Epilogue
SHANE
“ A nything else besides the Marlboros, sir?” the old woman at the register asks, sliding the box across the plastic-coated counter.
She doesn’t recognize me. And why would she? I look nothing like the man I was three years ago when she and her husband scraped me up off the sidewalk outside this very storefront, kicking me to another curb, bloodied, broken, and with nothing but toxic substances, trauma, and a raging fire of hate to my name.
I run a quick hand through my overgrown locks, pushing the dark brown curls back off my forehead before running my palm over my five-o’clock shadow. The woman clears her throat, staring at me expectantly. Shit. I realize I’m lost in daydreams of my past and haven’t answered her.
“Nah, that’s it for today. Thanks.”
She rings me up, dispensing my change, and I wait for the memory to click. I shouldn’t hope for recognition. To be honest, I shouldn’t be seen anywhere in this godforsaken town anymore, but after meeting up with Sigh and Wheeter at their new place, I thought one quick pack of cigarettes wouldn’t hurt, and my ego wanted to see someone else proud of how far I’d come.
Since leaving this town, I’d kept in contact with the boys often, checking in and ensuring they were always good. Wheeter sold the house and got himself a nice flat in a better part of town. Not even a week later, Sigh moved in.
Seemed they’d finally admitted some things to each other, feelings that had been pushed aside to deal with traumas that never ceased. Walls broke down and their bond grew like a field of wildflowers, uncontrolled and untamed. It was humbling to see Josiah, a man who’d let his past disrupt his future for so long, finally giving hope a chance. Wheeter had been there waiting all along, patient as the tide turned, ready to pick him up when he finally handed over his pieces. It felt right, and it definitely made sense.
As I hop back on my bike, I pull my mask over my face before popping my helmet on, ready to embrace the vibrant purr of my new ride. Revving the engine, I peel out, burning rubber on the warmed tarmac as I tear through town, leaving the past where it’s meant to be.
I pass the street to my mom’s, wondering how she’s drowning her sorrows this week. She and Phil separated shortly after I’d ditched town. Word on the street was she started getting mailed letters and naked photos from some fling of his that he apparently met in the romance section at the library. Writing cursive like a woman is so hard.
Another hour on the highway, and I pass the exit that leads to the Fikus Penitentiary, where Montana’s mom sits, slowly rotting while hoping for the day her daughter sends a new lawyer her way. News flash: It won't happen.
Richard Sheldon was released and given a nice hefty payout from the city for the wrongful conviction charge to help him get his life on track. It was all I could hope for—his redemption from that travesty.
Alek Romanski was found to be linked to numerous homicides based on DNA collection. Multiple victims. Horrific crimes. The truth lay on his bare and bleeding chest. By seeking her own justice, Montana had finally found Gabriella’s killer and the killer of many other unsuspecting victims, gifting him the sweet, tortured death he deserved. Lana was one of the lucky ones. After her sexual assault and attempted murder, she sought out support groups and finally established a stable base of friends who work with her at the tattoo shop.
The town had moved on since the discovery. A fresh batch of students started at the college, pushing out the old as the drinking and a new hierarchy of entitled pricks ensued. Wesley Hopkins was expelled from college after a woman filed a rape charge against him. Luckily, the event was filmed, and his word wasn’t shit against the damning evidence. He was ostracized from his family after the circulating video leaked to news sources all over the country. Karmic law says you never fuck with the dogs.
The Montgomery Fine Orchestra already filled the seats of both Montana and Alek as if nothing ever happened, continuing on with their delusional little world of perfection masking their mayhem.
And such is life. People are forgotten. Replaceable. Expendable. It’s only the living who can bring retribution to the dead, honoring their lives, cementing their stories and never letting their memories die.
I finally pull onto the gravel driveway and slowly creep through the thick wooded forest, eventually reaching the discreet cabin I now call home.
Rocco doesn’t even bark when I walk up the stairs to the front porch. Poor old dog is losing his hearing and he sure sleeps soundly these days. Living out his years on acres of lush forest is heaven for any dog, and I’m glad I can give him that. Just as I’m leaning over him to give him a good belly rub to let him know I’m home, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
Wheeter.
“What’s up? What’d I forget?” I say upon answering.
“Dude, no…I can’t believe it. Fucking hell!” he yells, his following screams muffled, as if he dropped the phone into a pillow or something. “He killed you. Literally buried you like it was nothing.”
The idiot must have butt-dialed me.
I’m about to hang up when his voice returns and he says, “Check the rankings. Your record just got demolished by sPideRrr6 in a seven minute seventy-two kill slaughter. You’re done for bro.”
Sneaking in through the foyer, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Seventy-two kills in seven minutes? That’s fucking unheard of.”
“This guy is insane. We just watched it go down live. You better get your ass ready to defend your honor. Challenge him to a battle! Sigh and I are already streaming. Whoop his fucking ass.”
Ending the call, I walk toward the bedroom, peeking inside to check on my girl. She’s clearly still napping, her body buried beneath our bunched-up comforters. She texted me when I rode back to Montgomery. Her cutesy little baby needs a nappy nap message made me want to bite her little cheek off . I definitely wore her out last night. Hanging gagged from the ceiling for hours while getting defiled with silicone cocks appears to have taken its toll.
Creeping into my newly-remodeled gamer room, I turn on the lights, setting the scene before plopping down in my leather chair. I secure my headphones over my ears, grab my controller, and hop into Vicon Cross, immediately scanning the rankings.
Sure as shit, sPideRrr6 sits directly above me now, just as Wheeter said. Fucker . I’d spent weeks working to gain that top spot, only to be demoted to second in a span of two days by some punk thirteen-year-old shit whose profile picture is a black widow with a menacing smile.
“Naw, this is bullshit.”
As I’m reading through his most recent stats, a green ring illuminates around his profile icon, and a text box pops up at the bottom of my screen.
sPideRrr6: You wanna try me?
This little shit.
My phone vibrates again with a text.
Wheet: He's online right now! Lets gooooo! Get that title back, bro!
Growling inwardly, I grasp my controller, typing out a message when I see he’s typing again.
sPideRrr6: What's wrong? You scared, little bitch? C’mon, challenge me.
The shit-talking from this punk. Irritation stirs within me, and I decide to challenge him to the hardest level in…defeating Micron. Not a chance in hell this newbie can handle a multilayered level with varied floors of assassins.
I message back.
K1ngk0br@: Micron—Apocalyptic Nightmare.
sPideRrr6: Bet
We both enter the hardest level of the game, killing off multiple lower-leveled players through kill shots, gaining new weapons, and slowly but surely rising to the highest level. Our stats are leveling out side-by-side as our kills pile, and our rankings grow.
Wheeter and Josiah pop in the game as viewers, filling the chat feed with words of motivation: Kill that motherfucker, K1ng! Stomp that spider!
First-person shooter. Shot. Shot. Headshot. Only a handful of members left.
sPideRrr6: You gonna bitch out and form a team for safety? Or you gonna fight me man to man?
Shit-talking little prick.
Form a team, my ass. I kill for me, trusting no one. One by one, we take out all of the remaining players until just the two of us are left on opposing ends of the crumbling building.
K1ngk0br@: Quit hiding. Show yourself so I can end this already. I’ve got actual pussy to fuck, juvenile.
Peering around the corner with my sniper scope, I search for him. Blasted-out windows and exposed beams of a deteriorating skyscraper fill the view until my scope skirts up to the roof. How the fuck did he get up—
RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-TATAT.
A fucking kill shot. Bullets rain down on me, stealing my lifeline. A large, red X covers the screen as the blood rains down, coating it until it’s nothing but red.
I drop back against my seat, tossing my headset on the desk before me, perplexed. No one gets past Micron to gain roof access. Once you do, it’s over with. You own the game and anyone who even attempts to play. What a sad round.
A plethora of messages filter on the screen, congratulating us on a great game and praising that little pubeless wonder for keeping the title of first place. After a few choice curse words, I lean forward, about to exit the game, when a message comes through.
sPideRrr6: Eat a dick, you choleric cocksucker.
Straightening in my chair, I stare at it in awe. Reading, then re-reading it. That insult. I’ve heard it before. No fucking way.
Bursting from my chair, I scramble down the hall to the bedroom. Fisting the material of the comforter, I rip it from the bed, unveiling a pile of blankets. Empty. Disbelief has me manically laughing to myself as I race up the stairs to the lofted den.
There on the couch, she sits, the game still up on the screen and the controller still in her hand. She bites her bottom lip, withholding her smile as she cocks a brow.
“What?” she says nonchalantly.
“You’re sPiderRrr6 ?” I shout frantically.
She shrugs, grinning menacingly before peering at her neon green cat-like nails. “I needed a new hobby since departing from the orchestra. And busting my man’s ass in his favorite game is proving to be such a delight.”
I stalk toward her, licking my teeth as I tip my head, forever astonished by her intelligence and ability to navigate and rule whichever world she chooses. Cam girl and gamer girl? I’m a goner. Deceased. Dead. Rotting.
“A delight,” I echo her statement, sauntering closer until I’m directly before her in the chair.
I lean over to the tripod near the monitor, the scene already set from our previous night, and flip the camera to record.
She sits there, smiling at me with her little pigtail buns, wearing a simple tank top with no bra, black panties, and thigh-high socks, looking insanely too attractive for her own good. So I reach for her wrist, yanking her up and out of the chair before taking a seat myself.
I pull her back onto my lap, settling her full ass directly on my swelling cock. I bite the crook of her neck, and a breathy sigh slips from her lips, her smile growing.
“You think you’re so bad, huh?” I taunt, nipping at her earlobe.
“Shane,” she moans, tipping her head and opening up her neck to me.
“Let’s see how deadly an assassin you are with a cock in you, yeah?” I toss the controller back into her lap before stretching her panties to the side. Shoving my sweats to my hips, I angle my tip to her entrance.
“Hey!” she squeals as I lift her. “I never gave you the Green—”
She gasps, sliding down my shaft with ease, before both of us release a collective moan. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly to my front, nuzzling into the soft flesh of her beautiful neck.
“I don’t need it anymore.”
And I don’t. Because no matter how we got here; the tainted history between us, the deceptions, the pain, and the healing—we fought to be here, and we refuse to let go.
THE END