“Your Mom doesn’t seem annoying. She loves you so much,” he says slowly. Pointedly.
My heartbeat goes fast then, and his smile becomes gleeful.
I jerk awake mid-shout. My throat feels raw. My pillow is wet with sweat and tears, and my heart is going a mile a minute. I blink. The darkness in the room is all-consuming, like it’s swallowing me. I breathe harder, but my chest still feels tight. I take another breath, and it goes out just as fast. I feel dizzy.
I pat around the bedside table until I find the lamp and switch it on.
The sudden light blinds me, but I force my eyes open. I can still see those teeth when I close them. The yellow walls seem unfamiliar, alien. I turn on my back and stare at the ceiling. Plain, white. I take a long breath, this time, it fills my lungs.
“Fuck,” I murmur and sit up. I gulp the glass of water. Some of it trickles down to my T-shirt, but it hardly registers.
It takes a few minutes for my heart and my mind to calm down. I’m home. I’m safe. I talked to my mother just yesterday. She’s fine. So is my father. Everything is alright.
I hate that I care. I hate that he couldn’t change that. It would have been so much easier if he had. I can imagine what life would be like if I stopped caring. It feels so close. I could reach out and grab it.
But I can’t. If it hasn’t happened yet, it won’t. And the worst part is, I probably hate him the most for that. For not breaking me completely. For leaving behind the part I could’ve easily lived without. Preferred it, really.
Red fills my vision, and I almost snap the glass in my hand. I slowly place it back down with a trembling hand. Then drag myself out of bed and to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes on the way. I need a shower, or I might go on a rampage. That may be the final straw to break my already torn conscience.
***
After a disastrous workday in which three clients asked me if I was sure I should be working today because I looked like I was about to faint at the slightest wind, I did not want to be back here. No, that’s an understatement. I’d rather watch one of those reality shows Nicholas likes so much than be here. But unfortunately, duty calls.
The club’s noise spills into the back alley, grating on my mind like metal on a board as I head toward my now-regular meeting spot with Drew Blue.
I see him smoking, looking relaxed. Casual. All the while, another man lies six feet under somewhere because Drew thought he could do whatever he pleased. And why wouldn’t he? People like him famously get away with shit all the time.
I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to stab him with my knife right here. Wouldn’t be so smug then, would he? I approach him slowly, my body wound tight, itching to do something. Anything. Other than standing there and making small talk.
I lean against the wall beside him and swallow down the sudden need to smack him right across his face. “We have to stop meeting like this,” I say instead, smiling straight ahead.
He snorts. “You forgot your cigarette again?” he asks, pointedly looking at my empty hand.
“I may be subconsciously trying to quit," I finally turn to him.
He doesn’t, his eyes are trained on the woman near the club’s back door, scrolling through her phone.
My hands clench into a fist. What is he thinking? If I let him live another day, will he hurt her? There are so many vulnerable people around us. How do I know he won’t decide to swipe his claws and end their lives, too? He has no issues doing it. How many other people has he hurt while I was following my plans and covering my ass?
I shove my hands into my pockets. One hits the small Swiss knife I carry everywhere, and I clutch it hard. It might not kill him, but it will injure him long enough for me to reach the bigger one at my ankle.
Drew’s head snaps to me, following the movement of my hand.
My jaw tightens enough to crack a tooth or two with the effort it takes to move my hand over to a cigarette packet in the pocket. I take it out and swipe one. “I guess I’ll try again tomorrow,” I laugh. Some sense of self-preservation must be lingering under all the anger, frustration, and fear to keep me going with the plan.
He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright, man,” he says, reaching for my jacket pocket, transferring the stuff.
I follow his lead and pay him.
“Might need more for a party. Know where I can get it?” I ask casually, getting to the point. If I can’t kill him, I don’t want to spend anymore time around him.
He nods, blowing smoke right into my face. “Meet me this Saturday, eleven pm at Wendy’s off Sunset in East Hollywood.” He drops the cigarette and crushes it with his shoes.
I salute with my cigarette. Then he’s off toward the woman.
I stay plastered to the wall as they walk inside together. Everything in me screams to follow them. Just do it. What’s the worst that could happen?
That thought hits me like a bucket of icy water to the face. I could go toprison. Because no one would believe me when I explain why I killed a man in cold blood at a nightclub. And I’ll never be able to watch another werewolf taking their lastbreath while regretting every decision they made ever again.
