Page 17 of Broken Highway (Cult Boys #1)

NOAH

Nothing like a good fuck session and three cups of gas station coffee to keep me awake. The sun teeters on the horizon as we drive straight toward it—a giant ball of fire ready to consume us. It’d be a fitting end, but one I’m not quite ready for.

There’s still too much business left unfinished.

I flip my sunglasses over my eyes as the somber light peaks through canyons of trees around a curve that’s entirely too sharp for a highway. My little fuck nugget—or punk or what-the-fuck-ever—rests with his head against the window. He’s been in and out of sleep all night.

The early morning hours of daylight bring a creeping heat that rises like steam on the asphalt of the roadways. The blinding light of the sun does the same thing to my body that a fourth cup of coffee would do. Wide-awake and ready to drive until the next sunrise.

Driving in fucking circles.

Just up ahead, if my memory is unshakable as I believe it to be, is the same stretch of endless highway I first picked Seven up on.

The radio hums beneath the soundtrack of the tires spinning over the pavement.

The radio jockeys delve into the hot issues of the day for the surrounding community of bumfuck nowhere.

Serious issues—a domestic murder-suicide and a serial killer targeting farm dogs—are talked about in a manner more fitting for scandalous neighborhood gossip.

“And we’re still following the grim story of the Route Seventy Arsonist,” the sole woman on the radio says, piquing my interest. I spin the volume dial to the right.

“What started out as a simple story of a burnt car abandoned on the side of the highway has shifted into a grim reality over the past two days. Authorities have identified the owner and victim of the car as Stephen Young. The victim went by the name Magnus to those who knew him and served as the leader of a church known internally as The Sinless Children. The story only gets weirder here as an inside source claims the church has been under investigation for three years. However, when questioned, the authorities have refused to comment. A representative for the church also refused to comment and is not currently cooperating with law enforcement.”

“That’s because it’s a cult,” a man interjects with a chuckle. “What do you expect them to do? Open the doors with arms wide open?”

“Alleged cult,” the woman says.

“Alleged this. Alleged that,” the man continues. “The only weird thing about this story is that cults like this even exist in this day and age. Some scorned member of this cult was probably lashed one too many times and took this Magnus figure out to a shed. And well, you know the rest.”

Seven, suddenly awake, doesn’t even blink when he turns to me, eyes sunken.

It’s the unmistakable look of a man praying silently he hasn’t been caught in the act.

A look that’s been painted across my own lying face one too many times, when I used to pray Kevin somehow missed the notification popping up at the top of my phone. He never missed it, not even once.

I slam on the brakes.

Seven’s body flings forward, crashing against the dashboard with a thump.

The tires spin through the gravel on the opposite side of the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust into the air that billows forward.

“Get the fuck out of my car,” I seethe, unable to look at him. Instead, I opt to stare at the road ahead as a rig storms by, rattling the windows of the car.

“Noah…” he pleads softly. “I can explain.”

Again, I’m not able to look at him right now. I pop the door open, get out and circle the front of the car. He pushes the passenger door open before I can rip it open. It’s much better this way.

He exits the car with his head bowed.

I pass him without uttering a peep, pop the trunk, grab his bag, and throw it into the ditch beside us. Don’t say a word as I make my way back to the driver’s side. And that’s when I catch my first good look at him.

There’s something about the way the morning light cascades over him. Like he’s ripped straight from the shadows of the night and thrown into unfamiliar places. Never seen him under the harsh light of day. Never seen the twinkle in his almond eyes, but that might be the tears pooling at the creases.

Shitty that now is when I have to see him like this, in all his glory like he was made by god to be kissed by the warmth of the sun. Shitty that this is the way I’ll always remember him, because I’m about to leave him on the side of the road for good.

“Don’t look at me like that.” My words begin as a plea because I can’t bear to look at him like this, but I’m quickly swallowed by the chains of rage.

He’s unwavering in the way his puppy dog eyes reach through the anger that courses through me.

“I said don’t fucking look at me like that.

If I’m going to die, I’m going out on my own terms. I’m not going to go out like your preacher did.

I’m not going to get shot in the back of the head when I’m not looking by someone I trust.”

He nods. “You trust me?”

“Maybe I did.” I throw my hands outward. “ Doesn’t really fucking matter, now does it? This is why I don’t trust people because nobody knows how to tell the fucking truth.”

“You seem more upset that I didn’t tell you what I did than what I actually did.”

“And tell me, Seven. What did you do?” I approach him, stepping around the hood of the car. “I want to hear you say it.”

He looks me straight in the eyes. “I killed a man.”

I grab him by the throat and throw him onto the hood. It feels much different from any other piece of shit I’ve choked. Somehow, it feels grimy. But once the rage takes hold, I’m no longer in control.

And I fucking hate losing control.

Hate that he squirms beneath my grip, his body fighting against the hood. Hate the way he claws at my hand. Hate there’s nothing he can do to save himself as his throat reddens.

“You’ve been playing me since the jump,” I scream. “My gut instinct was you had the charm of a serial killer. That you could be the next Bundy. Turns out I was right. Is this what you do?”

He gasps. Life teeters on leaving his body and then he’ll be nothing more than another ghost of my past. Another shadow that’ll chase me until the last mile of this dead-end road.

Tears bleed from his eyes, staining a path down flushed cheeks.

My mind goes back to a place I swore I’d never return.

Back to the bathroom in a nightclub so long ago.

Kevin locked the door behind us.

He stood behind me, his breath hot over the nape of my neck.

And he made me watch in the mirror, the crux of his elbow hooked over my throat, as he promised he’d kill me the next time my eyes wandered to the body of another man.

Back when he was strong. Back when I was weak.

After he stormed out of the bathroom, leaving me to collect myself so I didn’t look so fucking pathetic, I whispered myself a solemn vow into the neon-lit mirror—I’d never be responsible for making someone feel the way I felt then.

I’ve broken my promise.

My grip on Seven’s throat loosens as I come to, the rage dissipating back into the ether. And then suddenly, the harsh light of the sun isn’t enough to keep me standing. All the caffeine, all the sunshine, all the adrenaline isn’t enough to keep me upright.

I collapse onto my back beside Seven.

He sits up, gasping for air. He should be running, but perhaps he’s waiting to catch his breath.

“I pushed my husband down the stairs,” I confess quietly. “He’s not dead yet, but he’s living on borrowed time. The cancer will take him soon, but it’s a lot harder to fight the disease when he’s six months deep in a coma. That’s right, I killed a man who’s already dying.”

“We’re all dying,” he says just as quietly.

“Not fast enough.”

“I know I should be running?—”

I knew he knew. He can be irritating at times, but he’s not stupid.

“I know you basically just committed felonious assault,” he continues.

“And I know it’s stupid that I don’t care.

The truth is you don’t really know me. You have no way of knowing I killed him because it was him or me.

You have no way of knowing I suffered at the hands of his ideology for almost two decades.

I fought so hard to escape that place and that cult for years, and when I finally managed to get the hell away, he came roaring back, prepared to drag me back to hell with him.

” He hops from the hood of the car and spins to face me.

“So, I shot him in the head. I know I’m not a good person. I know I’ve done bad things, but…”

He pinches at the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply.

I sit up on the hood and hug my legs to my chest.

“We’re not good people, but at least we’re together in that.

” I look to the side and shake my head as a car roars past us.

A howl of wind rides up the back of my shirt.

“I don’t really want to talk about it right now, and that probably makes me an even shittier person, but I’m very sorry for choking you. ”

He just nods.

“I mean it,” I whisper as I lower myself gently off the hood, my boots kicking against gravel. And maybe it’s manipulative of me, but I’m terrified he’s about to run, so I pull him in for an embrace. Hold him close and plant a soft kiss on his forehead. “Go grab your shit, punk.”

He tilts his head upward with glistening eyes as a gentle smile rises over his lips. “I’m still your punk?”

“Yeah.” I force a smile and squeeze him tighter. “I guess I can’t get rid of you that easily. My precious little killer.”