I don’t want a thousand best friends, and fuck, I don’t even want one best friend. I want my tireless, headstrong boyfriend and some reliable people I can hang with on occasion.
That’s all I need.
Halfway up the narrow staircase, I reach the second-floor landing. And I pause. My gut says, look. I turn my head, the bathroom door in view.
No light streams beneath the crack.
Instinct overrides alarm, and I move quietly but urgently. I open the unlocked door and flick on the lights. No one is in this fucking bathroom.
There are only two other doors. Left goes to Jane’s room. Right goes to Luna’s room. I tune out motives, the what ifs and all the shit that’d cause me to stumble or falter. I concentrate on one task.
Find Nate.
I open the left door. Flick on the lights.
A quick scan of the room.
Empty.
I shut the door, turn to the right one. Luna’s room. My jaw hardens as I grab the brass knob.
Don’t be in here, you motherfucker.
The knob jams.
It’s locked.
I listen for a half a second, no noise audible. I knock once, twice, and then feet patter. I lower my fist.
Don’t be in here.
The door swings open, and Luna peeks out, a heart drawn on her cheek. Green marker stains her hands. “Hi, Farrow.”
“Anyone with you?” I ask.
Luna glances behind her. “No…should there be?”
I have to look. “Can I see?”
“Yeah…”
I push the door wider. Glow-in-the-dark stars and planets are glued to the ceiling, lava lamps casting colors and odd shapes on her black chalkboard walls. Purple beads hang across her four-poster bed like curtains, but I can see through them.
And no one else is here.
Okay.
If he’s not on the second-floor, then I know where Nate is now. And it’s not good. My nose flares and eyes burn.
“What’s this about?” Luna wonders. “Are you trying to find Moffy? I thought he’s with you.”
“He is. Stay in your room for me. Lock your door again.” I wait for her to move. She hesitates, and my brows arch. “Luna.” I check the staircase. No movement.
My body tells me not to overact. Don’t jump the gun. Don’t panic. Breathe and face this shit head-on.
“Should I call my brother?” Luna asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m going to text him.” I already take out my phone and type a quick text. Luna nods and then shuts the door. I hear the lock click.
Stay in my room. Lock the door. I send the message to Maximoff.
Pocketing my phone, I continue up the stairs to the third floor. Process of deduction: there’s only one other place the stairs lead to.
Maximoff’s attic bedroom.
Don’t panic.
I inhale, not fixating on the reasons why Nate would want to be in Maximoff’s bedroom. If I concentrate on that, I’ll lose it.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother checking his reply. I can’t have a five-minute text conversation or a phone call with Maximoff. Not right now.
I climb the flight of stairs, quietly. Careful not to cause the old wood to squeak. Each step is a razor blade held to my throat. Because I know exactly what I’m climbing towards.
A nightmare.
A kind of hatred that I’ve seen for months in sick photo after sick photo.
Last step, and I’ve reached the top. I face a door and listen for a short moment.
Hearing…I shake my head. I can barely distinguish the noise.
But someone is in there. I’m not painting a vivid picture of what’s inside.
What I know: I need to end this tonight.
Turning the knob, I kick the door open.
And my heated gaze drills on a familiar face.
This fucker…
I grind my teeth.
Nate stands wide-eyed and eerily still next to the bed. At least two inches taller than me, could be more, his head almost touches the rafters and strung bulbs.
I hone in on his hands.
He clutches a stainless steel thermos, and in the other, he grips the hilt of a hunting knife. The mattress and orange comforter are already torn to shreds.
My muscles tighten; my jaw throbs from gritting, and I gently shut the door behind me.
As his shock wears off at being found, he narrows his gray-blue eyes on me. “You should understand,” Nate says seriously.
I tilt my head. “I should understand,” I repeat, acid dripping in the back of my throat. “What exactly should I understand, Nate?” You son of a bitch.
“You’ve seen Maximoff. You’ve seen him all over Jane.”
“They’re friends—”
“No,” Nate cuts me off, shaking his head once. “Maximoff has hated me because he’s jealous that I was sleeping with Jane. You know that? You know he wants her for himself?”
I let out a short laugh of cold disbelief. I’m unblinking. Staring at someone who created a twisted narrative off assumptions and fabrications, something more dangerous than the innocent truth. “You really believe that bullshit,” I realize.
His glare grows hotter. “People can brush off the tabloids like they mean nothing, but there’s truth there.” Nate points the blade at me. “You know it, too.”
My jaw tics. “I know you’ve been posting pics of Maximoff’s death on social media.” I’m 99% sure it’s him and just waiting for confirmation.
He lifts his chin and hesitates for a second. Like he’s unsure how to reply. But then his nose flares, and he says, “It’s what he deserves.”
“Fuck you,” I sneer, and a rampant fire ignites inside me. I charge, my stride lengthy and unrelenting.
Nate brandishes the knife at me less like a tool and more like a weapon. Ten feet away, his eyes warn me to stay back.
I don’t slow.
Maximoff Hale deserves peace. And love. I’ll always, always fight to give him the things that people rip away, and that’s not changing now, a year from now, five years—forever.
Nate lunges at me, blade outstretched, but I slip left and catch his wrist. I elbow his temple, then I uppercut his jaw, the impact bangs my knuckles, and his teeth bash together.
He blinks, disoriented, and I twist his wrist. His fingers release the knife, and it clatters to the floorboards. But I strengthen my grip and pull his wrist further back.
I feel his bone crack.
Wincing, Nate spits, “Get off!” He thrashes to push me back, and I fist his button-down.
As he grapples and claws against me, the thermos overturns on us. Something red is in the steel canister, but I don’t focus on that shit. I deck him in the jaw and dodge his blows as thick, warm crimson-liquid smears on our arms, my chest, our faces, his hair.
Blood.
It’s blood.
I slam him to the ground, his back lands with a loud thud. He planned to dump blood on Maximoff’s bed. Probably from an animal, pig or sheep, but I don’t think long.
I pin Nate down, my knee digging into his ribs. Floorboards are so slick with blood that his legs slide beneath me—my legs slide. Both of us searching for better grip.
Fuck.
I sit up partially and throw my knuckles into his smeared-red cheek.
His head whips to the left, but he spits. And I stare at more sick hatred than pain. A sudden thought cuts into me.
Maximoff was supposed to be in this room tonight. Nate didn’t know that Maximoff would be in security’s townhouse with me.
My eyes sear as I seize his irate gaze, and I ask coldly, “Were you planning to hurt him tonight?”
Nate breathes hard through his nose, unblinking. Not affirming.
Not denying. Could be, he doesn’t even know what he would’ve done.
He just leaves me to visualize that horrific scenario.
Fuck you. I can’t unleash the words or spit them out. They calcify inside of me, and my act
ions come in swift succession.
I fist his shirt, lifting him in an iron grip, and then I slam him down forcefully. His head bashes into the wood. Eyes flutter. One more time. Up and down, his eyes flutter again.
I cold-cock him with a right hook. His head lolls…unconscious. His body slackens beneath me.
I sit up.
Breathing, breathing, my chest rising and falling. I find the cord to my mic and earpiece, hanging off and covered in animal blood. I click the mic, and instinctively, I say, “Farrow to Thatcher, come to Maximoff’s room.”
Not a second later, he replies, “Copy that.”
With another heavy breath, I drop the mic.
I can’t stand.
I can’t move off him.