Nightfall (Devil's Night 4)

Nine Years Ago

I should’ve touched her.

I took a drag off the cigarette and dumped Damon’s lighter back into the cup holder, blowing smoke out the driver’s side window.

But no. She wouldn’t have wanted me to.

I rubbed my temple and closed my eyes. She was killing me. Had been killing me for years.

Real monsters don’t wear masks, William Grayson III. A smile pulled at my lips. She was unpredictable, though, wasn’t she? I couldn’t stop thinking about last night and the lock-in.

I took another drag and blew out the smoke as I squeezed the steering wheel under my fist.

“Is this pissing you off?” Michael asked next to me, and I could hear the humor in his voice as he relaxed his ass in the passenger side seat of my truck.

I looked over, seeing him stare at my white-knuckled fist wrapped around my steering wheel.

“Nothing pisses me off,” I mumbled, seeing his head tilted back and his eyes hooded. “Except when I drive, it’s Damon and me up front,” I pointed out. “On the rare occasion you let me drive for the night.”

“The only reason you’re driving is so we can cart the keg to the church,” he told me. “If you didn’t have a truck—”

“Then I might be useless?” I finished for him.

He laughed.

But he didn’t argue, did he?

“That three-pointer from the wing sure wasn’t useless,” Kai joked from the back.

I shot him a look in my rearview mirror, but his face was buried in some booklet.

I shook my head and turned my eyes out the window. I had my talents. At least I was on for the game last night.

“About fucking time,” Michael grumbled.

I blew out a puff of smoke and followed his gaze, seeing Damon finally jog out of the cathedral and across the street.

Switching the cigarette to my left hand, I started the engine again.

“Get out.” Damon opened up the passenger side door and jerked his thumb at Michael. “Now.”

But Michael just sat there, looking amused.

Damon cocked an eyebrow. “I will put you in my lap if you want,” he told him, “but I’m sitting there.”

I laughed under my breath. Michael knew the rules. When he drove, which was almost always, Kai rode shotgun. When I drove, Damon and I were the ones in charge.

After twiddling his thumbs for a moment, Michael finally gave in. He hopped out of the truck, both of them trying to stare each other down like it was a pissing contest.

“I was almost hoping you’d put up more of a fight,” Damon taunted.

Michael teased back. “Make ya hard, do I?”

Damon smiled and climbed in, while Michael circled the truck and got in behind me.

“What took you so long?” I griped, shifting

the truck into gear. “What the hell do you do in there so long?”