35. Marcus
MARCUS
I’ve been drifting the past few days.
Just…existing.
Forget about hockey or my career. I might have shown up to practice and played, but really, I don’t think I was ever there.
The only reason I even go to the ice anymore is so that I can feel Preston’s presence.
In the coldness of the rink, I can sense his heat wrapped around me as his body folds against mine. I can picture him circling me in that infuriating way he loved to.
At least, at that time, I was the center of his universe.
And I loved the feeling of having his attention. I loved trapping the untrappable.
Touching the untouchable.
Even if it was for a moment.
These last few months, Preston’s always been so distant—someone I could touch momentarily but couldn’t grasp.
And now, thanks to the letter he left me, I finally know why.
He might have perfected the art of seeming normal. Charming, even. But he was suffering in silence, bottling up the horrendous things that happened to him.
He buried it deep, pretending it didn’t exist. He let his abuse fester until it took him away.
Until he allowed it to take him away.
And I couldn’t stop it.
All I could do was go on a murder spree.
Once Dad provided me with the names and addresses, I devoted myself to that.
Killing.
Revenge.
I first killed the guy who sold those people the illegal weapons, then the guy who deleted all security footage, and then I moved on to the guy who pulled the trigger.
Surprisingly, for my first time, murder came so naturally to me. The life I never wanted, being part of Vencor and Dad’s blood-soaked world, caught up to me anyway, but I don’t regret it.
I’d do it all over again for him. I promised I’d kill for him, and I keep my promises.
Unlike him.
That flash of anger rushes through me again. A current so strong, I can barely contain it.
I want to punch him, to shake him, to hug him, then kick him and fucking…ask him why? Why the fuck did he leave me?
Just why?
How could he do this to me?
But I can’t ask him that, because he’s gone. All I can do is kill.
I guess I felt like Preston did when he bashed that teacher’s head in.
Liberation.
Actually, as I slashed the face of the man who pulled the trigger, as I crucified him on a tree and carved PRES on his chest with a knife, then littered mango candy all over him, there was no liberation.
No feeling of satisfaction.
There was only emptiness and the reminder that Preston is gone.
That’s when he appeared—as the sensation of emptiness grabbed hold of me.
He was leaning against the tree, flashing me his dimpled grin.
“Butchered your first job by leaving so much evidence behind, Osborn. Also, that’s such messy writing.
Can anyone even read those letters? No one but me would hire you. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
But when I reached for his ghost, he was gone.
So I thought maybe I felt empty because that gunman was just a contract killer, as per Dad’s words. The one who needs to pay for Preston’s death is the one who ordered the hit.
Marguerite Armstrong.
Preston’s grandmother.
She wanted to kill Violet because she’s her husband’s illegitimate daughter, but those details don’t matter.
What matters is that Preston died because of her, and she had the audacity to sit at his funeral wearing a straight face.
That woman took away my Preston and needs to pay what she owes me in full.
That’s why I’m in her house.
Apparently, Lawrence exposed her and had her kicked out of the Armstrong mansion, so she’s been in this house in suburban New York.
Being excommunicated isn’t enough.
Even dying isn’t enough.
I stare down at her as she sleeps soundly, her face stretched tight, and she’s releasing small wheezes in the deafening silence.
How dare she sleep after she killed her own grandson?
Though he did say she called him crazy.
That’s reason enough for her to die.
I lift my gloved hand wrapped around the knife and shove it down, stabbing her in the eye. She screams, jolting awake, reaching, and flailing, but I stab her again—this time in the other eye, then pull it out.
Killing feels like nothing.
Just like everything else feels like nothing.
The only thing that felt like something was ripped out of my fucking hands because of this woman.
The only person who could pull at my heartstrings and make me feel alive is now gone, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with my life anymore.
I can’t go back to the way life was before him, because I don’t remember it.
I don’t want to.
“You called him crazy, huh?” I ask in a monotone voice as she keeps letting out long, shrill screams.
I cut off her fucking lips. Slice, slice, slice. Then I shove the soggy, bloodied skin down her fucking throat until she gags on it, her screams muffled.
“Can’t call him crazy now, can you, old hag?”
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
She stops screaming after a while—dead, I think. What a drag. She should’ve lasted a bit longer.
That doesn’t mean I stop, though.
I straddle her, slashing her face, her chest. Anywhere I can reach.
I’m drenched with blood that goes into my eyes and on my face, my clothes.
Everywhere.
Doesn’t matter. I’m in a trance, unable to stop as I slash her entire body the fuck up.
“So…violent.”
My lips tremble at Preston’s soft voice, but I don’t look back at him, and I don’t stop stabbing.
If I do that, he’ll disappear.
But I feel him.
His hand wraps around my throat from behind as he whispers in my ear, “Kind of hot. Scratch that, it’s really hot.”
“If I keep killing, will you come see me like this?”
“Maybe.” His lips brush my ear. “But you need to take care of yourself, Marcus. It isn’t like you to be this blasé about your conditioning and your hockey career. You have to feed this beautiful body properly. Also, don’t worry June endlessly. You know I don’t fuck with June.”
“Don’t go,” I whisper for what seems like the thousandth time. I feel like I’m always asking him to stay, and he just…never does.
“I’m already gone, Marcus. Accept that, okay?”
“No—
My head jerks up, but Preston isn’t there anymore.
There’s no warmth, no tight embraces where I always felt that he craved me, and that was the only way he knew how to touch me.
Instead, my eyes collide with Jude and Kane, who are dressed in black gear.
Jude’s holding a gun and aiming it at me. I think he said something just now, but I didn’t hear it.
I cock my head to the side, grinning. “Took you long enough. I got a little…impatient.”
“Get the fuck out of here, Osborn,” Kane says, standing in front of Jude as if, what…? To protect him or me?
“Bring cleaners? Of course you did.” I chuckle, stumbling off the bed. “I’ll leave it to you, rich kids.”
I cast one last glance at the lump of flesh and bones I left behind and feel nothing but the crashing ache that no matter what I do, I can’t bring him back.
But if I continue to kill, I’ll be able to see his ghost.
As I’m about to leave, Jude fists my bloodied collar and snarls in my face, “You think you can ruin my fucking revenge and then leave?”
“That’s the plan, Callahan.”
I breathe harshly, that rage bubbling to the surface. “I should maim you instead.”
Even though I’d like to beat him the fuck up for failing to save Preston, for not protecting his own girl so we wouldn’t be in this predicament, I know Preston wouldn’t like it.
And I don’t want to see his disapproving face in my hallucinations.
“That’s right,” Preston whispers in my head. “Jude’s my bestie, remember? We’re bros.”
Kane pulls Jude away from me. “Let him go.”
“But this motherfucker—”
Kane shakes his head, cutting Jude off, and gives me a once-over, then lets out in a breath, “Pres wouldn’t like it.”
Something inside me jolts. The heart that I thought died after Preston left me is resurrecting from the ashes at the mere mention of him.
Jude lets me go, watching me peculiarly, but I pull out a candy, mango flavored, and throw it in my mouth. At first, the mango mixes with the tangy taste of blood, but soon enough, it’s all Preston.
Like the few times when I made him suck on a candy after I fucked him, kissing him through it. He loved it. He expected it. He’d stroke my hair and sigh in my mouth as we both shared a kiss through the candy.
And now, I can’t do that anymore, because he chose death over me.
And I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
Or if I’ll ever admit that he’s gone for good.
Every day, I watch my phone, waiting for his texts that used to brighten my life. Every night, I stare out my window and look for his shadow in front of the house.
I look everywhere, but he’s not there.
And I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong. If I’m not answering, I’m probably ignoring you on purpose, so maybe lose my number. If you’re part of Preston’s VIP Club, leave a message and I might grace you with my attention.”
As it goes to voicemail, I hang up and call again, putting the phone to my ear.
Then I do it again.
And again.
I smile at his words sometimes. Other times, I feel my lips tremble.
Mostly, I just stare into the distance while standing on top of the cliff where I almost lost him once. On the anniversary of his mother’s death.
When he was so out of it.
Maybe it started then. The fixation, the obsession, the need to protect him from a world that doesn’t deserve him.
I still lost him anyway, so now what?
Listen to his voice on repeat, that’s what.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
And again.
One more time.
My body’s growing numb from the icy wind as I listen to his voice on speaker, leaning against my bike and staring at the photo on my screen.
It’s one of the few selfies he took with my phone.
This one was when we went out with Mom for coffee.
She had to go to the hospital for an emergency, and I thought he’d ask for the date to end since, well, Mom was no longer available as a buffer.
However, Preston just sat there with me in a coffee shop full of people.