“My parents are going to fucking kill me,” Chance seethed. “Someone get over here and help me get this prick off the table.”
River Whitmore emerged from the kitchen, and the two of them made grabs for Holden, who easily danced out of reach despite looking as if he’d drunk half a keg all by himself.
“You’re dead, fucker,” Frankie snarled, drawing my attention back to him. He pulled a police-issue Taser from his board shorts.
Miller held up his hands. “Whoa, hey…”
Frankie lunged. I dodged right and swung my left arm up, knocking the Taser out of his grasp. I gripped him by the front of his shirt and drove him away from Miller. The crazy fucker with the silver hair had danced his way to the living room coffee table, but he barely registered. The rage was free now, flowing through me and into Frankie. He stumbled and went down, and I went down with him, both of us grappling and throwing punches wherever we could. I reveled at the burst of pain when one of his fists connected, almost more than when I got one in on him.
Which was more often.
It wasn’t a fair fight; I could beat the shit out of the scrawny guy…
How far are you taking this? a voice whispered in the chaos. You going to kill him? Like father like son…
Then Chance hauled Frankie away. River tried to do the same with me, but I jerked free and gave him a rough shove.
“Fuck this guy,” Frankie screamed, wrestling out of Chance’s grasp, his nose leaking red again. “You are so dead.” He grabbed the broken beer bottle off the coffee table and leveled it at me. “I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!”
Frankie took a tentative swipe at me and the crowd gasped. Pain flared at the top of my left forearm, igniting the fire burning through my veins for a second time.
I glanced down at my skin that was split and bleeding, then back to Frankie. “That was a mistake.”
His eyes widened and he took a step back at the deadly calm in my voice, the bottle trembling in his hand.
Don’t be like him…my mother pleaded from somewhere far away. But she was dead. Dead because I’d done nothing.
No more doing nothing…
My fists were coiled and ready but suddenly Holden was there between us. He wore a long coat and an expensive-looking shirt that he ripped open, sending buttons flying. His eyes were wide and crazy as he bared the left side of his chest to Frankie.
“Right here,” he hissed and tapped his heart. “Put it right here. Go on. Do it. Do it.”
I stared at this guy who could not look more different than me but mirrored my chaos. Like watching an out-of-body experience. For a split second, I thought Frankie would take Holden up on the offer.
No! Me. Not him.
I reached to pull Holden to safety, but Miller was faster. He stepped into our small circle of psychopaths and took Holden’s arm, talking soothingly.
“Hey, man. Come on. Hey…”
Holden jerked from Miller’s grasp, closed his coat, and put a cigarette in his mouth. He grinned. “Anyone got a light?”
“What the…?” Chance blinked stupidly, then his mouth twisted in rage. “Get out. You three. Get the fuck out of my house.”
Holden pretended to be offended. “Rude, right?”
A laugh burst out of Miller, and I suddenly felt crazily close to laughing too.
“Get out!” Chance roared.
Miller and Holden made a run for it, cackling like idiots. I moved more leisurely, grabbing my jacket and giving Frankie a warning stare that promised pain if he fucked with either one of them. On my way to the door, the yellow Taser caught my eye. Without breaking stride, I snatched it and tucked it in my jacket pocket.
“You’re dead, Wentz,” Frankie screamed after me. “You’re fucking dead!”
Outside, Miller and Holden were lying on their backs on the front lawn, laughing at the sky and getting acquainted.
“I don’t believe we’ve officially met. Holden Parish.”
“Miller Stratton.”
They shook hands and Holden tilted his chin up at me. “And who’s the Brute Squad?”
“Ronan Wentz,” Miller managed through his laughter.
Holden jerked his hand straight up. “A pleasure.”
“Crazy bastards,” I said, which only made them laugh harder. While they pulled their shit together, I kept an eye on the front door. A warm trickle of blood flowed down the back of my hand, and I wiped it on my jeans.
“How did you do that?” Holden was asking Miller.
“Do what?”
“Play and sing like you did. Like…a fucking miracle.”
“Nah. Everyone’s heard that song. It’s a million years old.”
Holden shook his head. “They’ve heard the song, but you put your heart and soul out there. That’s not something people hear every day.”
Amen. I didn’t have the words to tell Miller the truth, but Holden did. He spoke for both of us.
The front door banged open and the football team poured out.
“I said, get the fuck off my property!” Chance raged.
Miller and Holden scrambled to their feet, and that’s when I heard it. Police sirens. Distant but growing closer. A cold sweat broke out over my body as that day came surging back, ten years old but as clear as yesterday.
My mother on the kitchen floor. The blood…
There was so much blood and she wasn’t moving and then the sirens came. The sound of help. Too late, too late…
I stood on the grass, hardly able to move. Dimly, I noticed Amber giving Miller his guitar case and then Holden flying at us.
“Time to go.”
Feeling drunk, I followed him and Miller to a black sedan parked across the street with a uniformed driver waiting in the front seat.
“Good evening, James,” Holden said as we climbed in the back, him wedged between Miller and me. “Would you be so kind as to remove us from the immediate area?”
The car doors closed, and the siren sound was cut in half but still coming. I turned my head to the window and shut my eyes, wanting to see nothing but black. Not her. Not the bloody bat rolling across the bloody floor…
“Home, sir?” James asked, driving fast and taking us away from the scene. Soon, the sirens faded in the distance and I let out a breath.
“Fuck no,” Holden said. “Thoughts, gentlemen?”
Miller leaned over to shoot me a look, a question in his eyes. There was only one answer. I nodded.
“My place,” Miller said and told James the address.
At his shitty complex that looked exactly like my shitty complex, James parked the car and we climbed out.
Holden eyed the building. “Cozy. After-party at Chez Stratton?”
“Not quite,” Miller said. “How long will James wait?”
“As long as I need him to.” Holden lit a cigarette. Cloves, judging by the sickly-sweet smell. “Fear not, James is being well-compensated for his time.”
Miller shot me another look. I nodded.
“Okay. Let’s go,” he said, and we took Holden to the Shack because it was his now, too.
Chapter Five
The weekend rolled around with no word from Violet. My texts went unanswered. Phone calls went to voice mail. At History class on Monday, she was late. Violet was never late. Fear and guilt that something terrible had gone down at the party wracked me.