Her shoulders sag in disappointment but quickly perk up when he grins down at her, those crinkles forming beneath his eyes as he says something that looks like “Good try.” Then, he holds up his ball to her lips.
I don’t need to see her face to know she stares up at him with a giddy smile before she leans forward to kiss it. Dread mouths something to her that causes her to giggle, and then he throws the ball.
It’s no surprise he makes it.
People roar their excitement while Dread declares he’s on fire. One guy on the opposing team shouts out a curse and tosses the ball right back to him while his partner shakes his head and removes the cup. There’s only one cup remaining on their side now, while Dread’s only missing four.
I don’t know either of the guys standing on the opposite end, but they’re the standard jock type. Muscular builds, though shorter and stockier than Dread. Both are blond, clean-shaven, and carry themselves like they shit platinum rods—and both are drunk as hell.
While the two of them take several swallows out of their beer bottles, Dread winks at Stacy and likely says something flirty. Her shoulders shake with another giggle while she twists a strand of hair around her forefinger.
I, on the other hand, just want to puke and then leave. In that order.
Only the devil knows why the hell he wants me here and what he has planned, but it doesn’t take an expert to know I’m going to hate him even more by the time the night’s over.
I chew on my bottom lip, tempted to test my luck and see if I can drug him again. One of his friends can take him home, and I can go back to my dorm and fuckingsleep.
Ideally, that’d be my best-case scenario, but it’s also incredibly unlikely, especially because his eyes have just slid above Stacy’s head to clash with mine. They instantly turn ice cold and blast me with a chill that has frost gathering on my bones.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and it feels as if a centipede is crawling down my spine, leaving a repulsive feeling in its wake.
He jerks his chin, motioning for me to come to him.
My stomach twists, and Stacy peers over her shoulder to see whohe’s nodding to. Her upper lip curls with distaste when she catches sight of me, and while I’dlovenothing more than to spend my night asking her why she doesn’t like me, I, unfortunately, have to run instead.
Because Dread looks a little more murderous than usual.
I’m not the praying type, but in this moment, I beg the universe for just about any miracle to happen right now.
A black hole to swallow the entire planet. An asteroid to hit and destroy all of humanity. A solar flare to break through the ozone layer and cook us alive. Maybe a stray planet somehow flinging into our solar system and colliding into us.
I’d even accept an alien invasion, as long as they harvest us for our organs and revitalize this planet to what it once wasbeforehumans cursed it with our existence.
Anything, really.
Seconds tick by, no miracles occur, and my fate is promptly sealed.
My heart pounds, and my hands and feet tingle from the building anxiety in my nervous system. Every one of my instincts is telling me to turn back and run, but if he does something especially cruel, at least there will be a couple dozen witnesses. I might even get lucky, and one of them will be brave enough to take my side.
Blowing out a harsh breath, I shoulder my way through the crowd. Once people catch sight of me, they give me a wide berth, as if skin-to-skin contact with me will cause a flesh-eating disease.
Another miracle that won’t ever come to fruition, unfortunately.
As I round the counter, I glimpse Dread’s smug grin, as if he’s already humiliated me. I frown, not understanding his expression until I get a full view of Stacy. I instantly freeze, my attention zeroing in on her neck then down to her homemade white shirt.
A thin crimson line slashes across the front of her throat, as if it’s been slit open, with rivulets of fake blood trailing past her collarbone and into her T-shirt. She trimmed it into a crop top, a few inches of her midriff on display, and sheared the collar into a V-neck that dips incredibly low past her cleavage. But that’s not what has my blood boiling. Written directly over her chest, in black Sharpie, is a familiar date.
06/18/09.
Georgia Farrell.
My father’s third victim and the one who haunts my dreams, thoughDread couldn't possibly know that.
He'd have killed me already if he did, because that would mean he knowswhy.
Seeing the date, along with Stacy’s bloodied throat, is a punch to the fucking chest. It physically aches, like a fist pressing into my rib cage, slowly splintering the bone until it cracks apart. My sinuses burn, tears threatening to rise while I tirelessly shove them back down. I won’t cry. Not here, not now.
Butfuck, I really, truly, actually, undoubtedly, to the depths of my soul, fuckinghatehim.
