“Your weird roommate with the pink hair said you were here, okay?”
His eyes looked off, and his smirk accompanying his confession made it seem like a lie. Almost everything he said was a lie, so I left it alone.
“So who do I call for a private plane with no paper trail and knows who my boss is?” It was a loaded question.
“When did he say he needed it?”
My eyes squinted at his question as the card reader beeped for me to take out my card. I yanked it out, still wondering how he knew all the right questions and answers.
“Nine. Who do I call?”
I grabbed my groceries in the single bag she managed to use for my English muffins, tea, veggies and peanut butter I settled for instead of making my own almond butter like I wanted to.
With his arm around my shoulders, I walked through the exit, and he leaned into me even further. He was a human leech.
“Let me take you to dinner, and I’ll handle it all, dollface…” His sultry voice, devoid of any true life experience, hummed in my ear.
“I should probably call my boss and confirm the plane. Plus I need to work out, meal prep for work... “ My voice trailed off with excuses I knew he wasn’t listening to. Oscar only heard what he wanted to, and right now, I wasn’t saying anything he wanted to hear.
Opening my car door for me was all part of his good guy act. He seemed like the perfect gentleman at all times. That mask never broke, slipped, or became invisible.
“Go home, do you, and I’ll pick you up at 8. You owe me one.”
I did owe him one now, and I didn’t like having unpaid debts. Unpaid debts always bit you in the ass; I knew from personal experience.
My dad borrowed money from the wrong people at the wrong time, right before the financial crash of 2008, and that was a debt they made sure he paid. They trashed his deli, harassed my mom for his payment, and I’m sure there was more they both kept from us. Now the PTSD of unpaid debts was something I would like to avoid.
“Fine. One date and only because you did this for me. Friends, Oscar.” I had to make sure the friends part was the clearest.
He held his hands up as I closed my door and pushed the button on the window letting it go all the way down. “Anything for you, dollface. I’ll see you at 8.”
Oscar was a bundle of triumphant vibes as he walked back to his car that stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. A Bentley, all red with chrome detailing, valued at probably the same price of two modest houses.
Rich prick status.
I couldn’t confirm everything was done perfectly, since none of it was actually done by myself the way Grimm intended, but it was done and my breathing was finally back to normal.
One ounce of panic and my mind ran a mile with it. I would dig up every worst case scenario and serve it to myself on a silver platter.
With my hand on the center console, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe in one solid, normal breath. I felt my tight chest start to release, and I started to relax into my seat, finally.
I was a real catch: failed model, fired secretary, not sneaky at all apparently, expected to do things I didn’t know how to do (pack on that failure complex strong), an ex who just wouldn’t take no for an answer, and prone to anxiety attacks, hence the inhaler in my car.
Grimm had better appreciate his private plane, because the lengths I went to deserved a gold star—a real gold star. We both knew he could afford it.
GRIMM
The gunshot rippled through the air, disrupting the soundwaves and peace of being in the mountains all at once.
Elbow to elbow with the other elitists of the world, I watched them play dress up with their weapons and fucking military outfits, like it would instantly give them the skills they needed to hunt down desperate-to-live players.
They looked like dress-up dolls, cult addition.
I had to bite back the laughter, soiling the inside of my mouth. Every year it got me the same way. My arms folded over my chest, I had to put in effort into not making fun of everyone around me.
It was hard enough thinking this wasn’t some kind of bad dream, but to see Russian Barbie next to me now outfitted in green riding pants, knee high boots, and a tackle jacket holding her spare rifle bullets made it even worse. What you wore didn’t matter one ounce; leave it to the rich fucks of the world to lean into a theme.
Vic shot his fist into my arm, making me lose my balance and shift my weight to stop myself from falling over as my body shook with a hostage laugh.
He wanted me to break off a mouthed sorry. Wasn’t happening.
My dad stood in front of everyone in similar attire and a musket across his body, with my mom just as equally disguised, as he spoke: “The players are being released as I speak. You will have twenty-four hours to hunt your player and kill them. Once you have done so, use the walkies to call it in. Someone from security will come and fetch the body. Stay on the grounds. The fence along the perimeter is obvious and turned on. One touch, and you’ll be toast.”
My mother just had to chime in: “Happy hunting!”
Another gunshot, one for the elites, signaling the killing sounded off, and I stood planted as they scampered off. I had been killing things, people, for a long time, and it didn’t matter how fast you ran. It was all about stalking your prey, thinking like your prey, and being smarter. Fuck, you didn’t even have to know how to kill someone; that was the easiest part. Finding them was hard.
The four of us stayed behind, watching them scatter on the lawn like ravenous fiends looking for their next hit.
Khaos was dragging a smoke from his lips. “You ready for this?”
I knew what he was saying without him saying it. Once you have been forced together this long you start to know the ones you are forced with almost as well as yourself.
Almost.
Everyone has secrets—the kind of secrets that create devilish habits, monsters under your bed, and that beg to be hidden for eternity, just so you can keep up the idea of being normal.
None of us were normal.
Lifting up the back of my pullover Champion hoodie, I flashed him my Glock tucked into the band of my sweats. He smirked, knowing I wasn’t about to use it. Khaos was the only one who knew my plan when it came to the hunt. Bowen and Vic were out of the loop. Bowen was normally too drunk or too high to retain how something was secret, and Vic was the poster boy for the “Best Cult Member”.
Khaos was the most like me—one foot in and the other out.
Vic pulled his long tresses into a bun at the back of his head and walked over to the table of weapons, picking up a knife.
My eyes rolled, knowing his intentions. He liked to make everything personal, just like firing Abigail and pushing her onto me—forcing me under his watchful eye.
Bowen downed a nip of Jack Daniels and tossed the plastic bottle behind him just before he stepped up to the table to choose a weapon. He shrugged, not deciding. Bowen was the most fucked up of all of us. He used his bare hands and didn’t care about looking death in the eyes. Last year, he choked his player so hard it crushed her windpipe, and he didn’t stop there. He drove his fists into her features so many times any way to recognize her was gone.
He was a constant drunk mess, trying to bury all the shit down far enough to pretend to ignore it.
Bowen Astor was the only one out of us with his wife chosen already—a promised man. Unlucky, for whoever she was, to have to unpack his baggage or be forced to trip over the suitcase in the middle of the room.