PROLOGUE
DEKE
DEATH IS A debt we are all born owing.
It’s something that money can’t buy nor can it be traded.
You can’t bargain for more time. When it’s up, you accept it like a fucking man.
I’ve never been afraid to die. Or to love, for that matter.
Aren’t they the same?
You surrender to a fate you have no control over. You don’t get to choose when or how you die, just as you can’t choose when and who you fall in love with.
Some couples get a happily ever after while others are toxic for one another.
My love was like that.
She lied; I believed every word.
I hurt her; she forgave too easily.
It was a vicious circle of deceit and sex wrapped in a pretty black bow. Neither one of us could quit.
I wrapped my hand around her throat, and she begged me to breathe.
She stabbed me in the heart and demanded I bleed.
She might as well have been fucking poison, but I would have drunk her anyway.
That was the kind of obsession I had for her.
I knew how it would end—total devastation.
A war zone of broken bones and bleeding souls.
I should have hated her, but that’s the funny thing about love—it’s out of your control. And even when it leaves you with two black eyes, you beg for more.
People are afraid of the unknown, but I never feared death, and love was no different.
She was going to destroy me, and I was going to let her.
It was a game that could only end one way—a slow and torturous death.
CHAPTER ONE
DEKE
I DARE YOU
A little game my friends and I have played since we were kids. Every Sunday, we get together and write a dare, and the lucky son of a bitch whose turn it is gets to pluck one from the glass bowl and fulfill it. You have a month to complete it; once your time is up, you must face the consequence if you haven’t. Each dare has one, but none of us has ever refused the dare. Some are harmless. Others illegal. Just depends on whose dare you get and what their mood is at the time.
My best friend Eli dared our friend Cole to ride a skateboard down a hill. He did it, of course, but ended up with bruised elbows, scraped knees, and bloody hands. After we all ran down the hill to help him stand, we found him sitting on the ground with a smile on his face. It was as though he enjoyed the pain and the sight of the blood. And from then on, we found ourselves daring one another to do something that could either get us killed or thrown in jail. We didn’t care. Nothing scared any of us, for that matter. But as we got older, the dares got more dangerous and then turned illegal. Girls got involved and … well, let’s just say the game went from eight boys fucking around to five friends trying to figure out how we ended up haunted by our past.
We fucked up along the way. Some of us fell in love with the wrong girl. And some of us would die at the hands of others. It was a sick game we were going to end. And finish it is exactly what we had to do. Even if that meant killing one of our own. We were sharks and not all sharks can swim with others.
Sixteen years old
For the second night in a row, I find myself standing in Bennett’s parents’ basement. We threw a party here last night that ended in several fights. My best friend Cole got his dick sucked by Trenten’s girlfriend in the closet, and Kellan somehow started a fight between Cole and Trenten. It ended with Cole throwing some punches and me getting jumped from behind. Some fucker hit me in the back of the head with a glass cross. Once shit settled down, Cole took me to my sister’s to get it stitched up even though I assured him I’d be fine.
Now here we are. It’s Sunday, and we’re back to draw a dare. It’s my turn.
“Kiss Becky Holt.” I read the three words written on a folded-up piece of paper out loud. “Or you have to record yourself dancing naked.” I snort. I’m sure videos of me in my birthday suit are out there somewhere and didn’t even involve a dare.
Someone snickers, and I look up at my seven friends. Each and every one of us known as the Great White Sharks. The small, rich town known as Collins, Oregon, has been calling us sharks for years. Some say it started because we are all on the high school swim team and dominate in the water, but others say it’s because we’re ruthless. Just like some of our fathers. Some believe killers are born that way, but few will argue they are made. I’m not sure which one is correct anymore. I just do it for fucking fun. But a couple of my friends do it because they crave it—the blood, the rush, and the flat-out terror in someone’s eyes when they get too close. They thrive off it. And I don’t blame them because it can be quite a rush.