“Enjoy your last night of freedom, Rich Girl. Tomorrow…” His eyes traveled down my face, settling on my lips. “You’re the Reaper’s girl.”
THIRTY-FOUR
GRIM
Five Years Ago
Gemma Crowne was acting strange. Her family’s famous Fourth of July party was happening at Crowne Hall. But instead of joining kings and actors and whoever the fuck else, she was atmybeach, staring off into the black ocean, her silky white dress swirling in the wind.
This bad habit of mine started years ago.
Gemma has been a secret obsession since the day I found her crying in that empty high school room. It started slow, watching her in class, figuring out what she liked and what shepretendedto like. Making sure her favorite cheat snack appeared in her locker (Cheetos with ranch, fucking weird).
When some jock asshole tried to grab her and force herinto his lap, it escalated into breaking his good throwing arm the day before a college scout was supposed to see him.
I would have done so much worse, and had.
After we graduated, and I no longer had her in my sights, it escalated further. From following her on every social media she had, to spying through her window, watching her cry when no one thought she was looking.
Finding out who made her cry, and making them pay.
It was hacking her computer, finding the porn she watched, and jerking off to the same video that made her come. It was studying the erotica she read. It was memorizing her secret fantasies.
It was definitely fucked up. Amoral. I should have left it—us—in that empty classroom. But my world had always been like an old movie, seen in black and white, where some parts had faded into time and lost sound completely.
But Gemma?
She was Technicolor.
And when I was with her, the world was Technicolor too.
Gemma took a step toward the ocean. I was ripped out of the past, locked on her movement. She walked until the waves hit her thighs, dress sticking to her skin. She stayed like that for a moment. The moon rippled on the black ocean waves.
Then she dove, head disappearing under the black.
One wave crashed.
I knew I should leave it alone. Let it be. We’d had one interaction almost three years ago and had never spoken since.
Another wave crashed, still no Gemma.
She didn’t know who I was beyond the rumors. Ourworlds were so far apart they may as well have existed in different timelines.
Except that one moment three years ago was enough to tattoo her inside me indelibly.
A third wave crashed. Before I could think, I was in the water. My jeans sticking to my legs and weighing me down. I waded quickly to where she’d been, then dove.
Gemma floated above the ocean’s sandy floor. Moonlight illumined her in the black ocean water, pale and ghostly. Eyes closed, she almost looked…peaceful.
I ripped her out, throwing her to the sand.
She was still.
“Fuck.”
I bent over her, pressing my hands into her chest. What was the song you were supposed to sing? “Stayin’ Alive”?
Ironic.
