I breathe in relief as he turns and sprints away, then scrunch my eyes in terror as I hear a loud shot. Quill’s actually pulled the trigger, and I’m already imagining the lifeless body of my friend, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the sky, or maybe his face smashed against the gutter, his last view of the world being the dirty water mingling with the dust of the road.
My friend. It’s crazy how I never knew that’s what he’d suddenly and randomly become, before Quill shot him.
Is it too late? Did I just lose the friend I never knew I had?
Just like I lost Mom before I even got to know her. The real her.
I hate myself for keeping my eyes shut for the few seconds it would have taken to see if he’s really been shot. If he’s really dead.
Because before I’ve even come to my senses, I feel a hand wrap itself around my hair and yank me angrily to my feet, while another hand falls over my face, forcing my eyes to remain closed, and my mouth, too.
His hand is the size of my entire face. He could crush me likean insect, and he’s letting me know.
I don’t have time to think anything else as he drags me to a car and shoves me down into the driver’s seat with him. It’s like he’s determined not to let go of me for even an instant. He pushes me off him and forces me over to the passenger’s side while turning on the engine. Only when he’s driving away does he tear his hand away from me to lock the doors. By then, there’s no Josh visible in the window.
Did he kill him? Did he shoot him dead, just like he did my parents?
I don’t know why the thought is so devastating. I’ve only known him for two days. Two days, and I’m realizing just how naive and…purehe was. He didn’t deserve it.
“Is he dead?” I choke out.
“Put on your seatbelt.”
The command feels at odds with his deep, raspy voice, still clearly disguised, even though there’s no need for it.
It feels even more at odds with the fact that he just killed my fucking friend. He’s probably about to kill me too, and he wants me to put on my seatbelt?
“What? No.”
He doesn’t even give me a second’s warning before he grabs my hair and yanks me roughly toward him.
“Put on your fucking seatbelt.”
I don’t know why his roughness shocks me. I have every expectation that he’s going to kill me, but I’m letting myself get unsettled by the fact that he just pulled my hair. My hands snap on my seatbelt before my mind even knows what they’re doing.
“Are you going to kill me next?” I ask, trying to put on a brave air, but failing miserably. My voice is shaking, and he clearly notices it.
Suddenly, he whips off his mask.
I gasp out loud.
It’s the first time I’ve seen his face since our relationship ended, four months after high school graduation. When he ruined my life and I took out a loan to escape for college.
He takes my breath away.
I’d forgotten how fucking beautiful he was. His piercing blue eyes, peering at me behind the locks of dark hair, his long, straight nose and cheekbones. Only now, his jawline is chiseled, there’s a tattoo winding its way around his neck, and a very long scar that runs from the right side of his forehead down to his chin.
It’s slightly slanted, and in the darkness of the car, made only darker by the fact that the sun has disappeared behind heavy storm clouds, it seems to glow white.
By all rights, I should be terrified of that scar, of those piercing eyes burning with darkness, of the chiseled jaw that tells me just how buff he’s gotten since I last saw him.
But all I can do is stare, my stomach clenching with something no amount of horror can repress.
“When are you going to kill me?” I ask, and this time it’s for me. I don’t expect an answer. I just need to keep saying those words, thinking those words, to keep from being sucked into the vortex of his eyes.
You’re going to kill me. I know you’re going to kill me. You’re a killer, and I’m going to die.
But something in those eyes tells me hewon’tkill me. I know he has it in him to kill a person without even blinking an eye, but somehow, he doesn’t have it in him to kill me.
