Chapter 35—
Mace
F uck.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to jog my mind about last night as I hunch at the side of the bed, my elbows on my knees.
I only come up blank. I remember leaving on my bike after my fight with Ash, but I don’t recall where I went or how I even got home.
Letting the hand drop, I stare at my knuckles in the dark. My finger joints are sore as if they’ve been clenched in a tight grip for too long.
An icy chill teases up my neck. The last thing I remember is seeing Emily’s face. I don’t know whether it was real or a figment of my imagination, but I know I held onto those hazel blue eyes like my life depended on it. Like I needed her to save me.
I fear I did something bad if my memory blocked it out.
Without switching on the lamp on my nightstand, I rise to get dressed for work when my eyes catch on the pile of clothes beside my bed. In the faint ambient lighting, I can make out the black jeans and sweatshirt I wore last night. My mask peeks out from the pouch.
I give my head a shake. I don’t remember leaving them there either.
I ignore the pile and proceed to the closet, grabbing things blindly from everywhere and finishing with my boots before I make my way to the bathroom across the hallway.
I return to my room for my watch, wallet, phone, and keys on the nightstand when I realize my knife is missing.
My mind drifts back to my clothes on the floor. Crouching beside it, I rifle through the bulk, checking the pockets. I find the knife still in the back and pull it out, but my dread rises as my touch encounters a dampness about the denim.
It didn’t rain last night.
I switch on the lamp, and then my feet kick out from under me. I fall onto my ass.
It’s blood.
The soaked-in color is indistinguishable from the black fabric, but the red smudges against the white mask are unmistakable.
I gasp in shock. The sticky wetness clings to the front of the hoodie and down a large part of my jeans. The knife is coated with it. It’s too much. Somebody died. I killed someone.
Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I swallow to force a golf-ball-sized lump down.
My brain kicks into gears as I become aware of my pounding heartbeat. I panic. I roll everything up into a bundle with the blood on the inside and shove it into my backpack, the knife included. I can burn it all in one of the barrels at the abandoned campground. Nobody hangs out there.
I check my watch. Ash’s alarm hasn’t gone off yet.
Nobody will know .
I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, then push to my feet and leave my room.
Before pulling out of the garage, I swipe the lighter fluid and matches we keep for bonfires from the shelf, stuffing them in the backpack too.
Then I’m off.
I haul ass to the campground, burn all evidence, and make it to work only 20 minutes later than usual. Ash beat me for once.
I watch him go in as I pull into the parking lot. I’ll be avoiding him for the rest of the day, so there’s no need to come up with an excuse for why I’m late.
Isaac, on the other hand…
I would like to avoid him too. I don’t know how I’m going to break it to him that I won’t be taking over the shop with Ash.
I pass Rob and Jason on my way in. Both of them have been working here for about three years now. Isaac hired them after we started to expand, and we couldn’t keep up with the rapidly growing client list.
Just act normal , I tell myself as I stuff my empty backpack into my locker and put on my paint coveralls. I’ll be doing a custom full-body paint job on a 1970s Dodge Challenger this morning. I already finished the base coat on Tuesday, and since I took yesterday off, I’m now a day behind .
I check my notes before I start mixing paints and cringe. I forgot it’s going to be bright candy apple red—my least favorite color today. This will be torture.
I’m right. The car mocks my memory lapse with each pass of my spray gun. It takes every ounce in me not to throw up. Everywhere I look, I see blood.
A single question repeats in my mind. Did I really kill someone?
After finishing the first coat, I take a break. I rip off my mask and unzip the front of my coverall.
I pause before tugging off the gloves. I’ve washed my hands several times since this morning, but there was never any blood under my nails, which makes me wonder whether I had been wearing my motorcycle gloves. I should probably burn them too just in case.
Leaning back against my worktable, I pull out my phone. I type out a text to Emily, then hit send and wait.
A minute goes by.
And another.
My hands start trembling when I don’t get a response. I know she could be sleeping or simply be ignoring my texts, but what if she’s not? I was so angry at her in the woods. What if it was Emily’s blood on my clothes?
I squeeze the phone in frustration as the sound of a laugh makes me turn. Through the plastic divider between my paint room and the workshop, I catch sight of Ash. His head is down, and he’s looking at his phone.
Is he texting her?
Or more importantly, is she responding to him ?
I can’t take the not knowing. I have to see her. I need to make sure that she’s okay, that I didn’t go to her apartment last night, that I didn’t hurt her.
—
Emily replied to my text two hours later, putting my mind at ease about her being alive and well yet rejecting my plea to talk to her.
Fuck that! She’s going to hear me out whether she wants to or not.
I decide not to break into her apartment this time, though, and instead ride across town to the diner. Her shift hasn’t started yet. I want to catch her before she goes in.
Parking in the alley around back so she won’t see me immediately, I remove my helmet and gloves, then dismount to wait.
While I lean back against my bike with my stare on the asphalt between my boots, my mind is grasping at straws.
What the fuck am I gonna say to her?
Pinching my eyes shut, I groan. I really haven’t thought this through. When I do recon or run errands for Mr. DeMarco, I make a plan. I know every step. I’m out of my element here.
I vaguely hear the back door swinging open.
“It’s Ash, right?”
My head shoots up at the chipper tone I can only assume is directed at me since there’s no one else around, to find a scrawny kid with unruly black hair and dark eyes bouncing down the stairs to take out the trash .
I meet his curious stare as he drops the lid on the metal can in front of me. He’s the bus boy I’ve seen sharing Em’s shift.
Of course he thinks I’m Ash. She wouldn’t tell anyone about me. I’m not the kind of guy you introduce to your friends.
“Yeah,” I grumble back.
“I’m Jake. Drew and Laura’s nephew.”
Drew? Laura? How many times has Ash been here?
“Em talks about you all the time. Nice bike, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say as my heart drops another level. Of course she does.
Fuck! I blow out a breath and run my hand through my hair. I hate this. It isn’t me. I don’t fucking beg. I demand! I take!
I should stick to what I’m good at.
“Hey!” I refocus on the kid who’s still just standing there. “You mind doing me a solid?” I straighten and grab my helmet. “Don’t tell her I was here.”
Jake stares at me confused as I put on my gear and straddle the bike in a sudden hurry. “Um… sure,” he says uneasily.
But the hesitation in his reply tells me he will.
I let the engine roar and take off.
Perfect! I’ll be on her mind all night.
I’m already fucking her.