My head jerks up, but Preston isn’t there anymore.
There’s no warmth, no tight embraces where I always felt that he craved me, and that was the only way he knew how to touch me.
Instead, my eyes collide with Jude and Kane, who are dressed in black gear.
Jude’s holding a gun and aiming it at me. I think he said something just now, but I didn’t hear it.
I cock my head to the side, grinning. “Took you long enough. I got a little…impatient.”
“Get the fuck out of here, Osborn,” Kane says, standing in front of Jude as if, what…? To protect him or me?
“Bring cleaners? Of course you did.” I chuckle, stumbling off the bed. “I’ll leave it to you, rich kids.”
I cast one last glance at the lump of flesh and bones I left behind and feel nothing but the crashing ache that no matter what I do, I can’t bringhimback.
But if I continue to kill, I’ll be able to see his ghost.
As I’m about to leave, Jude fists my bloodied collar and snarls in my face, “You think you can ruin my fucking revenge and then leave?”
“That’s the plan, Callahan.”
I breathe harshly, that rage bubbling to the surface. “I should maim you instead.”
Even though I’d like to beat him the fuck up for failing to save Preston, for not protecting his own girl so we wouldn’t be in this predicament, I know Preston wouldn’t like it.
And I don’t want to see his disapproving face in my hallucinations.
“That’s right,” Preston whispers in my head. “Jude’s my bestie, remember? We’re bros.”
Kane pulls Jude away from me. “Let him go.”
“But this motherfucker?—”
Kane shakes his head, cutting Jude off, and gives me a once-over, then lets out in a breath, “Pres wouldn’t like it.”
Something inside me jolts. The heart that I thought died after Preston left me is resurrecting from the ashes at the mere mention of him.
Jude lets me go, watching me peculiarly, but I pull out a candy, mango flavored, and throw it in my mouth. At first, the mango mixes with the tangy taste of blood, but soon enough, it’s all Preston.
Like the few times when I made him suck on a candy after I fucked him, kissing him through it. He loved it. Heexpected it. He’d stroke my hair and sigh in my mouth as we both shared a kiss through the candy.
And now, I can’t do that anymore, because he chose death over me.
And I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
Or if I’ll ever admit that he’s gone for good.
Every day, I watch my phone, waiting for his texts that used to brighten my life. Every night, I stare out my window and look for his shadow in front of the house.
I look everywhere, but he’s not there.
And I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.
“You’ve reachedemotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong. If I’m not answering, I’mprobablyignoring you on purpose, so maybe lose my number. If you’re part of Preston’s VIP Club, leave a message and Imightgrace you with my attention.”
As it goes to voicemail, I hang up and call again, putting the phone to my ear.
Then I do it again.
