Page 41 of Freestyle (Boys of Frampton U #2)

Rowyn

T he fountain glows silver under the lamplight.

Not gold, not soft. Just cold and still, caught in the stretch of shadows that fold across campus like waiting hands.

I sit at the edge, the stone cool beneath me, the water whispering behind my back.

Every sound is too sharp in the dark; every footstep on the brick path, every rustle of wind dragging leaves like whispers. The quad is mostly empty at this hour, on purpose. Nix wanted it that way. Cleaner lines of sight, fewer unknowns.

Still, he’s out there .

I feel it like static under my skin.

Phoenix’s voice is in my ear again, soft but coiled tight. “You’re still good. Eyes are on you.”

My arms are crossed, fingers hidden in my sleeves. I keep my head down like I’m checking my phone, but I’m not. I’m counting breaths.

Then a noise, sharp and close. A laugh, thin and wrong, somewhere just beyond the fountain.

My spine locks.

I don’t turn.

Not yet.

Another step. Too deliberate. Too slow.

He’s watching me, and he wants me to know.

“We’ve got movement,” Phoenix whispers in my ear, all control. “Gray’s moving into position. Just hang tight.”

But it’s already too late for calm, because I recognize the laugh now, and the voice that follows.

“You always did look good in the dark.”

My blood turns to ice.

He’s here.

And this time, I’m not running.

He steps out from behind a tree, half swallowed by shadow, but I’d know him even if I’d been blindfolded .

Alberto.

He looks worse than I remember, worse than the grainy photos Nix pulled from old files, worse than the phantom that’s stalked the edge of my nightmares.

His shirt is stained, something that looks like old ketchup across the front and what might be cigarette ash smeared into the sleeves.

His jeans hang loose, torn at one knee, hem dragging dirty across the pavement.

His shoes don’t match; one a ratty black sneaker, the other a cracked gray slip-on. Both soaked through.

But it’s his face that catches in my throat.

Pale, waxy, like he hasn’t seen daylight in weeks.

Greasy strands of dark hair cling to his forehead, unwashed and limp.

His stubble isn’t grown out so much as neglected, like the idea of grooming simply stopped occurring to him.

His lips are chapped, raw at the edges, and his eyes, too wide, too bright—don’t blink nearly enough.

They’re fixed on me.

Like I’m some prize at the bottom of a long, dark tunnel.

I don’t move. My blood’s ice, but my skin feels on fire.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches into the pocket of his pants.

My breath hitches.

I know what’s in there. I know what he’ll have for me, and it’s just as if I conjured the pony itself, he pulls a pink one from his pocket.

I feel sick looking at it. The things he did.

“I knew I couldn’t come empty handed, and this was always our favorite game. Wasn’t it, Rowboat?”

He moves toward me, slow, deliberate. His fingers trail over the soft fur of the pony.

I want to vomit.

My legs start to tremble, the cold seeping in from outside, or maybe it’s the chill from him.

Alberto’s eyes rake over my body. He reaches for me and I flinch away, stumbling back against the brick.

In one swift motion, he’s yanking me to my feet. He brandishes a blade from his other pocket and presses it firmly against my neck, the tip biting into my skin.

“Tell your little boyfriends to stand down or I’ll kill you right here where they can see, then I’ll be the last one to have you.

Isn’t that what we both want?” he snarls into my ear piece where I know Phoenix and Gray heard him.

I hear someone responding but static is cutting through the line, making it impossible to decipher.

I whimper, terrified and helpless. Tears begin to pool in my eyes and roll down my cheeks.

He grabs the front of my shirt and rips it open, buttons flying everywhere, then cuts the rest off and throws it away. He takes my phone and turns it off.

The only thing covering me is my underwear.

Alberto is panting heavily as he pulls me into his arms, his knife pressed again to my throat.

He drops the backpack that I hadn’t seen before, and bends me over with him as he rummages through it. He pulls out a rope and begins to tie my hands behind my back.

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” I cry.

“I’m doing this because we’re meant to be together, Rowboat. And soon you’ll wear a mark like your favorite pony, except this will be my stamp on you,” he chuckles darkly into my hair.

I begin to thrash, trying to escape his grasp but the cold metal of the blade cuts into my skin, making me gasp.

He pulls out what looks like a branding iron and pushes my boy shorts up, exposing my thigh.

“This will hurt, but you’re going to hold still or it will only burn worse.”

My body freezes in terror as the cold iron presses into my thigh.

The pain doesn’t come all at once.

It sears in a flash; bright, white, cold, and then spreads, slow and unbearable. My scream catches in my throat as the brand kisses the outside of my thigh.

He leans in too close, whispers something vile I can’t even hear over the roar in my ears.

And then, crack .

Everything shifts.

There’s a blur of sound and movement, gravel scattering, fists slamming, the snap of bone. I don’t know if it’s mine or his.

I’m on the ground, shaking, the world spiraling, then I hear it. A gun shot, and my world tilts on its axis as darkness overwhelms me.