Page 13

twelve

Fantasies

Raze (“Havoc”)

Bust it Baby: Plies

I can’t help but steal glances at Whitney in the rearview mirror, and each time, the same shadow of fear clouding her pretty light green eyes sends a spike of pain through my heart. Without her mask, her frown replaces her usual smile, and it fucking breaks me to see her like this. She stares blankly out of the tinted back window, trees blurring past in a rush, just going to show how much over the speed limit I'm going.

Even with my mask on, I can feel Hawk’s gaze on me, but there’s nothing to say with Whitney in the car—nothing she needs to hear. He’s likely wrestling with the same thought: we’re the only ones who have been stalking her—at least, that’s what we believed. We had no idea anyone else was stalking her every move. But our motivations couldn't be more different. We watch her because we fucking care. Our purpose is to ensure her safety, so when one of us isn't on alert, the other is. This stranger, however, wants to fucking scare her and possess her for all the wrong reasons.

A loud chime from the car speakers announces a new message, breaking through the tension. I pass my phone to Hawk, who scoffs and angles it toward me. As I read, I keep one eye on the road.

The dude's gone—stay alert. The cameras conveniently cut off just before e left. Check in when you arrive for a rundown on the plan.

A knot tightens in my stomach—the man who dared to wrap his fucking hands around my girl’s throat is still out there, and we know nothing about him. I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles cracking from the pressure. Venting the windows, Hawk lights a blunt, the pungent scent of weed wafting through the car and easing my tension before I even take a hit.

“How much longer until we’re there?” Whitney asks, finally breaking her silence since we left the club.

“By the time we finish this blunt, we should be there,” Hawk replies, turning in his seat to take a couple of hits before passing it to her.

Without hesitation, she takes the blunt, clearly craving something to get her calm. I sneak another glance in the mirror, watching her full lips wrap around the end of the blunt—a brief, tantalizing thought shivers through me as I imagine those lips on me instead. She takes a few puffs, holding the smoke deep in her lungs before releasing a massive cloud that hangs thick in the car, slightly obscuring my view of the desolate road ahead.

“Where are we going?” she asks, tapping my shoulder as she passes the blunt to me. “It better not be some fucking place in the middle of the woods,” she snaps, her fear apparent. “I’d rather take my chances in the city where there are witnesses if things go wrong.”

“You have me and Crow to protect you. Nothing will happen to you, pretty girl,” I answer, trying to lighten the mood with my reassurance, though I’m not sure it has the intended effect.

“I still hate the fucking woods, Havoc,” she huffs, sinking back against the seat, her eyes still locked on the outside view.

I want to tell her that I understand—that ever since she was assaulted at a high school party, she’s avoided wooded areas like the plague. But I can’t. I can’t burden her with my guilt over our failure to protect her that night. In her mind, Raze and Hawk are still in California, and we’re just two guys she clicked with when she moved to Boston. Not even Lux or Donovan knows our real names. They’ve seen our faces maybe a handful of times but remain oblivious to our true identities. We can’t risk exposing who we are.

Why haven’t we come clean? Our reasons feel like a heavy weight, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

As the blunt makes its rounds and the SUV fills with smoke, we roll down the driveway of a secluded cabin deep in the heart of Massachusetts, each of us blissfully stoned and far more relaxed than we were an hour ago.

“Motherfucker,” Whitney says, punching the back of my seat. “I’m not staying here.”

I cut the engine, and Hawk hops out, grabbing our bags to unpack and to make the place feel more welcoming. Whitney, however, remains defiantly in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, a scowl adorning her stunning features. Knowing how to coax her out, I unbuckle my seatbelt and step outside, slamming the door behind me. I quickly open her door, reaching for her seatbelt, but she swats my hand away, refusing to budge.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn,” I growl, narrowing my eyes as I reach for her belt again.

Again, she slaps my hand away. In exasperation, I pull out my knife and flick it open, pressing the blade against her throat, my mask brushing against her nose. She freezes, yet her heartbeat remains steady—calm, unlike anyone else’s would be in this situation.

“You pull a fucking knife on me, Havoc, you’d better use it,” she whispers, leaning into the blade.

“Oh, I’m going to use it,” I threaten, making a small incision near her collarbone before guiding the knife down toward her seatbelt.

As tiny beads of blood well up and trickle down her skin, she shivers, but there’s a wild grin playing on her lips as I slice through the strap. Free from her restraints, I toss the knife aside and wrap my arm around her waist, lifting her from the car regardless of her protests. In one swift motion, I throw her over my shoulder, grab my knife back, and slam the door shut.

“Havoc, you can’t just pick me up when I said I wasn’t getting out,” she protests, hammering at my lower back in a futile attempt to be put down.

“Well, how come I just fucking did?” I shoot back, a sarcastic grin appearing as I give her a playful smack on her ass that echoes through the quiet night.

Once inside, I lock the door and set the alarm, tossing her onto the couch where Hawk is already cracking open a beer. He grins, reaching for another from beside him, handing it to me before offering one to Whitney. She snatches it from his hand with a huff as she sits up, twisting off the cap and downing it like it’s water.

“I know I don’t have a say in this, which is fucked up, but you two better stay sharp if I’m expected to spend time in the fucking woods,” she warns.

“Nothing will happen to you, Whitney, so just relax,” Hawk reassures her, pulling out a small glass bowl from his pocket.

“More weed?” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “How are you not passed out by now?”

Hawk chuckles, pinching some freshly ground weed and packing the bowl. “Shit doesn’t make me tired. Plus, smoking is literally all I’ve done since middle school.” He quickly realizes his slip, exchanging a glance with me that says he hopes she doesn’t connect the dots.

For a moment, silence envelops us as she seems to put the pieces together. I hold my breath, anxiety mounting, but she remains quiet.

“I used to smoke all the time, but it just doesn’t hit the same anymore,” she admits, reaching for the bowl as Hawk passes it to her. “Lately, though, it’s been working its magic, and I think I’ve needed it more than I realized.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Little Mischief. If the whole world took a puff every now and then, it would be a better place. Most people just need to chill the fuck out,” I reply, sweeping my gaze across the living room, ensuring the windows are closed and the security alarms are still activated.

As the room fills with smoke and the atmosphere eases into a vibe of relaxation, I collapse onto the couch beside Whitney. I can feel her gaze piercing the side of my masked face, and I know before she speaks what she’s going to ask. Despite wanting to reveal myself to her, I can’t. Just as she opens her mouth, I cover it with my hand, feeling her breath warm against my palm.

“Don’t even fucking ask,” I warn, sensing my emotions bubbling close to the surface.

Her brow arches in silent question, and the look she gives me pierces my fucking heart. Deep down, she seems to know the truth—she knows it’s me and Hawk—but for some unfathomable reason, she hasn’t confronted it yet.

The tension hums between us as the smoke wins its battle against our uncertainty, thickening the air with an atmosphere that’s both relaxed and chaotic at the same time. Whitney studies me, her eyes flickering between curiosity and defiance. I can tell she’s wrestling with the urge to demand the truth she senses lies just beneath the surface of my mask. I want nothing more than to tell her everything, to let her see the man behind the facade. But I can’t—there are too many risks involved, too much at stake.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” she finally says, pulling away from my hand and crossing her arms once more. “I didn’t want to know anyway. Just don’t expect me to be all comfortable and trust you two if you keep this shit up.”

The frustration in her voice cuts through me, sharper than the knife I used on her seatbelt. It’s because of that same frustration that I can’t let my guard down.

“You think you’re the only fucking one feeling uneasy?” I shoot back, my voice gruffer than intended. “We’re doing this for your fucking sake. You’re the one who’s been targeted.”

Whitney’s eyes flash with hurt before the defiance rushes back in. “So locking me up in some isolated cabin is the solution? Is this your fucking definition of protection?” Her voice breaks slightly, and I can see the hurt etched into her features as clear as day.

“Whitney—” I start, but the look she gives me silences my attempt at a defense. It’s a look that says, Don’t fucking patronize me.

Hawk, sensing the tension rising, stands up, clutching his beer like a peace offering. “Let’s just chill, alright? The world’s crazy right now, but we’ll figure this out.”

He gestures toward the living room, where the lighting casts shadows over her face, making her look both fierce and vulnerable. She exhales loudly and sinks back against the couch, seemingly deflated. It stabs at my chest to see her like this. Hawk takes the opportunity to lighten the mood more. He leans toward Whitney, smiling wide. “Look, we could use a distraction. How about a dance? Nothing like a sexy lap dance to blow off some fucking steam."

"Yeah," I echo, getting excited. "We didn't get to see you at the club tonight, so you kind of owe us." I wink, bringing out a small smile across her lips.

Whitney's expression shifts from fury to reluctant amusement, caught between indignation and playful interest.

"You both are out of your damn minds," she retorts, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward despite her best efforts to suppress them. "I’m not a fucking circus act, and there's no way you'd be able to handle what I'm about to do if I did."

Hawk raises his eyebrows, leaning back with a confident swagger that screams challenge. "C'mon, Whitney. You know you want to."

I can see the war within her—her instinct to resist versus the desire for freedom from her fears, even if only for a moment. The flicker of a smile turns into a growl of defiance.

“Fine, but you better not hold back your judgment.”

“Deal,” Hawk says, practically bouncing on his feet. “Get ready to witness greatness, Hacov.”

As she stands, I can’t help but admire her determination. Maybe this is what we all need—to break the tension, even only for a few stolen moments of laughter and lightness. I lean back, settling in to watch her do her thing.

Whitney stretches a bit, her movements wild and carefree, as she takes her place in the center of the cabin, undeterred by the distant shadows playing against the walls. With one swift motion, she tugs at her shirt, pulling it slightly to the side, exposing a hint of her skin, and I feel my heartbeat quicken.

“Alright, but when I do this, you better fucking drown me in compliments.”

“Don’t worry,” I chuckle. “We'll drown you in more than just compliments.”

She rolls her neck, shaking off the last remnants of tension, and then flips her hair back—her eyes sparkling with mischief. She launches into an unexpected dance, moving to a rhythm only she can hear, her body fluid and confident. I can’t take my eyes off her as she lets herself be carried by the music.

My heart swells as I watch her, buoyed by her energy, the weight of our previous conversation temporarily forgotten. She twirls and spins, her laughter contagious as she continues to tease and sulk, slipping in and out of her self-defense mode. Each movement is imbued with power—the kind I yearn to protect.

I catch myself smiling, leaning forward in my seat. “That’s right, Little Mischief. Show us what you’ve got.”

As her body undulates to the nonexistent beat, she spices the dance with playful glances tossed in our direction, making us both melt and cheer her on. The memory of her fear quickly dissolving into a euphoric release is intoxicating. But as I watch, I notice her edges slowly begin to blur again. The flickers of pain and fear struggle to surface, and for a moment, they threaten to overshadow her newfound freedom. I get up, shoving my hands into my pockets. The dance is our escape, yes, but it won’t erase what haunts her.

“Whitney!” I call out, needing to remind her, needing to connect without unmasking myself in a way that could shatter her trust. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

Her eyes freeze on mine, momentarily snapping back to reality. The light winks out of her smile as her breathing starts to slow, the dance turning into a subtle sway.

“I know,” she whispers, the fight in her voice still tinged with uncertainty.

There’s something charged in the air between us. I step closer, tilting my head slightly, allowing my voice to soften.

“You’re stronger than anyone I know, and we’re going to make sure you stay that way.”

“You don’t know me,” she counters, but there’s a softness in her tone that wasn’t there before.

“I want to,” I reply, and the sincerity of that sentiment hangs between us like a fragile thread.

“I want to, too,” she murmurs, glancing down, lost in her thoughts.

I hold out my hand in an invitation, hoping she will take it and feel the connection. After a moment, her gaze lifts, and she takes my hand, surprising me with the strength of her grip. The tension that once filled the room has shifted; the air is tentative, yet electric.

She makes the next move, pushing me onto the couch beside Hawk, suddenly lifting her shirt over her head, revealing the outfit she was wearing at the club earlier, and the words that want to come out get caught in my fucking throat. Switching between my lap and Hawk’s, she grinds her ass and winds her body against ours, turning us into those twelve-year-old boys who became obsessed with her overnight.

Tonight, she becomes ours again, but this time, she'll be ours at the same fucking time.