Blood to Dust

They think we’re dead. Nobody knows what we’re up to, I keep reminding myself. But I don’t know that for a fact. Wanting to chew my nerves away, I grab the backpack she left here to look for my peach-flavored gum. I find it buried at the bottom of her bag, along with something else I didn’t even know still existed. Something I forgot I even had.

I pluck out my red notebook and stare at it, moving it in my hands like it’s some sort of magic fucking wand. My prison diary. My words. She always says they’re so pretty, but these are my ugly words, the ones she shouldn’t be exposed to.

Has she read it? Of course she’s read it. Goddammit. She knows my story through and through. The horrid bits and the painful parts. My jaw clenches so hard it almost snaps and pops out of my mouth. I don’t even notice when she gets back into the car, falling into her seat in a fit of wild, youthful laughter. The giggles die down quickly the second she sees the diary in my hand.

“Shit,” she gulps, swiveling her whole body to face mine. I don’t look at her. I’m still staring at my old diary. Violated is not the right word for what I feel. Disgraced comes close, but it’s still not quite there.

Her hand grips the door handle, ready to run away, but I dig my fingers into her thigh.

“Five seconds to explain. It better be good.”

“I’m sorry I took it without your permission. I tucked it into my dress when you carried me from the basement before we. . .”

Before we fucked like animals. She knew everything about me. And she still wanted to do it.

I love her.

“It didn’t feel right to leave a part of you back in that awful place. Your words deserve freedom, not that dingy basement. Besides—” She hesitates.

“Besides?”

“That red diary made me fall in love with you,” she finishes.

A few seconds pass before I hand her the notebook and motion with my chin to the nylon bags she’s holding.

“Got everything?”

She nods. “Can I take your diary with me when we’re done? You were going to leave it behind anyway, and I want to carry your words with me everywhere I go,” she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“Take whatever you want.” I rub my face in frustration before looking away. I mean it too. If she wanted my balls, I’d hand them over in a heartbeat. But man, it’s hard to talk about the day after we part ways. “Just keep it safe.”

“It’s yours. Of course I’ll keep it safe,” she says. I believe her.

In a lot of ways, she’s already saved me.

When night falls, our guards go up.

It didn’t surprise us that Seb arrived at the club clad in a dapper, checkered gray and red suit, accompanied by two bodyguards.

Sebastian may believe we’re dead, but he knows there’s still a chance we’re after him. And him? He’s after young boys. Sex is a drive just as powerful as revenge. Tonight, he is going to find that out.

We sit low inside a white Tacoma Nate broke into earlier tonight. He said Seb might recognize the Beatmobile and besides, he missed Stella. We made a stop in West Oakland, where he strode into an alley, yanked an antenna from one of the parked cars, wedged a space in the door and effortlessly hit the unlock button.

“Looks like you’re an expert when it comes to breaking into cars,” I said in hushed disdain when he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t look out of your element yourself when you broke into your apartment.” Touché.

We watch Sebastian breeze through the doors of Think Pink, a gay nightclub just on the curve of Mission Street, without even coming face to face with the bouncer. I recognize the two muscle men who plucked me out of that Oakland alley the night he found me and handed me to Nate.

I don’t feel too bad about hurting his soldiers—they didn’t shed a tear when they handed me over to death row—but I hope Seb doesn’t come out of here with an innocent, unsuspecting one-night stand. That would be a complication we don’t need right now.

Beside me, Nate is flicking a Zippo lighter absentmindedly, moving his jaw from side to side while chewing on his peachy gum. The fire engulfed by his huge palms is dancing on his irises, revealing the complete peace behind them.

He doesn’t look like boyfriend-material right now, despite his good looks.

He doesn’t even look like Beat, the scary masked man who takes violently but with consent.

He looks. . .like a killer.

And Godfrey told him about my child. He knows.

“How come you’re not nervous?” I ask, shifting with discomfort that has nothing to do with the small space we’re sharing and eyeing the entrance to the club religiously. We can’t afford to lose Seb. With little means and barely any intel, tonight is our only clear shot.