Down the empty hallway.
Into one of the unused guest rooms.
I shut the door behind me and twist the lock.
The silence hits hard.
My breathing is uneven, too fast. I swallow down a mouthful of whiskey, then another, letting it burn all the way down.
I hate him.
God, I fucking hate him.
Jamie with his smart mouth and his soft eyes and his stupid crop tops and his way of looking at me like he’s terrified and curious and disgusted all at once. I hate the way he flinches when I get too close. I hate the way he never actually backs down.
I’ve hated him for years.
Since that night.
The party in the woods.
The fucked-up game.
Me wearing that mask.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, bottle hanging from my fingertips.
I remember everything about that night.
The cold air.
The flashlight beams cut through branches.
The rush of adrenaline in my veins as soon as someone suggested hide-and-seek in the forest like idiots reenacting some horror movie.
And Jamie—tiny, pretty, too-fragile Jamie—drawing the short stick.
He had to hide.
And fate—or whatever cruel bastard controls my life—put me on the opposite team.
I shouldn’t have gotten excited.
But I did.
I was wearing a mask.
A red skull mask with black brush strokes on the sides. The kind of thing people on the internet callferal,ferocious,the villain’s face. The kind people fantasize about and pretend they don’t. The kind of that makes the BookTok girls screaming in excitement and begging to be chased by the masked man through the woods and roughly fucked by that man, while he still wears the mask.
So yeah, that look was pretty hot and sexy.
I remember slipping it on.
remember thinking:Let him run.
When I found him—Christ—he looked like prey.
Breathing hard.
