Page 24 of Overdose

“She doesn’t know, does she?”

My jaw clenches.

“No,” I answer, voice low. “But she’s smart. Shewillfigure it out. That’s the part we should both be worried about.”

He takes a long drag. “Maybe. Or maybe it won’t matter.”

“You actually fucking think she won’t care?”

“Shit, I think in some fucked up way, we’re hoping she won’t.”

My hands curl into fists. I don’t look at him. Ican’t. Because I know he’s fucking right.

Before the heat between us can boil over, a scrawny junkie stumbles out from the gravel path, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

“Dagger—please, man. Just one hit. I’ll pay?—”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I snap, barely sparing him a glance.

The kid flinches, and stumbles backward into the dark.

Noir laughs. “Look at you. Dealer turned babysitter. I’ll leave you to clean up your mess.” He flicks ash into the sand and turns toward the path. “I’m gonna go find her.”

I step into his space, just enough to make my point. “Stay the fuck away from her.”

He tilts his head. “Or what? You gonna tell her the truth before or after you fuck it all up again?”

I don’t move. Don’t even fucking breathe.

He turns and walks away, smoke trailing behind him like a fucking signature as he heads back toward the warehouse.

Toward her.

I just stand there. Jacket clenched in one hand, blood pounding in my ears.

He was supposed to be the one who could save her.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. No one could.

Now he’s circling Blair like she’s his redemption arc. His second chance. Like if he can keep her close, fuck her first, claim her before I do, it’ll even the score somehow. Like she’s the way he gets his payback.

But Blair isn’t a fucking do-over.

She’s the hit that ruins you.

And I’ll burn this whole place down before I let him breathe her in like she’s something he’s owed.

Five

Blair

The bassstill pulses in my veins, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore.

Not that I was ever really dancing. More like aimlessly swaying while trying to pretend I’m not spiraling. Huge difference.

I slip into the warehouse bathroom, the flickering overhead bulb doing its best haunted-house impression. Shadows slice across the cracked tiles like something out of a horror movie. Appropriate. My boots squelch against the sticky floor—seriously, what evenisthat? Don’t answer.

The sink creaks under my weight as I lean over it, palms braced, breath fogging the busted mirror like I’m in some sad indie film. My mascara’s smudged just enough to make me look like I’ve been crying over a guy, which is laughable. I don’t cry over boys. I bury them.