Page 56 of Unmasking Mayhem (Behind the Mask Duet #2)

Red nods in agreement, and soon we’re weaving through the sea of bodies, the noise fading into a hum as we approach the club’s entrance.

Each step I take away feels like shedding a layer of despair, a small act of defiance against it all.

But it's not enough. It's never going to be enough, and I've accepted it.

As we step outside, the cold air rushes around us like a cleansing wave.

I lean against the wall, the chill biting at my skin, grounding me in the moment.

I pull a new blunt from my pocket, offering it to Raze as he takes a hit and passes it to Red, and I continue to smoke on the other one, feeling a numbing in my lips from the drugs sprinkled in with the weed.

I wanted it to be easier, so numbing myself was absolutely necessary.

“Motherfuckers,” Red grumbles through the smoke, a hint of a smile creeping onto his lips. “We’re a real mess, huh?”

“You think?” I smirk, exhaling long clouds of smoke towards the star-littered sky, wondering if there is a heaven or anything up there where you go when you die. I was never one to believe in that shit, but the closer I get, it's all that's been on my mind lately.

We stand in a loose circle, the tensions of the club replaced by the biting chill of winter air and a bond forged in loss. It isn’t complete, but it’s something—a small step towards facing the darkness that follows us.

“Can we not let this shit destroy us?” Raze pleads, silence following his sentiment. The weight of his uncertainty hangs in the air. “We have to find a way through the shitstorm.”

Inspired by his sincerity, I take a deep breath, the crisp air filling my lungs as I let the sentiment sink in.

“We will,” I promise, meeting the gazes of my friends, hoping they can see the determination I’m struggling to cultivate.

“We have to.” The words taste like bitterness on my tongue, lies burning my taste buds off.

No moment is too small when it comes to survival.

And as I think of Whitney back inside, I realize it’s not just about living—it's about really living and taking control once more.

As sad as it sounds, I don't think I'll ever get the chance to be in control of shit, especially the voices poisoning my mind.

I'll never know what it feels like to really live because I gave up.

As I flick the remnants of the ash into the street, I exhale one last time, a mix of hope and dread swirling within me. I look back at the club, its neon lights flickering like a distant heartbeat, pulsing with life while I feel so detached from it.

"I just want to see Whitney," I say, turning back to face Raze and Red. The chill in the air pushes me to hug myself tighter, as if I could somehow hold that crushing weight off my chest.

“What do you think she’ll do next?” Red asks, still holding the haze of smoke in his lungs, his voice almost thoughtful as he watches the sky.

I shrug, glancing up to see a few stars breaking through the cloud cover. “No idea. She dances like there’s a fire inside her. Maybe it’s the same fire trying to burn her down.”

Raze gives me a hard look, his breath visible in the cold night. “You think she’ll burn out?”

I hesitate. “Not if we’re there to catch her before she does.” I see myself reflected in both of their eyes. Mysteriously broken yet standing in fear. “But she needs to… I don’t know, help herself too,” I admit, my voice laced with uncertainty. Shockingly, the truth is fucking terrifying.

“We all need to help each other.” Raze takes another drag before passing it, and I decline it, smoking my own and letting the smoke coat my lungs lovingly. "Don't think I can't tell that you've been struggling lately," he says, my blood turning from hot to cold.

Red leans against the wall beside me, watching the thin stream of smoke rise, twisting upward like our hopes—wild and unpredictable. “I can’t lose her to this,” he mutters, though his words sting like a distant memory. "I lost my fucking partner, my best friend already; I just can't."

My heart sinks at his confession. “You'll all be fine.” I know my voice shakes, betraying the fear that wells inside me. “Trust me.”

A long silence blankets us; each of us processed our grief in separate ways—individual scars that guided our lonely paths. We are three men, tightly woven in loss and ambiguity, forging our own sense of survival amidst the remnants of pain.

“Just make sure you stick together,” I say, my resolve returning as I exhale clouds once more, surrendering my worries to the night. “If you help each other, you can’t fall apart. We owe it to Carter… and to Whitney.”

It isn’t easy to shake the guilt that festers inside, but those flickers of hope might seem worth fighting for—even when everything feels like smoke and mirrors—but in reality, cold, hard reality, hope is too far beyond my fucking reach.

I've lost it. I've tried to get it back, but each time I fail, it reminds me that isn't my path.

I'm on the right path, even though others will see how wrong it is. .. or was.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, immediately double-tapping the screen, revealing a message from Whitney:

Outside in a sec.

I feel warmth course through me, a mixture of love and anxiety. “Here she comes,” I say, lighting up at the thought of seeing her.

"Look alive," Raze quips with a smirk as he gives me a light shove, his mood lifting in the anticipation of her presence.

The door swings open, and Whitney steps outside, her laughter spilling into the night like a melody woven through the air.

She looks radiant and free, unburdened by the darkness that often follows her.

My heart lurches, an echo of affection crashing through me, quietly raging in the depths of my soul.

“Hey, you three,” she says, her voice wrapping around us like a comforting blanket. “Didn’t think I’d notice you were gone?"

“Couldn’t help but notice you were busy,” Raze replies, teasing lightness flickering between us. “The whole club was practically glued to the fucking stage, finding out who can dance like you.”

Whitney chuckles, and I don’t want to break this moment. I want to wrap her in my arms, claim her as mine in a world that feels on the edge of chaos.

“It’s the least I can do to distract from the craziness,” she admits, her features softening under the dim, flickering streetlights.

“There’s so much fucking craziness,” I say quietly, nervous. “Please promise us you’re taking care of yourself.” The weight of unsaid fears lingers in the space between us, and the soft smile slides from her face.

“Of course I am,” she insists, but the flicker of her eyes betrays that same darkness that haunts us. I reach out, brushing my fingers against hers, feeling that connection ignite between us once more.

“ Promise ,” I remind her, knowing full well survival doesn’t happen in isolation.

“ Promise ,” she repeats, her eyes locking onto mine, intensity shimmering in her gaze.

For the walk back to our apartment, Whitney holds my hand the entire way, her fingers comfortably laced with mine.

Raze and Red walk beside each other, sharing the blunt that I gave them.

Meanwhile, I continue to puff on the roach of mine, getting every particle of powder mixed in with the weed.

It's key to my plan; I want to be numb, even if it's taking the coward's way out.

I'm forced to replay memories of our childhood as they hit me back-to-back like a punch to the fucking gut.

But seeing how carefree and happy we were, it makes all the torture worth it, especially if I can see her beautiful smile one last time before I go.

I want their new year to start fresh. I want them to focus on healing and fixing themselves instead of worrying about me.

Once I'm gone, they'll be forced to move on regardless.

It might be harsh, but being harsh is the only way I know I won't back out of my own fucking plan.

As we pass familiar sights illuminated by streetlights—the diner where we once stuffed ourselves with greasy fries after late-night adventures and the park where we laughed until we cried—memories surge forward, both haunting and nostalgic.

They become entwined with the present, a bittersweet tapestry of who we were and who we’ve become.

The weight of my thoughts is heavy, almost suffocating, as I glance down at Whitney holding my hand like it’s the very thing trying to anchor me.

Her warmth, the softness of her touch—it's enough to momentarily illuminate the depth of my own darkness.

But even that light feels like a flicker, one I know is about to be snuffed out.

“Hey, I was thinking,” Red says, his voice breaking through the fog of my contemplation.

“What’s up?” Raze asks, turning to him.

“How about we do something different this year? No more living in the shadows, no more just existing. Let’s make it about living, about honoring Carter’s memory, about making new ones.

” His sincerity is palpable, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness at how easy it seems to say those words.

“Sure, sounds great, man.” Raze agrees, though I can see uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “But… how?”

There’s silence as we all ponder the idea, each of us struggling to reconcile the need for change with the reality of our situation.

I can’t shake the sense that deep down, they think I’m not going to be part of whatever future plans they conjure.

Whitney squeezes my hand tighter, breaking through my swirling thoughts.

“We need to get the fuck out of Mayhem, that's for damn sure,” she says, her gaze steady and unwavering.