Dead Girls Never Talk

Cade

Beingselfless was embedded into my DNA the second I was thrust into the Walker family, butt-ass naked, screaming for my mother’s tit. Although, could you truly consider yourself a selfless being when you only thought of one person above all else? Being selfless was to think of how your actions could affect others, to put their feelings before yours, but the only person I had ever thought about was Tommy-motherfucking-Walker. My father.

He beat my mom in front of me, and I allowed him to do so.

It wasn’t because I agreed with it. No. In fact, it felt like a waging war of fire was occurring inside my body, burning me alive with each thudding punch to her skin. But now that I was legally an adult and had been through more shit than I ever cared to discuss with a therapist, I knew that I had been brainwashed from the second I could say the word gun. I was born into a scheming, illegal, gun-running business, and unfortunately, it had always been the plan for me. Isaiah and Brantley, too, but now things had changed. Alliances had shifted, trust had been broken, and more targets were inflicted on the three of us due to sending our fathers to prison for the very business we were set to inherit.

Tommy Walker, my own flesh and blood, the man who I had been devoted to, was locked behind bars, and there were a lot of angry people, but especially him. My father, along with Carlisle and Frank, were likely planning our deaths at this very moment.

Think of the business, son. Don’t fuck this up for me. Be a man. Watch as I cut this man’s throat out, because you’ll be doing the same one day. You are loyal to one, and that is the brotherhood.

Looking back, I should have listened to him a little more intently. I regretted the second I became devoted to another. And again, not because he deserved my devotion or loyalty, or because I agreed with the business I was forced into, but because the second I let my guard fall—and trust me when I say it fucking fell—that was when shit became real. Selfishness typically led to regret, and regret was what I’d been feeling since Journey left.

The cool winter wind pelted through my crisp, white dress shirt as I stood in the exact spot I was standing in when I realized I’d fucked up. The cobblestone was slick with ice, and the tattered, faded, maroon flag atop the skyscraper boarding school I called home blew as angrily as my heart was beating. The car door slammed, and the thundering muscle climbed up to my throat. I knew why I was angry to see her again. It wasn’t because I wasn’t thankful she was here, because even though I knew she’d never be mine again, I was glad that she was back. I was angry because I’d spent every waking second of the last eight months trying to rid her from my brain, and now she was here, and there was no way I was going to be able to scrub the memory of us when she was no longer just a ghost striding down the halls of St. Mary’s, holding my entire being in her small hands.

Chills scraped over my arms and chest, and it had nothing to do with the wintry breeze. Her pretty, wavy hair flew over her shoulder, and it pissed me off that she didn’t have a coat on. Her jeans were looser than normal, no longer hugging her edible curves like before. I knew, without even looking, that the light in her smoky eyes was dull. They were empty just a few weeks ago when I saw her standing in the foyer of St. Mary’s with a war brewing around us. Time was subjective, and some would say that eight months wasn’t much time at all, but to me, it was a lifetime. An entire eternity had passed since the last time I’d felt her lips on mine. She was different. And I was, too. There was so much to say, but nothing would ever leave our mouths.

My hands dove into the pockets of my pants as she moved up the front steps of the school, not even looking back at the town car that had dropped her off. She’d been staying at the orphanage since escaping from the psych hospital, and I knew that because I had left St. Mary’s and checked on her each and every night, not caring if Tate—the headmaster who despised me and the rest of the Rebels when we called him by his first name—tried to stop me, which was exactly why he didn’t. I could see her pretty face from the glow of the candle inside the far-right window of the tall, brick building that was close to ruins. I felt her hopelessness and despair from across the street, and it made me sick.

I liked to pretend that I was numb on the inside—a walking fucking Frankenstein, if I might—but it was all a ploy.

I had feelings for one person, and now she was back, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to unbury myself from all that had happened. Because the truth was, I still didn’t know what had happened other than the fact that, for the first time in my entire life, I was selfish, and it had hurt us both in the end.

So, if there was one thing that I could take away from my fucked-up father, it was that he was right: being selfless was better than being selfish, because when you thought of only yourself, people got hurt.

And she got hurt. Literally.

My hand came up, and I swiped at my bottom lip as I watched her stand in front of the school as if she were preparing for a battle. I could almost taste her sweet lips on mine, even from the far distance that separated us. Everything tightened when her head snapped over and her gray eyes landed on me. I swore I could feel her tender hands squeeze my soul. I stayed still, watching her as she watched me. The wind blew her hair all around her, like she was an enemy, unmoving as she towered over her opponent. I took a step forward, as if she were a siren calling me from afar, as soft snow began to fall from the sky, but the second I moved, she was like a fearful rabbit, running away at the first sound of distress.

She disappeared into the two heavy doors of St. Mary’s, and I dropped my arm down to my side, preparing myself for death.

Because that was what Journey was going to be for me.

A slow, dreadful calling to my death.