Page 16

fourteen

A Little Extra Seasoning

Noah

I must have fallen asleep sometime after dawn because my alarm wakes me now. I roll onto my back and open my eyes, stretching my arms overhead as I take inventory of my aching body.

My head pounds, my muscles ache, and the ankle that never quite healed right is swollen from running on it last night. I'm sore between my legs, too.

I drink a glass of water and then limp to the bathroom. I open the toilet lid, but before I sit on the seat, I notice something floating in the water.

My fucking birth control pills.

"Silas…" I sigh, bringing my fingers to my temples. "Why would you do that?"

I fish the plastic out of the toilet before flushing what's left of the pills, and then shower, spending extra time on my hair and makeup again.

When I go to the kitchen, I decide to spare myself from my self-imposed food therapy routine and just make myself a slice of plain burnt toast. Before leaving the apartment, I see the Skittles on the nightstand and bring them with me for lunch .

It's Saturday brunch, so it's already pretty busy when I walk in. Zoey doesn't work until four; it's just me, Jodie, and this new guy, Travis, for now.

And the weekend brunch crowd is the worst.

"Hey," I say to Jodie when I walk in. "How's it going?"

"The usual," she says, hitting print on the register. "We're busy. Jean called in, so I'm going back to the kitchen to help Gabriel. These checks are ready, and seven asked for more coffee with heavy whipping cream on the side."

Ugh, god. I know exactly who that is. Jodie must see my lip turn up because she pauses before walking away, adding, "Be nice, Lilah."

"I'm always nice," I tell her. "I'm not the problem."

"Yeah, that's not what she says."

I roll my eyes, dropping the checks off at two of my tables before I fill one of those mini pitchers with creamer, grab the coffeepot, and head to table seven.

"Hey there, Betsy," I say, tuning back into my best fake server voice. "I've got your coffee refill and some creamer, and they're working on your food right now—is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, you look tired," she says. "I won't ask you to do anything else for me. I'll let that nice young man know if I need anything."

I force a smile. "Great. He'll love that."

"Are you sure this is fresh?" she asks, bringing the cream to her nose and sniffing. "It doesn't smell right."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's fresh. "

"It's not," she says. "Check the expiration date, and have that boy bring me a new one."

"No problem," I say, snatching it from her hand.

"Your skirt's too short," she adds as I walk away. "I'm going to have a talk with Jodie about how you and that other young lady dress. It's very disrespectful."

I pause for a second, just barely managing to bite my tongue.

"Good news, Travis," I say once I'm back behind the bar. "Betsy is in love with you, and she thinks I'm trying to poison her, so table seven is yours now. She wants more cream— your fresh cream. "

"You're sick," Travis says. "But fine. You can have Post Malone at four. He asked for you anyway."

"Post Malone?"

A man sits at the front corner two-top wearing a black hat, tight black jeans, and a white hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Tattoos cover every bit of his exposed skin, from his fingers and up his arms, his neck, and even a few on his face. Straight black hair—not blue—sticks out from under the hat, and black painted nails tap on the tabletop while he sips coffee with the other hand.

"Post Malone" is Tate.

Steeling my spine, I approach the table.

"Hey, it's my lost girl," he says. "How's it going, freckles?"

His voice. Even expecting it, it hits me right in the chest.

"I don't suppose you're here for the soup special," I say, sliding into the seat across from him.

He smiles a little. "Nope. Well, kind of. "

"You can't be here like this, Tate," I say, lowering my voice. "Someone is going to see you and call the police."

Tate scoffs. "No one here is looking for me, and no one is going to recognize me."

I have to admit—the tattoos hide him well. They're loud, distracting from all the things that make him noticeably himself. He has what looks like runes etched across his left cheekbone and a spiderweb covering the majority of his neck with a spider beneath his left ear. I wonder what else is hidden beneath his clothing.

"Your disguise is good, too. You're too skinny—I almost didn't recognize you in the video, you know."

"Yeah, well, that's not on purpose—it's a psychosis."

"Why are you so prickly to me? Hmm?" he asks. "I heard you were pretty nice to Silas—asked him to cuddle. I mean, I don't know if you blocked it out or what, but he's the one who killed your mom and made you eat your dad, not me. I'm just saying."

"He wasn't my…" I pause, exhaling. "What do you want, Tate? I have to work. And don't say you just want to play a game because—"

"But I do," he says. "I want to play with you, and I want money. You're going to help me with both."

"Tate, does it look like I have any fucking money?"

"Not really." He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, and I notice for the first time that the eyebrow ring and lip rings are gone. As he licks his lips, and I stare at the two holes where they used to be.

The tongue ring, though—that's still there .

"It looks like you're waiting tables and living on less than minimum wage in a piece of shit town. I thought you wanted to be a mad scientist or something. Didn't really live up to your potential, did you?"

My fist hits the table before I reel myself in. "That's your fault," I hiss through clenched teeth. "You took everything from me."

"No, it's not; it's your fault," he throws back. "And I'm so fucking tired of your constant need to be a victim—to be seen as innocent—that I could fucking scream."

"I never needed that," I spit back.

"You're not innocent, Noah. You're not a victim. You're just as angry and broken as I am. And you know what? If you would've just accepted it—embraced it, even—you could have been happy."

"Didn't really sign up for a philosophical debate, Tate. I need to get back to work, so why are you here? Are you going to kill me?"

"I haven't decided yet," he says. "Maybe. Maybe I just like to play with my food. You prefer yours raw, though, right? Bloody? Kind of the consistency of gelled cranberry sauce right of the can?"

I swallow a lump in my throat. "We're done with this conversation."

"Not yet," he says. "I have something for you." He passes me a folded napkin with something inside. "I suggest you open it slowly. You could get in a lot of trouble if you freak out."

I do as he asks, opening it slowly, and…

It's a finger—or half of a finger. From the second knuckle to the nail. I barely manage to set it down on the table without dropping it.

"Tate, no." My eyes fill with tears, and I shake my head.

"Hey, relax," he says. He reaches across the table and rests his hand on my arm. "I'm not going to make you eat that. I mean, Silas would, but…"

I wipe a tear away before it has the chance to fall.

"Hey, don't cry. It's all right. You just have to put it in the soup—that's all."

"What?"

"Put the finger in the soup. It's part of the game."

I shake my head. "No, I'm not doing that."

"It's your boyfriend's finger—the one from yesterday with the sad eyes."

My heart stops. "Mason? What did you—"

"Juuust kidding," he says. "But really, put the finger in the soup, or I swear to god, Noah, I'll cut him into so many fucking pieces they'll never be able to find them all—you know I will. Maybe I'll do the girl, too. You know how I feel about other people touching you."

"Lilah!" Travis calls. I look in his direction, and he gives me a what the fuck are you doing look.

I push out my chair. "I have to go."

"You forgot something," Tate says.

I look back, grab the napkin, stuff it in my apron, and walk away.

"You're a good girl, Lilah . "

I grit my teeth and glare at him over my shoulder, then I clear off my two empty tables, seating them and taking their drink orders before I head back to the bar and try to come up with a reason to be in the kitchen.

"I'm feeling a little lightheaded," I tell Jodie after pushing through the saloon doors. "Do you mind if I grab a glass and get a soda for myself? You can take it out of my check."

"Just take the soda, Lilah," Jodie says. "You know it's fine."

I grab a glass and prepare to create a distraction, tripping over my own feet and intentionally dropping it on the tile floor.

"Shit!" I shout as it shatters everywhere. "Oh, my god—I'm so sorry!"

"It's fine," Jodie says. "Just…grab another one and get back out there. I'll take care of this."

My heart pounds against my ribcage as she leaves to grab a broom, and I glance at Gabriel, who faces the grill with his back to me. I reach into my apron, closing my thumb and first finger around the half-finger in the pocket, and then I drop it into the beef stew and push it to the bottom with the ladle.

I fill a new cup with soda and get the fuck out of there after that. I don't think I breathe again until the doors swing closed behind me.

When I get back out to the dining room, Tate is gone.

Hours go by with my nerves on end, panicking every time someone orders the soup of the day, but as I near the end of my shift, there's still no sign of the finger.

Either that or whoever got it actually enjoyed it. But I guess everyone who ordered it got a little extra seasoning, didn't they? My stomach retches at the thought .

Eventually, I convince myself that no one will get the finger. Beef stew is one of our least popular soup specials, and maybe at the end of my shift, I could go back, fish it out, and toss it down the disposal.

It's a nice thought. Until I hear the scream.

"Well, the police said it's a real finger," Jodie tells us. "It was probably in the meat—maybe someone lost it at the processing facility. They have to look into it, though, and we're shut down until further notice. You can request vacation pay if you have it, but I don't know how long this will all take."

"Jesus Christ," Gabriel says. "I'm so sorry, Jodie. I don't know how I didn't see it."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, too. And Jerry and his wife said they're going to sue, so…I'm not sure what's going to happen. This place is all I've got."

And there's already a news van parked out front. Which means I'm going out the back.

"I'm gonna go…clean up," Jodie says. "I'll call you all when I know more."

"I'll stay and help you, Jodie," Gabriel says, following her out to the dining room .

"A fucking finger," Travis says, laughing. "What the fuck? And I'm the one who served it to the guy! I mean, can you imagine—"

"I don't want to," I say, cutting him off. "I don't want to imagine it. Please, stop."

The room starts spinning, and I drop my head in my hands. Did he know all of this would happen? Did he know they'd call the police and shut down the restaurant?

I take my phone out of my locker and leave through the back, checking my messages as I cross the parking lot.

ZOEY Hey! What the hell happened at the restaurant? I tried to show up for work, but the police wouldn't let me through, and one of the regulars said they found an actual FINGER in the soup.

Yeah, that's pretty much what happened.

ZOEY Holy shit! What are we supposed to do now?

I don't know. The restaurant is shut down.

ZOEY So, did you serve the finger soup? Who ate it? Did they actually eat it?

It was Travis, and I don't know who the guy was, but he spit it onto his wife's plate.

ZOEY Damn. I guess we should start looking for jobs.

Yeah. Easy for her to say—not everyone will hire someone with a fake identity.

ZOEY What happened to you last night, anyway?

ZOEY Did they catch you?

ZOEY ...Was it hot?

No, they didn't, and I just went home. I don't want to talk about them anymore, okay? Don't mention it to anyone—the whole thing was weird.

ZOEY Okay, well…let me know if you hear anything.

I stuff my phone back into my bag and climb the stairs, receiving another message as I step into my apartment.

UNKNOWN Nice work. Meet me at this shithole called Spades at eight. Wear the slutty skirt.

At the bar? In public?

"Fuck…"

I toss the phone onto the bed.

The small sports bar at the far end of our little downtown is dark and quiet. A thick cloud of smoke hangs in the air, burning my eyes as I scan the space. It's also pretty empty right now, save for a few people playing pool in the far back corner. I swallow hard, thinking maybe Silas and Tate aren't here, unsure if that would be better or worse.

Eventually, I spot these newer versions of Tate and Silas—one covered in tattoos, the other with a beard and wearing thick black-rimmed glasses with a hoodie pulled over his head—in a high-backed booth on the opposite side of the room.

"You're late," Tate says.

"No, I'm not."

"It's 8:03. You should sit by me."

When I sit at the very edge of the booth, Silas chuckles.

"Come on over here. I'm not going to bite," Tate says.

I roll my eyes and slide over a few more inches.

"Hi, baby," Silas says.

"Hi, Silas. I like the glasses."

"Thanks. I stole them from a department store optician's display; I have them in blue, too. You like blue, don't you, baby? "

"Okay, you —" Tate says, pointing at Silas. "Stop being cute. Do you want a drink, Noah?" He slides a shot of whiskey in my direction.

"Not really."

I don't tell him I stopped drinking whiskey because it reminds me of him. Over the past year, just the scent alone has been enough to send me spiraling. I'd smell whiskey and suddenly, I'm transported back to that night at the carnival, licking it from Tate's lips while my entire world collapses around me.

"Sorry—I phrased that wrong. I made you think it was a question, and it wasn't," Tate says. "Take the fucking shot, Noah."

"I lost my job today," I tell him before throwing it back and slamming the shot glass down on the table. "The cops came. I could have been arrested." I look at Silas. "Did you know about this?"

Silas shrugs. "Yeah."

Wait a second; he was cute, and I almost forgot…

" You put my birth control in the toilet. I don't have any money."

Beside me, Tate laughs.

"It's not funny!"

"Lilah?"

Mason stands at the end of the table with a beer in his hand. His eyes are red, like he's been drinking for a while.

Or like he's been crying.

"Hi, Mason."

He looks from Tate to me. "Are you okay?" he asks .

"Yeah, I'm fine—"

"Well, who are they?"

"I…don't know."

It's a terrible answer, but I don't really have a better one.

"Maybe we're her brothers," Tate says, draping his arm around my shoulders.

"Lilah doesn't have any siblings," Mason says, his eyes fixed on that arm draped around me.

"Maybe you should mind your own business and fuck off," Silas says. "She doesn't like you."

"Si—" I start before Tate kicks my bad ankle under the table. I clench my teeth to keep from crying out. "I'm sorry, Mason," I say instead. "He's just…not friendly."

"Well, that's one way to put it," Tate says.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again.

"Oh, my god, she's fine ," Tate says. "We get it—you're a fucking hero. But this girl right here? She's no fucking princess, okay? You can't save her."

"We just have some things to talk about," I tell him. "I'm fine, I promise."

Mason narrows his eyes, searching my own for the truth behind the lie. But the reality is Mason's never been that good at reading me; if he was, then he'd already know that what Tate said was true.

I'm not a princess. And he can't save me.

"Did you ever find those cards, Lilah?" Mason asks.

"What? Oh. No, sorry. I didn't."

"Because someone emptied out my entire bank account this morning. They transferred it all to an international account in my name, then closed that account, and they don't know what happened to it after that. They said there was no way to find out."

Fuck. That's why he looks so upset.

"I'm so sorry, Mason."

"Yeah…sure you are. You know, I'm starting to think what you said on the phone the other night is true."

"…What did I say on the phone?"

"That you're a bad person."

My mouth gapes. He looks me up and down, waiting for a rebuttal of some sort, something to convince him that he's wrong, maybe. When that doesn't happen, he shakes his head and turns away.

Tate laughs as Mason leaves the table, and I watch him make his way to the back of the bar, joining the group playing pool. He grabs a cue stick from the rack and glares at me one last time before turning his back to me and chalking the end.

I glower at Silas. "You did that, didn't you?"

He shrugs. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Put it back!" I snap in a harsh but low tone.

"No fucking way," Silas says.

"He doesn't deserve it."

"Oh, sweetheart…" Tate says. He runs his fingers through my hair, and I flinch. "I thought I told you—anyone who touches you deserves far worse."

"The guy had forty thousand dollars in his account, Noah," Silas says. "Did you know that?"

I shake my head.

"What's a guy like him doing with that kind of money?"

"I don't know; does it matter? "

"We'll share it with you," Silas says. "Does that make a difference?"

I frown. "That's why you were in my apartment last night. You heard us talking at the café—you knew I had his debit card."

"Why'd you take it if you weren't going to use it?" Silas asks.

"I don't know. It's just something that I do sometimes—I hurt people; I hurt…men, mostly. Not the way you do, though." Just in small, inconvenient ways like I did before. "I think I do it because…it makes me feel a little better about everything else that hurts and feels unfair."

"That's not the only reason I was in your apartment, Noah." He reaches across the table for my hand. "I mean the things I say to you."

"That's so sweet; I think I have a little tear in my eye," Tate mocks. "Hey, Noah, why don't you sit on my lap?"

My eyes dart to Mason again. Maybe he feels it because he looks at me, too, before quickly averting his gaze.

It'll hurt his feelings. I'm already hurting his feelings.

"What are you looking at him for, huh?" Tate asks. "You love him or something?" He shifts his body toward mine, running his fingers up my thigh, and whispers in my ear. "Maybe I'll go over there and tell him about how you let us take turns with you…for hours. I'll tell him how much you like to be spanked and treated like a whore. Do you think he'd like that, Noah?"

"No."

"You're always going to belong to us, baby," he says. He threads his fingers into my hair, his thumb finding that spot behind my ear. I close my eyes, holding my breath before exhaling slowly. "It doesn't matter where you are or what you do—that's just how it is, and you know that. Now, do what I told you to, or I'll slice him in half—you know I will. Come on."

I lower my gaze and move onto his lap.

"That's better," he says. "Just relax, Noah." His fingers find the silk material of my panties, running up and down my slit over the thin and increasingly damp material.

"Please don't do this to me again," I whisper. "Not here."

"How do you know what I'm going to do to you?" He pushes the material aside, dipping two fingers inside me, and I grit my teeth, gripping the edge of the table and smothering a whimper in the back of my throat. "You used to trust me," he says, pressing his lips to my neck.

"That was a mistake."

My cheeks burn. I can't even look at Mason or his friends right now. And Tate keeps moving those fingers, slowly pumping them in and out of me. I can hear how wet I am, and so I know Silas probably can, too.

"Silas, give me your hoodie," Tate says.

Silas pulls the hoodie over his head and passes it to Tate, who uses it to cover our laps.

Then I feel him fumbling with the fly of his jeans before the head of his cock rubs up against my pussy.

"Tate—"

But before I can object, he pulls my thighs apart, angles his hips, and I'm impaled on his cock.

"Oh, god," I whimper softly. I sit back, dropping my elbows on the table and then my head into my hands, my breath rugged and strained. I don't mean to, but I can't help it—I rock my hips just a little, just to take the edge off.

Tate grabs me by the back of my neck. "You better not do that, Noah. You need to stay nice and still for me, or I'm going to fucking lose it and tear you apart in front of everyone in here. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"Good. Now, sit up and look at Silas. He should get to see you like this."

I drop my hands and look at Silas across the table while trying to manage my breathing. I accidentally rock my hips again, and Tate groans, locking an arm around my waist.

"Careful," he says. "How does she look, Silas?"

"Pretty," he says. "Like she's got eight inches of dick inside her, and she wants to ride it so badly she can't fucking stand it."

His fingers find my clit, touching me while his cock throbs inside me. "Tell me something, Noah," he says, rubbing the swollen nub. "Does the hero over there fuck you this deep?"

A small moan escapes me, and I bite down on my lip before shaking my head. "No…"

"He's looking at you right now," he says. "He probably thinks he knows what I'm doing to you under here, but he has no idea you're dripping down my dick. But don't look at him; look at Silas. His hand is in his pants right now, stroking his cock at the sight of you."

I look from the table to Silas again, watching the way the muscles in his forearm flex, and I know he's telling the truth .

"You look like you're about to scream, Noah," Silas says. "And I would know—that's how you looked at me before I made you scream last night."

Tate increases his pace, applying more pressure to my clit, and I can't help it—I do it again. I arch my back, wriggling my hips from side to side.

"Bad girl, Noah," he says, rolling his hips, thrusting his cock just barely inside of me—but it's enough that on the edge of orgasm, I moan.

"Ohh…" I grit my teeth and dig my nails into the forearm across my waist. "Tate…don't."

"Mmm…fuck. There you go," he says. "Say that again—I liked it."

He pushes his cock into me again, and I draw in my breath. "Tate, don't. Don't make me."

"Don't make you what? Come?" Tate pinches my clit, and I gasp. "I'm gonna make you." He applies more pressure, rubbing me in quick circles. "Like this, right? I remember what you like."

My pussy clenches around him as his fingers threaten to send me over the edge. "Oh, my god."

"Yeah, that's it. Look at Silas, baby. Let him watch you come in front of everyone."

"Mmmm," I whimper, biting my lip and burying a scream in the back of my throat. "I'm…I can't…"

But I drop my head on the table, and then I do. I come hard, pulsing around his curved dick, throbbing against his fingers while the waves of pleasure roll through me. I can't breathe, I can't think…all I can do is stay like that with my face hidden in shame, whimpering while my legs shake under the table.

"Fuck, that feels good," Tate says. "I forgot how good you feel, baby." He runs a hand up and down my back. "God, why'd you have to be such a lying bitch, Noah? Why couldn't you just have stayed sweet like this?"

"I'm not…" I whisper, my breath heaving. Not a lying bitch? Not sweet?

Not either one, I guess.

"Aww, come on," Silas says, his own voice strained. "Noah's still sweet. Look at her."

"I need to come now," Tate says. "You can rock those hips of yours—nice and slow."

"I can't…"

"It's part of the game," he says. "You're not getting off my dick until my cum is dripping down your thighs…like Silas's was this morning."

He grips my hips in his hands, rolling me over his cock until I take over, riding him slowly like he asked, hoping it isn't too noticeable.

But at this pace, he lasts…and lasts. Groaning, whispering filthy things into my ears, telling me how good it feels and how he never wants me to stop. He tells me he wants me to ride it nice and slow for hours, that he'd make me come on it so many times, I'd have to crawl out the front door, dripping with cum, when he was done with me.

A server even stops at our table while I sit on it, flushed and sweaty, and Silas orders a round of beer. Mason shoots me one last shitty look, and he and his friends leave—all while Tate is inside me.

A chill runs up my spine, and it's me who's close again. I get a little braver, rocking my hips a little faster even as the formerly empty bar room fills.

"Oh, fuck. Get ready, baby," he says. "There's going to be so much cum. Lift your hips a little."

I do what he asks, and he pumps into me, his dick pulsing as he empties himself inside of me, and I come again, too, berating myself and my body for betraying me like this.

"Did my cum make you come again, you little slut?" Tate groans, stroking my hair while I whimper, my legs shaking beneath the table. "Jesus, Noah. Imagine what I could do to you if I could have you naked any way I wanted, baby. You know, if you hadn't run, we would have fucked you so good before I killed you." He turns my head and kisses me on the lips. "You would have been so sore, you probably would have begged for the knife over more dick." He kisses me again before adding, "Now go to the bathroom and clean yourself up."

I shift to the side, sliding off his cock and out from under the hoodie, and adjust my underwear. Cum soaks the thin material and the inside of my thighs; I feel it running down my fucking leg as I cross the room.

I close the door to the bathroom, grab some toilet paper, and wipe myself clean. Just as I finish, Silas and Tate step into the space, locking the door behind them.

"You need to help Silas finish," Tate says.

My eyes move from Tate to Silas, dropping to his waistline, where his cock strains against his grey joggers .

"Okay…"

"Get on your knees," Silas says, pulling out his dick. Precum leaks from the tip while he pumps it in his hand. "This won't take long."

I drop to my knees on the tile in front of him, opening my mouth wide enough to take his cock while gripping the base with my fist. Then I run my tongue over his length before taking it all into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks while I suck him.

"Mmm…that's it, baby. Just like that," he says, gripping my hair in his fist. He lets me keep the pace, though, his cock already throbbing like it's going to explode. "Look up at me."

I do as he asks, and Tate kneels beside me, pulling my v-neck shirt and bra down until my tits spill out over the top. "That's better," Tate says. "Let him look at you, too."

He pinches one of my nipples, and I yelp around Silas's dick.

"Jesus…" Silas moans.

"Did you like that?" Tate asks him before he pinches me harder. I cry out again, and this time, my eyes water. "Look up at him," Tate instructs.

I do as he asks, looking up at Silas while tears leak from my eyes, sucking and licking while I slide my lips up and down his thick length.

"Fuck…" Silas groans. Then he grabs the back of my head, forcing himself into the back of my throat, and comes. I swallow around him, but there's so much of it—and so much of him—I feel it dripping from the corner of my mouth.

When he pulls out, I wipe it away with my thumb, and then Tate takes my hand and sucks it into his mouth. "You know the rules," he says. "Don't waste it. And now, you have to give me a kiss."

I shake my head. Kissing Tate…it's one of my favorite things in the world.

And that's why I don't want to do it.

"You look like I just asked you to cut your dad's hand off," Tate says. "It's not a big deal."

Then he pulls me into him, his lips finding mine before his tongue slips past them, licking me, tasting me…tasting Silas on me.

And I let myself give in to it. I let my eyes close and kiss him back.

It's the way he kisses me that always makes me think he actually cares about me. It's his lips and his fingers in my hair, it's his thumb against that spot behind my ear.

I can't fall for it.

"Shit," Silas says, his breath still coming short. "You both look so fucking sexy at my feet like that. You better stop before I get hard again."

I break away and pull myself to my feet. "That's hot, too," Silas says. "Anyone who looks at your knees is going to know exactly what you were doing in here."

I look down at my red knees with the floor's square tile pattern embedded in my skin. Fuck.

"Come on," he says, throwing his arm around me. "It's okay."

Silas unlocks the door, and we walk out of the bathroom together with Tate behind us. I wrap my own arm around his waist and burrow into his side, keeping my eyes on the floor .

I'm overcome with relief when I step back out into the cold October night air, but when I turn in the direction of my apartment, Silas lets me go.

"See you tomorrow, baby," he says, kissing me on the mouth before heading in the opposite direction. "Get some sleep, okay?"

I don't know why I assumed we'd all leave together—or why I'd even want us to, but—

"Well…wait," I say. "What's tomorrow?"

"You'll see," Tate says. "You won't like it as much as you liked this, unfortunately. Good night."

I watch them turn the corner to the parking lot before I walk home alone in the dark. I wonder what the point of all this was until I open my text messages.

MASON You make me fucking sick.

Another knife to the chest.

That was it. That was the point.