Chapter 27 Amy #2
I look them in the eye. “I can trust you, right?”
Slowly, they nod.
“Call us later?”
“Sure,” I say.
Definitely not. They’re sweet enough. But they embody everything I can only dream of becoming—a normal girl, with normal friends and a normal boyfriend.
I clatter down the stairs, tears brimming in my eyes as I climb into my car.
Nope. I’m not crying over this. I’m… Amy Hitman? I have no fucking idea who I am anymore. Right now, I feel like a nobody. The person I thought I was with Lewis doesn’t exist. The girl I tried to disown is lost in the wild. All I am now is a shadow me, floating on the borderlands.
I rev the engine, turn the stereo up high, and hit the road like it’s the last drive of my life. For a couple of minutes, I take the streets as they come with no destination in mind, until suddenly, I know.
I know exactly where to go.
I cut through town, swinging past the shop and up the lane to the wasteland where we keep the scrap. This is my happy place. Somewhere I can be—just me and all RJ’s old wrecks and the silence. He won’t mind me coming here to cool off.
As soon as I get through the gate, I ditch the car and head straight for the hut. Emerging with a sledgehammer, I make a beeline for the Dodge Challenger sitting right in front of me. It’s newer than Lewis’s, but it’ll more than do the job.
My phone starts to buzz. I look down. Lewis. I reject the call and turn my phone off. Go fuck yourself. I’m swaying on my feet, dizzy with rage, and the moment I reach the Dodge, I send the sledgehammer shattering through the taillights.
I turn my attention to the windows, and with every pane I smash, I howl to the moon.
“I’m…”
Bam!
“Amy…”
Bam!
“Hitman! I’m not…”
Bam!
“Your little fuck puppet! I am not a fucking outlet!”
I hammer and I hammer, picturing Conley’s face caving in with every swing, shaking so hard by the time I’m done; the wood slick with sweat in the palm of my hand.
I tighten my grip and vault onto the hood, priming to do more damage, more hurt, but once I reach the top, tears fill my eyes and I break down, sobs racking my body, and it all comes gushing out of me, too much and too soon for me to know what to do with it all.
I crumple to my knees. I hate Lewis for what he said, but I hate myself more for dropping my guard.
I should’ve watched out for myself. I should’ve remembered I can only ever rely on myself. Like I always have.
I refuse to be weak. I’m better than this.
I stagger to my feet and reach for the sledgehammer again, bringing it down over the windshield, feeling the sheet of glass shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.
I need more. I take aim at the hood, battering it senseless, feeling the metal give under the full force of my weight, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough to drain me of everything I feel for that asshole, but at least I can try—even if it takes every last car to do it.
“Feeling better?”
I jerk my head up, mopping my forehead with the back of my hand.
“You’re always there, lurking in the shadows, aren’t you?”
Esteban just looks at me for a moment. I glance down at my fingers. Mascara must be smudged all over my face, but I don’t give a shit. He’s seen me cry before—back when Dad died. I know he hates seeing me this way.
“What can I say?” He shrugs. “Call it a sixth sense for when you need me.”
He’s been saying that since elementary school.
“I call bullshit. A sixth sense for trouble, more like.”
“Really? Because it seems like I ended up in Sycamore Heights right when—”
I wield the sledgehammer at him. “Emil sent you—remember? So, enough of the ‘I’m your hero’ stuff.”
A slow smile spreads over his lips. I know Emil sent him to Ohio. I also know that it has nothing to do with helping RJ. Esteban has been sent to look after me.
Keeping my eyes on his, I leap to the ground.
I was pissed that he tracked me down to my new town, but I’m suddenly grateful he’s here.
He’s been trying to warn me from the get-go, and I refused to listen—that was a mistake.
I pushed him and all the others away, when he’s one of the rare people who knows me—really knows me.
Someone who doesn’t want to change me, or use me, or hurt me.
He stretches out a hand. “Let’s go grab a drink. Take your mind off your driver.”
He gets it. He understands the rage fueling me. But what he doesn’t see is that it’s going to take way more than a drink to move on from this. There’s only one way to stop the pain. More pain.
“I’ve got a better idea.”
When I take one slow step toward him, his eyes light up in recognition.
“Good to see you again, Hitman.”
He pulls me in, hoisting me up onto the remains of the Dodge, and when his tongue parts my lips, my brain switches to autopilot.
Just the taste of him… Memories come flooding back, and I can’t tell whether they’re sweet or salty.
More to the point, I don’t care. I’m so tired of overthinking every little step.
Living without a thought for what comes tomorrow is so much easier.
I am Amy Hitman.
And this has been a long time coming.