Chapter Thirty
The Inn—Salisbury’s excuse for a teen’s club— sat wedged between a pawn shop and a boarded-up laundromat on the rough side of Salisbury, its flickering neon sign buzzing like a dying insect in the wet dark.
Somebody had spray-painted scripture across the alley brick years ago—Jesus saves in peeling white paint—but cigarette burns blackened the wall beneath it, and somebody else had sprayed ‘fuck your god’ in bright orange directly underneath.
The whole place felt blasphemous in a way that made my pulse quicken.
Inside, the place breathed heat. The air smelled thickly of sweat, and clove cigarettes.
The bass from the speakers rattled through the warped floorboards hard enough to loosen thoughts inside my skull.
Red Christmas lights hung crooked across the ceiling, casting everyone in the color of fresh wounds.
Bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder near the stage moved like one living organism beneath the music, shoving and writhing and jumping.
The Amen Thieves screamed through another song onstage while the crowd screamed along with them. I couldn’t understand a damn word.
The lead singer wore leather pants painted onto narrow hips and fishnet sleeves stretched over tattooed arms. Black makeup ringed his eyes so heavily it looked bruised there, like he hadn’t slept in years.
The guitarist had silver safety pins through both eyebrows and an upside-down cross dangling from one ear.
Even the drummer wore lipstick smeared around his mouth.
Every lyric sounded angry and holy all at once, all sharp teeth and sacrilege.
My father would have called this place demonic. I thought maybe that was part of the appeal, in a town like this.
Penelope and Angelica were near the stage absolutely devouring the performance.
Pen shoved through bodies without apology, black combat boots stomping in rhythm while her silver chains flashed beneath the lights.
Angelica danced beside her with her curls wild around her face, laughing openly every time someone slammed into her shoulder.
Ben had fully committed himself to headbanging so violently I worried he might separate something in his neck.
Their joy was loud and ugly and completely uninhibited in a way I envied deeply.
August sat across from me at the sticky little table near the back wall.
He looked comfortable here in a way that surprised me less and less the more time I spent around him.
One long leg stretched beneath the table, fingers tapping absently against a sweating soda can while his eyes followed the stage with quiet amusement.
The red lighting softened the angles of his face, turned the coral in his cheeks richer beneath his tan skin.
He nodded slightly along to the music, never throwing himself fully into the chaos the way the others did, but clearly enjoying it anyway.
I liked watching him when he forgot to guard himself. It made him seem younger somehow. Less aware of himself. I leaned closer so he could hear me over the music. “Why didn’t Wyatt come?”
August glanced at me, blinking like he’d forgotten I was there for a second. “This isn’t really his scene.”
I snorted softly, tracing condensation from my drink with my fingertip. “Well. At least that’s one thing we have in common.”
That earned one of those dry little laughs from him. The kind that always sounded more like judgement than amusement. “I bet you’d find more than that if you two would actually try to get along.”
I rolled my eyes immediately, though the corner of my mouth twitched upward. “Hey, I have tried. It’s not my fault he hates me.”
August shrugged, but there was something restrained in it. His gaze drifted back toward the stage too quickly, jaw tightening just slightly like there was an answer sitting behind his teeth he’d decided not to give me.
That irritated me more than it should have.
The music shifted into another song, louder somehow, the guitar shrieking hard enough to vibrate through my ribcage. A girl in smeared eyeliner climbed onto someone’s shoulders and screamed the lyrics toward the ceiling like worship.
I glanced around the room again. “What about your sister? Is she with her boyfriend?”
August’s brows pulled together immediately. “My sister doesn’t have a boyfriend.” He tilted his head slightly. “Did she tell you she did?”
“No.” I shook my head. “When I had dinner at your house that first time, you were teasing her about having one. I just assumed.”
Understanding crossed his face then, followed by a brief laugh under his breath.
“Oh. That.” He rubbed at the back of his neck absently. “No. My sister doesn’t like boys.”
The statement startled me enough that I sat up straighter. “Really?”
The second the word left my mouth, August’s expression changed. Not angry exactly. Just attentive in that hypervigilant way he got sometimes, like he was measuring whether someone was about to become dangerous.
“Does that bother you?” The question came flatly, but I heard the tension beneath it anyway.
“No—of course not.” I frowned immediately. “I just didn’t know.”
“She’s not exactly out.”
The crowd roared at something happening onstage while I stared at him through the pulsing red lights.
“Then why are you telling me?”
August shrugged one shoulder. “The group knows. Her friends know.” His thumb dragged against the rim of his soda can. “I don’t think she’d care if you did.”
“Still,” I said firmly, “it wasn’t your place to tell me.”
Something tired flickered across his face then. The sort of exhaustion that didn’t belong to eighteen-year-olds.
Before he could respond, Angelica and Penelope came crashing toward our table smelling like cigarette smoke, sweat, and greasy fries. Angelica slid dramatically into the booth beside me while Pen nearly collapsed across Ben laughing.
“What are you two lovebirds arguing about now?” Angelica asked brightly.
“We’re not—” I said flatly.
“Coming out.” August’s voice overlapped mine.
Angelica’s face lit up instantly. “Oh my God.” She turned immediately toward me, eyes widening theatrically. “Is someone coming out?”
I cut August a glare sharp enough to peel paint. “Well maybe. Unless someone else outs them first.”
Angelica scoffed immediately, smile falling from her face. “There’s a special place in hell for somebody who outs another person.”
Silence settled over the table. I watched realization dawn slowly across her features as she pieced together what she’d interrupted. Her expression shifted awkwardly, trying to backpedal without making it worse.
“Well,” she said quickly, forcing brightness back into her voice, “unless it’s you outing one of the Barbies to me.” She stole a fry from my basket and pointed it at me. “I’m desperate to know which one of those girls is buried in their designer closet.”
Normally I might’ve laughed. But something had been sitting wrong inside me all night. Maybe it was Shannon still missing. Maybe it was the way everyone in town had already started speaking about him like he was dead.
Whatever it was, it made my response come out harsher than I intended.
“Why?”
Angelica blinked at my tone but smiled anyway, chewing thoughtfully. “Because I’ve got a thing for bitchy girls.” She winked. “They’re crazy in bed.”
Something inside me snapped. “You’re disgusting.” I spat.
The table went still. Angelica’s smile fell completely.
August looked at me carefully. “She was kidding, Lola.”
I whipped toward him so fast my hair stuck to my lip gloss. “So what? You think the Kens are disgusting when they talk about girls like that, but it’s fine when your friends do it?”
His brows pulled together. “That’s not what I said.”
I practically pushed Angelica to the floor as I climbed out of the booth. The room suddenly felt too hot. Too close. My skin buzzing unpleasantly beneath my T-shirt and denim skirt.
“Lola—”
The crowd swallowed me, bodies bumping my shoulders as I pushed through it. Somebody nearly spilled soda down my arm as I shoved toward the exit.
“Where are you going?” August called after me.
“Home.”
“How?” he asked once we hit the hallway near the bathrooms. “Your car’s at my place.”
I laughed wildly without slowing down. “Guess I’ll call my boyfriend.”
That actually made him laugh once under his breath.
“Yeah, that’ll go over real well.” His voice sharpened into mocking sweetness. “‘Hey babe, can you come get me? I’m at The Inn with the guy you fucking hate.’”
I spun on him so fast he nearly walked into me.
“He doesn’t hate you.” I said harshly.
August just looked at me, deeply unconvinced. The expression irritated me so badly I turned away again. But his hand wrapped around my arm—not rough, August was never rough—just enough pressure to stop me moving.
“Would you knock it off,” he said quietly, “and tell me what you’re actually upset about?”
Somewhere behind us the crowd erupted into screams as the band started another song. August’s fingers stayed warm around my arm while I stared up at him trying to untangle feelings I didn’t fully understand myself.
Finally, the truth ripped out before pride could stop it.
“Why is it,” I asked accusatory, “that every time we touch, you spend the next few days acting like you regret it?”
Something in his face cracked. He exhaled heavily through his nose before jerking his chin toward the side exit. “Come outside.”
The alley behind the club was damp from rain. Water dripped steadily from a rusted gutter overhead while cigarette smoke lingered stale against the brick walls. The cold air cooled my flushed skin immediately, though my chest still felt too tight.
August shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and paced once before looking at me again.
“We’re in public, Lola.” His voice came quieter out here. “I didn’t think you’d want me touching you like that here.”
I frowned. “Your friends know we’re hooking up. Angelica literally called us lovebirds.”
“I know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But that doesn’t mean you’re okay with it.”
I stared at him then, and suddenly I realized he looked nervous. Afraid, even.
“You barely spoke to me at school yesterday,” I said softly now. “And you didn’t invite me over for DND last night either.” My throat tightened around the next question. “Do you regret it?”
His expression twisted instantly. “No.” The answer came too fast to fake. “God, no.”
“Then what is it?”
He looked away from me completely then, jaw flexing hard.
“Lola…” He swallowed. “I have OCD.”
I blinked. “I know that.”
He winced immediately and I sighed. “I don’t mean—I don’t mean it’s obvious.” I softened a little. “My mother has OCD too. I recognize it because of her.”
That made him look back at me.
“It’s not that I don’t want to touch you,” he admitted quietly. “God, I want to.” Heat curled low in my stomach despite everything.
“Then what?”
He struggled for the words, fingers flexing restlessly inside his jacket pockets.
“My brain…” He laughed weakly. “It does this thing after.” He swallowed hard. “I get scared.”
“Of me?”
“No.” Immediate. Fierce. “Never you.”
I guessed softly, “Do you feel dirty afterward?”
His eyes snapped to mine. He hesitated. And somehow that hesitation hurt him more than it hurt me.
“I won’t be offended if you say yes,” I said quietly. “I know that wouldn’t actually be about me.”
August looked miserable trying to explain himself.
“It’s not… sex doesn’t gross me out.” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “It’s just…” His voice cracked slightly. “I’m scared I’ll ruin you.”
The confession hollowed something out inside my chest. Because suddenly everything made sense.
Every careful withdrawal. Every stretch of distance afterward. Every tense expression when he looked at me too long. Why he didn’t care if I had a boyfriend—why he cared if I enjoyed myself with Andy.
August thought he was poisonous somehow.
I stepped closer before I even realized I was moving. “How could you possibly ruin me, August?” my voice broke around the words.
He shrugged helplessly, eyes glassy beneath the alley light. “Because I have this terrible thing inside me.” His voice dropped lower as he pressed a hand to the center of his chest. “And if I let you get too close then maybe it’ll make your life worse too.”
The ache that hit me then felt almost maternal. Painfully tender. Slowly, carefully, I reached for his hand. He froze the second our fingers touched.
“There is not a single part of you,” I said softly, “that could ever make my life worse.” His breathing caught as he looked at me with a silent plea.
“You cannot hurt me. Or contaminate me. Or curse me, August Brooks.”
The words felt old somehow as I spoke them.
Like something pulled from childhood memories I usually tried not to touch.
I suddenly recalled sitting outside my parents’ bedroom as a little girl listening to my father soothe my mother through one of her spirals, his voice low and exhausted through the thin trailer walls.
“You cannot hurt her. Or contaminate her. Or curse her. She is better because you are her mother.”
“You are so good, and I am better for knowing you.” I said softly to him.
August’s eyes filled immediately. “Honest?” he whispered.
I nodded slowly. “You only get me honest.”