Page 55 of Unmasking Mayhem (Behind the Mask Duet #2)
twenty-four
saying sorry
a month later
Hawk (“Crow”)
Let You Down: NF
I never thought I'd live to see another new year, but here I am, still fucking struggling, possibly more now than I ever have.
I try to talk myself out of the darkness that keeps coming for me.
I try to smile through the depression, even when it hits pretty fucking hard.
And I try to smile through the pain and the sadness that keeps torturing me on a daily basis.
Medication no longer has an effect on me, so I stopped taking it, not wanting my last moments to be weighed down and full of despair.
At least I've felt more like myself than I have in a while.
But I'm still fucking struggling. I don't know how to fix it.
The club is buzzing tonight, every corner filled with masked men and women eager for a glimpse of the masked dancers taking over the stage.
As D tries to rein in King's behavior from his excessive drinking, all activities for Masked Mayhem have come to a standstill, giving us a brief intermission for the new year—though it hardly matters to me.
I find my place in the front row—the best seat in the house—right in front of Whitney.
Even beneath her mask, I can sense her smile fighting through the pain and heartbreak she’s trying to overcome.
Healing takes time, but not everyone is granted the luxury of it.
In her case, she’s still grappling with Carter’s murder, and she’s been relentless in punishing herself for it.
It seems she’s managed to put the incident with Dustin behind her, never fully confiding in Raze or me about what happened those few troubling days.
I don’t need her to tell me; I know what happened.
As I swirl my drink, I keep my gaze fixed on Whitney as she dances, her eyes occasionally meeting mine.
A sudden commotion from the office disrupts my concentration, but I find it easy to redirect my focus back to her.
It’s always so easy. Just as Whitney steps off the stage and approaches me, all distractions fade away.
She seductively glides her ass over my lap, the air between us crackling with passion.
As I breathe in, craving a taste of her scent, I catch a whiff of Raze as he joins us, settling into the newly vacant seat beside me, eager to catch the show like everyone else.
A moment later, Red strolls over during a song transition and takes the seat on my other side, leaving me caught between the two of them.
I can’t help but wonder how he's holding up with Carter’s loss as Red sits beside me, contemplating how he must feel in the wake of such violence.
They were partners—close friends—and yet Red remains disturbingly.
.. stoic, offering no window into his emotions.
I can only imagine how devastating it must be to witness someone you care about being murdered, especially by the girl you’re fucking in love with.
My heart—what's left of it—aches for him, fraying further each day under the strain of loss, heartbreak, and trauma. Lately, I feel like a hollow shell of the person I used to be. Even the presence of Whitney, once a glimmer of light for me, feels diminished. Something has shifted inside me, and it doesn’t seem to have evolved for the better.
“Yo, you good?” Raze nudges my elbow, concern evident in his eyes despite the mask obscuring his features.
In a haze, my mind fogged as my eyes remained glued to the stage, and I nodded. “Yeah, I’m straight,” I lie, convincing neither him nor myself.
I lift my mask just enough to free my mouth and light a blunt I rolled for myself—no one else.
As the music plays again—The Hills by The Weekend—Whitney makes her entrance once more, gliding gracefully across the stage, one hand gripping the pole above her head.
She winds her body and slides down, teasingly spreading her legs as she drops to her knees, her hand brushing over her lacy purple thong while her eyes seductively flick between me and Raze.
Everything else fades away. The noise becomes hushed as I lose myself in her.
I’m unsure if it’s the blunt or Whitney’s intoxicating performance that has me floating outside of my body, watching this chaotic train wreck unfold.
Tears begin to gather in my eyes, my vision blurring.
I clear my throat and discreetly wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
Guilt crashes over me as our eyes lock, and it feels as if she's dancing just for me. My throat tightens—whether from the emotions or the tainted smoke, I can’t quite tell.
“I love you.” Whitney lifts her mask just enough to mouth the words, accompanied by a playful wink, before she spins back around the pole.
When she faces me again after another twirl and dip, I mirror her silent confession.
I can see something beautiful shimmering in her eyes, but it's only beautiful because of how dark it is.
Our love is dark, one of the darkest things I've ever grown to love.
Nothing about it is fucking butterflies and rainbows.
Our love is raw and tempestuous; it's thunder and fire, a wild blend of passion and obsession that consumes everything in sight.
But I wouldn’t change a thing about it. It was made for us, just as we were made for it—for each other.
The thought almost makes me want to rethink everything, even as I know deep down I can’t.
Nobody can change my mind. It's what's best for everyone, even if they won't see it at first. With time, they’ll adjust to this change, and eventually, my name and memory will fade away.
I take another long, slow hit, feeling the smoke weave its way through me, leaving a trail of soothing numbness behind.
As the song plays on and the dance grows more intense, I finally feel a sense of peace enveloping me.
I relax back into my seat, watching the girl I love showcase her gifts for a sea of people—though, deep down, I know it's really just for me.
The atmosphere in the club feels electric, pulsing along with the music as Whitney continues to captivate our attention.
As the beat drops, I lose myself in her movements and can read her demeanor like a fucking book.
It's as if she's pushing back against the weight of all our grief and struggles with each flaunting spin around the pole, each twist of her body. Even here, surrounded by a crowd, it feels like she’s stripping away layers not just of clothing but of the pain that we both carry.
But she can't strip away my pain. I can't even fucking do it.
I can't shake off the lingering sense of guilt. I know deep down, the fucking beast of self-loathing whispers lies to me, saying I don’t deserve this moment, this connection we still have.
I want to be her rock, the one who makes her smile; instead, I feel more like an anchor weighing her down in these turbulent waters.
Still, I watch, mesmerized by the raw beauty of her dance, feeling the flames of passion flare up in our hell.
“She’s something else, huh?” Raze says, his voice loud enough to cut through the haze of the room.
I nod, unable to form the words that weigh heavily on my tongue. I know he’s right. She is. She’s everything I should have never wanted and yet cannot stay away from.
Red shifts uncomfortably next to me, pulling me from the trance. I turn to him, finally seeing the shadow of what Carter’s death has left on his face. The mask can’t entirely hide the sorrow that seeps through.
“Are you good?” I ask, sensing a darkness behind his guarded demeanor.
“Yeah,” he grunts, but it’s not convincing; I know him well enough to recognize the mask he wears is far more than fabric—it’s denial.
I glance back at Whitney, and the tendrils of her strength pull me back into my own turmoil. Raze, Red, and I are bound by tragedy now. Carter was not just a partner to Red; he was a brother before all this chaos transformed our lives into a sequence of the darkest moments.
“Man,” Raze interjects, breaking the quiet, “we should keep better tabs on each other. We’re all fucked up right now.”
His words resonate within me, igniting flickers of urgency.
We need each other now more than ever, but how do you hold someone up when you can barely stand yourself?
The voices remind me every day how I let Whitney down.
I didn't protect her. I haven't had Raze's back like I should, and I know he knows something’s going on, but with any luck, he won't find out until the time is right.
Whitney’s performance flows through the crowd like a stream of raw emotion, and for a split second, my worries become insignificant against the beauty of the art unfolding before me.
She's always captivated people with her dancing; it was one of the few things she was passionate about growing up even when everything was going to shit for her—for us.
As she finishes her dance, the audience erupts in cheers and applause, but my world falls silent as she locks eyes with me once again, her expression a mix of longing and hope.
I can feel it—the weight of our struggle, our burdens, anchoring us together in this swirling chaos.
“Let’s get out of here.” I surprise myself with the words.
I don’t know where ‘here’ is, but I know I want to be anywhere but beneath these lights, surrounded by the ghosts of our pasts and the shadows of what we have lost.
Raze looks at me, gauging the heaviness in my tone. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, determination edging into my voice as I begin to feel the effects of the drugs. “I could use a breath of fresh air while we wait for Whit.”