hours while I contemplated shooting myself in the head.
It’s not like she’s going to save me or ever be mine again, but I know it would destroy her if she knew I killed myself.
It would destroy me if she did, even if I don’t really know her anymore.
I lean my forehead against the mirror, water running in the background, and just...stare. And when I finally do find myself beneath the showerhead, the water drags the stickiness down the drain. But it’s not enough. It never fucking is.