Page 14 of Chalk Outline

“My grandma told you to keep it outside the property.”

“Pretty much.”

“How did it conveniently get here?”

He straddles the bike, letting its heavy weight press against his muscular thighs. “I asked Koy to drop it here for us when you were too busy playing hide and seek with the boys in that house.”

“Nah, I’m too busy keeping you entertained ninety-nine times a day.” I hop on, taking the spot behind him without a second thought. “You’re welcome.”

He can’t suppress his sweet little chuckle this time as he hands me the second helmet. “Want to go for a ride?”

I grab it and glance at him over his shoulder. “Why would I spread my thighs around you if I didn’t want to go for a ride?” Pleased with myself, I put it on and fasten my hands around his tight body.

I loved him so much that I never dared to imagine my life without him. He was my first everything, and every part ofme felt it. No words can adequately express the depth of my heartbreak, no matter how vividly I paint the picture. The pain inside me blares like a symphony of chainsaws, yet no one can hear it, and that brutality echoes louder than death ever will.

Internal pain is the most extreme form of torture. It’s silent, yet deadly.

I shake myself out of the memories and bolt outside the house for fresh air. Rubbing my eyes, I look up as the engine of a motorcycle roars across the street.

I should just go back home, but it’s Jason again.

I’m no match for his bike’s speed, but my legs say otherwise. I dash down the street, picking up speed as I go. The clamor of the party fades into the distance, echoing as my shoes press against a far curb. He stops abruptly by the side of the road and parks the bike.

I continue to follow as he enters the woods.

My breaths come out short and fast. I round barks and twigs. I have no explanation for my actions beyond the obvious—if he is one of the masked killers, I want answers.

A bright flash of lightning illuminates the paths between the trees. My heart is thumping. The sky cracks open. A low rumble of thunder echoes in the distance before crashing forcefully through the quiet woodland. The loud boom is enough for this eerie, strange feeling to seep into my system faster than lightning.

I pull my hood up, shielding my eyes from the spitting rain as I take lighter steps and go deeper, yet he is still nowhere in sight.

I flinch when a blonde woman runs toward me with tears in her eyes. Her spaghetti strap slips off her shoulder, exposing her bare breast as she rushes past me, heading in the opposite direction from where I came.

A rapid flow of anger surges through my veins.

Twigs crack to my right with a faint whimper sound.

I advance in that direction and stop short at the sight of the knife in his hand, plunged deep into a Joker’s throat. Blood cascades down like a waterfall, soaking his purple coat.

“No one threatens what is mine.” Jason rages, grinding his teeth. It’s dark and disturbing, filled with malice. He stares into the dark pool of horror that flashes in the man’s eyes, waiting until nothing remains. As he pulls the knife back, the man thuds to the ground, smacking his head on a log.

I clench and unclench my fist to calm myself down.

“Enjoying the show?” He wipes the blade against the dead man’s shirt and straightens back up. With a confident gait, he prowls toward me, eating up the atmosphere step by step. Broad and towering, full of lethal energy, unlike the calm demeanor he displayed inside that house we were in.

His presence is sucking all the oxygen around me.

“Stop,” I order, raising my hand. Although it should feel like a demand, I’m not certain I convey that sentiment.

But it doesn’t matter. He still stops in place.

“Are you one of the masked killers?” I refuse to blink, staring straight into the devil’s eyes. They sparkle as if possessed by pure vengeance, a force as powerful as gravity that can pull anyone in.

We stare at each other for too long. It’s too intense.

His gloved hand twirls the knife between his fingers before placing it in front of me. “It’s yours.” He brushes the handle.

But I already knew that in the bathroom because I constantly check my pockets. I guess he likes souvenirs. I still pretend to shove my hand into my pocket to grab my knife in vain.