Page 44 of Unmasking Mayhem (Behind the Mask Duet #2)
Once she's inside, we stay crouched behind a row of bushes, smoking a blunt to calm our racing nerves. Nothing worked out the way we planned, and it feels like Whitney is now further from our grasp, and I'm terrified that we just lost our only chance of getting her back safely.
A long moment passes as we stare at the pulsating bright lights of the club, its shadows cloaked in uncertainty—the lifeblood of the city flowing just beyond reach, a cruel reminder of what’s at stake.
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Raze asks quietly, his voice barely cutting through the tension between us.
"Who, Boston or Whitney?" I ask, bile rising up my throat.
"Well, obviously, Whit, but I was talking about Boston this second," Raze whispers through his hit, smoke flowing from his parted lips.
I don’t know,” I admit, feeling the weight of uncertainty pinning me down. “But she has to get inside and convince King and D to go along with us being dead.”
“We should’ve pushed harder for a plan,” Raze mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair in frustration. “We can't afford to feel like this again—not when we’re so close.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I nod. “But right now, this is the best shot we have. We need to bide our time until we can regroup.”
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness.
The last wisps of the smoke drift up into the night, and I feel time slipping through my fingers, threads of hope unraveling before my eyes.
The club's doors swing open, and a group of familiar faces spills out—men and women laughing, their joy contrasting with the tumult in my soul.
“Dustin won’t let this lie.” Raze slaps his knee in anxiety. “He’ll come looking for blood if there's the slightest belief that we're not dead.”
“He’ll come, but not before we figure out our next move,” I reply, tapping the remnants of the blunt into the dirt.
The faint crinkle of the leaves beneath my feet matches the rhythm of my racing heart.
After what feels like an eternity, Boston finally re-emerges, her silhouette casting a long shadow against the flickering lights.
I spot her before she catches our eyes, her expression a blend of determination and anxiety.
“It worked,” she breathes, rushing toward us. “King didn’t even question me. I told him y’all told me what happened and mentioned how you both planned to "die" in the fire.”
Relief floods through me, momentarily washing away the gnawing dread. “Good. But we still need to act quickly.”
“We can’t wait much longer,” Raze interjects, his tone urgent. “If he finds out we’re still alive, he’ll come for us—and we’ll fucking lose Whitney in the process.”
Boston bites her lip, the gravity of the situation returning as she composes herself.
“I overheard D mentioning something about a shipment coming in tonight. I think they’re wanting you two on the job to keep you guys close.
For now, they want you guys inside so they can talk to you.
I didn't tell them anything about us looking for her tonight, just about how the two of you went and about the fire and shit, and King seems to have bought it.
He's more worried about Red being a fucking cop than you two causing mayhem around the city. "
"So he's gonna let us hide out here so Dustin won't be able to find us?" I ask, needing reassurance.
"As far as I know, yes, but he's in his office waiting to talk to you guys right now, so let's head inside." Boston spins on her heel and pulls the back door open, shielding us from the light as we quickly sneak in, hoping not to be seen by anyone.
The whole walk through the club we wear our masks, different colors tonight to hopefully throw people off of our identities.
The club scene moves as if nothing has happened, as if one of its most famous dancers isn't missing, as if an undercover cop wasn't just brutally murdered in the basement a couple nights ago, just oblivious to it all.
The music thumps, the bass shakes, and the lights strobe, putting me slightly at ease as we round the corner and begin the walk up the stairs to King's office.
My heart pounds in my chest, and the torment from the voices inside my head is more brutal than ever.
"It's all your fault," they taunt over and over. "You killed her—you killed Whitney. It's all your fault that you couldn't save her."
The vile words repeat in my head, making things much worse, way worse than they've been in a while.
My blood feels like lava flowing through my veins, melting me from the inside out, and the pain is fucking unbearable.
I haven't taken my meds with everything going on lately, so I constantly feel like I'm under attack from my own thoughts.
The voices never stop. The feeling of being watched never stops.
The pain, the fear, and the regret only intensify, and all I want to do is put a fucking stop to it all.
But there's only one way to do that, and although the voices tell me to kill myself, I don't know if I actually have the courage to go through with it.
"Are you okay?" Raze asks as we get to the top of the stairs, knowing the answer already.
I shake my head but urge him to forget about it, knowing we have bigger things to deal with that take precedence over my mental health.
I know he would disagree, though. Boston opens the office door and ushers us inside, where both King and D are sitting on the couch, drinks in hand, and a pile of powder on the table in front of them.
"Gentlemen," King speaks softly, never turning his head away from the TV screen as he watches the live footage from all the cameras he has placed throughout the entire building and outside, both in Club Mayhem and in the basement of Masked Mayhem. "Come join us."
Nervously, we walk to the far end of the spacious office, sitting on the couch opposite the one they're sitting on, while Boston stands beside King, who roughly caresses her ass through her skimpy panties, an uncomfortable look on her face.
"Get down there and put on a good show for us," King demands, finally looking up at her with a grin that leaves no room for debate. "We men have some important business to discuss."
He slaps her ass with the tips of his fingers, making her wince as the sound echoes throughout his office.
She nods, knowing better than to talk back to either of them.
She flashes us a smile as she turns and walks out of the office, closing the door behind her.
Both men finally make eye contact with us, and their looks are chilling, making me fucking tremble in my seat, but I try my best to hide it.
"So, I heard your girl was taken, and you got yourselves in a little bit of shit while trying to find her," D says as he takes a sip of his beer, portioning out four even, thick lines of coke, then adding a hefty amount of heroin in with it.
"Yeah, it's a fucking disaster," Raze mumbles, keeping his voice low so they can't hear it cracking.
D sniffs the first line and King the second, then hands the rolled-up bill to me.
My hand shakes as I grasp it, putting one end to my nose and the other to the mixed powder, knowing how fucked up I get from speedballing, especially when I'm not on my meds.
But I don't dare refuse it, so I sniff and gag as the numb, bitter drip trickles down my throat, speeding up my heart at first before the heroin slows it down, bringing on a drug-induced paranoia.
Raze does his line and immediately chugs a bottle of water, handing it to me knowing I'm about to spiral.
But I do my best to keep the crazy at bay, especially while we're up here with the bosses.
"So you need a place to lay low while fuckface thinks you're dead, is that it?" King asks, laughing at our misfortune.
"Yeah, for now, at least until we can figure out a plan to get Whitney back," I add, hoping speaking and hearing her name will calm me the fuck down.
King narrows his eyes at me, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in the depths. “And I assume you want that to happen sooner rather than later?”
“Of course. We can’t afford to let him fucking have her any longer. We need to act now,” Raze interjects, the intensity in his voice betraying the calm facade he’s trying to maintain.
A thick silence settles in the room, the only sound the low hum of the club pulsing below us. King leans back on the couch, fingers tapping a rhythm that reverberates with impatience against the armrest.
“Look, fellas, this isn’t exactly a charity case.
You think I’m gonna stick my neck on the line for you two while you play detective?
I know you've been with us for a while, but with the recent snitches sneaking in, I'm not feeling particularly nice anymore, even to you fuckers who I see as my brothers.”
“It’s not just about us.” Desperation claws at my throat, but I swallow it down. “Whitney is... she’s part of this. She’s one of yours, one of us, a part of our family. You can’t let Dustin keep doing this. You fucking know what he’s capable of…”
D’s expression shifts, his interest piqued as he studies me more closely. “You think you’re so noble, don’t you? Trying to save the damsel in distress while it would be far easier to keep your fucking head down and avoid conflict.”
“Not a fucking option,” I reply, infusing as much conviction into my words as I can muster. “We’re not letting you down or Whitney down. We just need—”
“Help,” King interjects, smoothing his facial hair as he raises a pierced eyebrow. “You hedging boys need some help?”
“We need a place to lay low. Not just for us, but somewhere we can strategize,” Raze admits, his voice strained but resolute. "If we want Dustin to believe we're dead, we can't go back to our place or even Whitney's."
“Hmm.” King fakes genuine contemplation, swirling his drink. “I might have a place, but it won’t come cheap. You two can do... Well, we'll call it an ‘errand’ for me. It pays.”