“I just received a text from them,” he suddenly grumbles. “They know you’re with me, and they … they want me to pick a fight with you.”
My brows knit. “Why?”
He gives a stiff half-shrug. “I already told you that I have no idea why they do the things they do. But what I do know is that, if I don’t beat your ass up by the time we get to my house, I’m screwed. And I don’t want to, I really don’t, but I also can’t … No one can see that video.”
Again, I want to know what’s on the video they have of him.
I thrum my fingers on top of the shifter as I make the last turn into the neighborhood where his house is located, trying to figure out what to do. If he tries to beat me up, I’m going to fight back, and that’ll probably lead to both of us getting arrested, though I’ll be the one ending up in more trouble. But I’m not just going to stand there and let him kick my ass either.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” I tell him as I slow down at the edge of his driveway. “We’re gonna get out of the car. I’ll let you get a few swings in, and I’ll take one at you. Then you’ll hit me one final time, and I’ll pretend to fall to the ground hard. Hopefully, that’ll satisfy them.”
“Okay.” He gives an uneven nod. “That might work.”
“Just don’t hit me in, like, the ribs or places where I’ll break bones.”
“All right.” He’s busting with nerves as I park the car at the end of the driveway. “Why’re you doing this? We’re not really friends anymore.”
I shrug as I shift the car into park. “We were once.” Besides, I can handle a little pain. I’ve had to for my entire life.
“Just remember that you owe me now,” I add. “So if you find out anything about these blackmailers, you have to tell me.”
He nods, and then we both get out of the car to kick each other’s ass. Again.
I just hope it’ll be worth it. That getting punched around a bit will help us get to whoever the hell is blackmailing both him and Lex.
7
Alexis
The store owner isn’t a big douchebag like I expected him to be. He’s in his late-fifties probably, but looks more like a hippy old dude than just an uptight old dude. Honestly, he kind of reminds me of my dad with how laidback he’s being about all this.
“As beautiful as the poem was,” he tells me as he hands me a bucket of paint, a paintbrush, and a drop to put under me so I don’t get paint all over the concrete, “it just can’t be on the side of my store. You should consider writing a book of poetry. My niece does that sort of stuff and sells them online.”
“Um … yeah, maybe I’ll look into it,” I tell him but don’t really have any plans of doing so. Not right now anyway.
No, right now, I have way too much other stuff going on to worry about things like that. Although, maybe when this is all over, I should sit down and start figuring out future stuff. After all, I’m going to be graduating soon. I’m going to need some sort of plan other than hanging around in Honeyton and making bad choices that lead to me getting stuck painting the sides of buildings and getting blackmailed by some asshole.
Blowing out a breath, I leave the inside of the store and go out into the alleyway to paint over the words I stained on the wall. When I did it, I had just found out about Masie and Blaine. It was just a few days ago, but so much has happened since then that it feels like a different time. I got hauled to the police station, Loki basically begged me to clean up my act, Zhara started talking to me again, West and I kissed—a lot—and he found out what happened between Jay and me. I almost feel like my soul was split open and is now trying to heal.
What changed, though? Sure, all of that stuff happened, but the catalyst, the moment everything shifted in my life, seems to lead back to that day I found Masie and Blaine making out in that pool. Why? Was it just because the last piece of my past shattered?
Who the crap knows? Truthfully, I probably should be worry about other stuff, like getting answers to the questions on my list in my notebook. What I wouldn’t give to be like a PI or something. Then I’d know what to do. Unfortunately, I’m just Alexis Baker, troublemaker extraordinaire.
Sighing at that thought, I get busy with painting the side of the building. Luckily, the paint color is an exact match, so I shouldn’t have to go over the entire wall. I think it’s still going to need a couple of coats since the color I used is dark blue, nearly black, and the wall is a light cream.
As I lift the paintbrush up and down, I read over the words I wrote:
Today, she learned the definition of betrayal.
A thorn got lodged in her heart,
But her heart was already woven with thorns,
So really, did the betrayal matter?
Maybe one day she’ll find out.
But maybe she won’t.
Not everything has an answer.
— Signed with a Kiss
I pause then lower the paintbrush, set it down, and take out my phone to take a quick picture of the poem. While I in no way, shape, or form want to relive what I was feeling in that moment, I do want the reminder of where I went and how I got out of there. And, even though the words are sort of haunting, they’re my words. They belong to me. They are part of me, like the scars on my body. These scars, though, are pink and not quite healed, but are working on it.
Once I get my photo, I put my phone away then spend the next fifteen minutes covering up my poem. Then I balance the paintbrush on top of the bucket and decide to head into the store to buy a drink while I wait for it to dry so I can add a second coat.
Mid-turn, a loud bang echoes through the alleyway. I stiffen, my gaze sweeping across the trashcans and crates covering the narrow area. While nighttime hasn’t settled yet, the sun has started to set and has taken some of the light with it, so everything is shadowed.
Uneasiness stirs inside me.
Maybe it’s just a cat?
Convincing myself to chill the heck out, I hurry toward the door. I’m a handful of steps away when a figure appears at the end of the alleyway. They’re wearing a hoodie pulled over their head and are dressed in all black with a pair of gloves covering their hands. Warning flags immediately start popping up everywhere.
My gaze strays to the door. It’s about halfway between us. If I run for it, are they going to run? Will I make it before they do? And who are they? Do I even need to be worried? Or is this whole blackmailer thing just making me extremely paranoid?
I’m not sure.
What I do know is that running for the door is definitely the best option, because I’m not about to stick around and find out if this is part of the blackmailer’s game.
So, I take off in a mad sprint toward the door.
So do they.
And in that moment, I feel a sort of fear I’ve never experienced before.
Pure and undiluted terror.
Even worse, the person is fast. Faster than me. And halfway to the door, I become painfully aware that I’m not going to make it. So, in a desperate, possibly brilliant or possibly stupid move, I spin around and run back the other way. Then I dig out my phone and start to dial the police, yelling over my shoulder, “I’m calling the police. And I’m taping this shit.” The last part is a lie, but I don’t know what else to do as I reach the end of the alleyway, which is a brick wall. It’s about eight feet high, and a stack of crates are in front of it. I’m not sure if I can climb over in time, but I have to try, especially because I apparently have no signal back here.