Kill Switch

by Penelope Douglas

  I straighten my back, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

  Oh, my God.

  Shit! I instantly look up, unable to stop myself from scanning the crowd, drifting from face to face.

  Any one of these girls could be her. She’s here? What the fuck?

  I look down at the iPad again and hover my finger over her name, hesitating.

  Seven years I’ve known her, but I’ve never seen her face. If I search her out now, there’s no going back.

  But she’s here. I can’t not look for her. Not when I know she could be within arm’s reach.

  That’s too much to ask of anyone.

  And we never promised we wouldn’t look each other up on Facebook. We simply said we wouldn’t communicate on social media. For all I know she’s searched for me. She could be looking for me right now, knowing what band I belong to and that this is our event. Maybe that’s why she’s here.

  Fuck it. I tap her name and stand frozen as her profile comes up.

  And then I see her.

  Her picture appears, my stomach drops, and I stop breathing.

  Christ.

  Slender shoulders under long, light brown hair. Heart-shaped face with full pink lips and a daring look in her bright blue eyes. Glowing skin and a beautiful body.

  From what I can see, anyway.

  I let my head fall back and draw in a breath. Fuck you, Ryen Trevarrow.

  She lied to me.

  Well, she didn’t lie exactly, but I damn well got the impression from her letters she didn’t look like that.

  I’d pictured a geek in glasses with purple streaks in her hair dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt.

  I look back down at her picture, my eyes falling down her back where parts of her skin peeks through the design of her sexy shirt as she looks over her shoulder at the camera. My body warms, and I quickly scan her profile, looking for some clue—any clue—that it’s not her.

  Please don’t let it be. Please just be sweet, socially awkward, shy, and everything I’ve loved for seven years. Don’t complicate it by being hot.

  But it’s all there. Every clue confirming that it’s Ryen. My Ryen.

  The check-in at Gallo’s, her favorite pizza place, the songs she’s listening to, the movies she’s watching, and everything posted from her latest version iPhone. Her most favorite possession in the world.

  Shit.

  I turn off Dane’s iPad and start weaving around people as I slip through the crowd. The heaters warm the frigid air, and I pass more fire pits, smelling the roasted marshmallows. Music blares from the speakers all around, and I flex my jaw, trying to calm my heart.

  I walk up to the bar and set the iPad down, turning and crossing my arms over my chest. Just stay put. If she’s here to see me, she’ll find me. If not, then… What? I’ll just let it go?

  “Hi.”

  I dart my eyes up, my heart plummeting into my stomach. The fountain girl from the video stands in front of me, a few feet away.

  And next to her…

  My eyes lock on Ryen, and I know her friend just spoke, but I don’t care. Ryen stands quietly at her side, eyes slightly thinned, looking at me hesitantly.

  Her hair is long and straight—not curled like the Facebook photo—and she’s wearing a black, off-the-shoulder sweater and skinny jeans that are torn to near shreds. I can see bits of her thighs.

  Ryen. My Ryen. I tighten my fists under my arms, my muscles tensing.

  She isn’t saying anything. Does she know who I am?

  I hear her friend clear her throat, and I blink, dragging my eyes over to her and finally answering. “Hi.”

  Fountain girl cocks her head at me. “So, I need a kiss,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I breathe shallow, so aware of Ryen it hurts.

  “Do you now?” I say, noticing her long, dark hair spilling around a scarf she wears with a gray tank top. It’s fucking freezing in here.

  She gestures to her card. “Yeah, it’s on my scavenger hunt.”

  And then her eyes fall down my body, a smile playing on her lips. I guess that means she wants a kiss from me?

  She steps forward, but before she gets too close, I take her card out of her hand and skim it.

  “Funny. I don’t see it on here,” I say, handing it back.

  “I’m doing it for her,” she explains, shooting a look to her friend. “She’s shy.”

  “I’m picky,” Ryen retorts, and I quickly turn my eyes on her again, her flippant response goading me.

  She cocks her head defiantly, staring me full on in the eyes.

  So does that mean I’m not worthy? Well, well… I hide my smile.

  “Lyla!” someone nearby yells. “Oh, my God, come here!”

  Ryen’s friend turns her head to a group of people to her left and laughs at whatever they’re doing. She must be Lyla then.

  She turns back to me. “I’ll be right back.” Like I care. “Just please kiss her. She needs it.” And then she notices Ryen shoot her a glare and turns back to me, clarifying, “For her scavenger hunt, I mean.”

  She walks away, laughing. I almost expect Ryen to follow her, but she doesn’t.

  It’s just us now.

  A cool sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and I look at Ryen, both of us locked in an awkward silence.

  Why isn’t she saying anything? She has to know who I am. Of course, she doesn’t know I formed a band recently, because I wanted to surprise her with an actual old school demo tape for our graduation in a few months, but it’s damn near impossible to be invisible these days. Our names and pictures are on our Facebook page and the rack cards by the entrance. Is she fucking around with me?

  She shifts her stance, and I see her chest rise with a heavy breath, like she’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she lets out a sigh and looks down at her card. “I also need a picture of eating something Lady & The Tramp-style with someone.”

  I keep my arms crossed and narrow my eyes on her. She’s going to keep up with this charade?

  “Or…” she goes on, sounding annoyed, probably because I haven’t responded. “I need a picture of a picture of a picture. Whatever that means.”

  I remain silent, getting a little pissed she’s acting clueless. Seven years, and this is how you want to meet, Angel?

  She shakes her head, acting like I’m the one being rude. “Okay, never mind.” And she turns to walk away.

  “Wait!” someone calls.

  Dane jogs up behind Ryen, stopping her, and then walks up to me, scolding under his breath, “Dude, why are you looking at her like she slapped your grandma? Damn.”

  He turns back to Ryen and smiles. “Hey. How are you doing?”

  I drop my eyes but only for a moment. Does she really not know who I am?

  I guess there would be plenty of people here who haven’t heard of us. We’re not a big deal, and this is probably the only thing going on in a fifty-mile radius, so why wouldn’t she be here, if only because there’s nothing else to do?

  Maybe she has no fucking clue she’s standing in front of Misha Lare right now. The boy she’s been writing letters to since she was eleven.

  “What’s your name?” Dane asks her.

  She turns back, her eyes flashing to me, clearly indicating her guard is up now. Thanks to me.

  “Ryen,” she answers. “You?”

  “Dane.” And then he turns to me. “And this is—” But I shoot out my hand, knocking him lightly in the stomach.

  No. Not like this.

  Ryen sees the exchange and pinches her eyebrows together, probably wondering what my problem is.

  “So you live in Falcon’s Well?” Dane continues, taking my cue and changing the subject.

  “Yeah.”

  He nods, and they both stand there, falling silent.

  “Okay, so…” Dane claps his hands together. “I heard you say you needed to eat something Lady and the Tramp-style?”

  Not waiting for her answer, he reache
s over the bar and digs in the garnish containers.

  He holds up a lemon wedge, and Ryen winces. “A lemon?”

  “I triple-dog dare you,” he challenges.

  But she shakes her head.

  “Okay, wait,” he urges, and I keep watching her, unable to tear my eyes away as I try to process that this is fucking Ryen.

  Her thin fingers that have written me five hundred eighty-two letters. The chin where I know she uses makeup to cover up a small scar she got from a fall during ice-skating when she was eight. The hair she told me she ties back every night, because she says there’s no hell worse than waking up with hair in your mouth.

  I’ve had half a dozen girlfriends, and all of them I knew ten times less than I know this girl.

  And she really has no idea…

  Dane comes back with a wooden skewer, the tip holding a roasted marshmallow from one of the fire pits.

  He walks up and shoves it at me. “Cooperate, please.”

  And then he turns to her and grabs her phone. “Go for it. I’ll take the picture.”

  Ryen’s amused eyes flash to me, immediately turning dark, because she clearly doesn’t want to eat anything Lady and the Tramp-style with me.

  But she doesn’t back down or feign shyness. Walking up, she grabs a bar stool and steps up on the prongs to raise herself higher. She’s not short, but she’s definitely shorter than my six feet. Leaning in with her lips parted, she stares into my eyes, and my fucking heart is going wild. It takes everything I have not to unwind my arms and touch her.

  But she stops. “I’m coming at you with my mouth open,” she points out. “You gotta show me you want it.”

  And I can’t help it. The corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile.

  Fuck, she’s sexy.

  I didn’t expect that.

  And I fold. I hold up the marshmallow and open my mouth, holding her eyes as we both lean in and take a bite, pausing a moment for Dane to take the picture. Her eyes lock on mine, and I can feel her breath on my lips as her chest rises and falls.

  My body is on fire, and when she leans in farther to bite off a bit extra, her lip grazes mine, and I groan.

  I pull away, swallowing the goddamn chunk whole. Damn.

  She chews the bit of marshmallow, licking her lips and stepping down off the stool. “Thank you.”

  I nod. I can feel Dane’s eyes on me, and I’m sure he knows something is wrong. I toss the skewer down on the bar and meet his eyes. He’s wearing a coy smile.

  Fucktard.

  Yeah, okay. I liked the marshmallow, Dane. I’d like to eat a dozen of them with her. Maybe I won’t rush home quite yet, okay?

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, seeing Annie’s name. I hit Ignore. She’s probably wondering where I am with her snacks. I’ll call her back in a minute.

  “So…” Dane says. “All these pictures you’re posting on the page…you don’t have a boyfriend who’s going to come hunting us down, right?”

  I tense. Ryen doesn’t have a boyfriend. She would’ve told me.

  “Nah,” she replies. “He knows I can’t be tied down.”

  Dane laughs, and I stand there, listening.

  “No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally answers seriously.

  “I find that hard to believe—”

  “And I’m not looking for one, either,” she cuts Dane off. “I had one once, and you have to bathe them and feed them and walk them…”

  “So what happened?” Dane asks.

  She shrugs. “I’d lowered my standards. Too low, apparently. After that, I got picky.”

  “Does any man measure up?”

  “One.” Her eyes dart to me and then back to Dane. “But I’ve never met him.”

  One. Only one guy who measures up. Does she mean me?

  My phone vibrates again, and I reach in my pocket, silencing it.

  I glance up and see cameras flashing all over and spot people taking a pic in front of the graffiti wall to the right.

  I step up and take her phone, surprising her. Walking around behind her, I turn on the camera, changing it to selfie mode, and lean down, capturing our faces on the screen. But I adjust it to also include the guy behind us taking a picture of two girls in front of the graffiti pictures. “A picture…”—I speak low in her ear, indicating our selfie— “of a picture” —I point to the guy behind us on the screen taking a pic— “of a picture.” And I gesture to the graffiti wall they’re standing in front of.

  A smile finally breaks out on her face. “That’s clever. Thanks.”

  And I click the pic, saving the moment forever.

  Before pulling away and saying goodbye, I inhale her scent, frozen for a moment as I smile to myself.

  You’re really going to hate me, Angel, when we finally do meet someday and you put all this together.

  Ryen takes the phone and slowly walks away, looking back over her shoulder at me before disappearing in a throng of people.

  And already I want her back.

  I dig in my pocket and pull out my phone, dialing my sister. How much will she hate me if I ask her to go get her own snacks? I’m not sure I’m ready to leave yet, actually.

  But when I call back, there’s no answer.

  Punk 57 is currently available for download.

  First and always, to the readers—so many of you have been there, sharing your excitement and showing your support, day in and day out, and I am so grateful for your continued excitement and trust. Thank you.

  Nightfall (Devil’s Night #4) will be the final installment in the series.

  Add Nightfall on Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2EC6sJA

  Now on to the rest…

  To my family—my husband and daughter put up with my crazy schedule, my candy wrappers, and my spacing off every time I think of a conversation, plot twist, or scene that just jumped into my head at the dinner table. You both really do put up with a lot, so thank you for your patience.

  To Jane Dystel, my agent at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret LLC—there is absolutely no way I could ever give you up, so you’re stuck with me.

  To the PenDragons—you’re my happy place on Facebook. Thanks for being the support system I need and for always being positive. And thank you for the playlist suggestions! It helps so much! And also to the hardworking admins, Adrienne Ambrose, Tabitha Russell, Kristi Grimes, Lee Tenaglia, Lydia McCall Cothran, and Tiffany Rhyne. I couldn’t do it without you.

  To Vibeke Courtney—my indie editor who goes over every move I make with a fine-toothed comb. Thank you for teaching me how to write and laying it down straight.

  To Kivrin Wilson—long live the quiet girls! We have the loudest minds.

  To Milasy Mugnolo—who reads, always giving me that vote of confidence I need, and makes sure I have at least one person to talk to at a signing.

  To Lisa Pantano Kane—you challenge me with the hard questions.

  To Jodi Bibliophile—no cowboys. Got it. No pubic hair. Never. No condoms. Eh, sometimes. Eye rolling—welllllll, I tried. Thanks for reading and supporting, and thank you for your witty sense of humor and always making me smile.

  To Lee Tenaglia—who makes such great art for the books. I’m so glad you love these devils as much as I do!

  To all of the bloggers—there are too many to name, but I know who you are. I see the posts and the tags, and all the hard work you do. You spend your free time reading, reviewing, and promoting, and you do it for free. You are the life’s blood of the book world, and who knows what we would do without you. Thank you for your tireless efforts. You do it out of passion, which makes it all the more incredible.

  To Jay Crownover, who always comes up to me at a signing and makes me talk. Thank you for reading my books and being one of my biggest peer supporters.

  To Tabatha Vargo and Komal Petersen, who were the first authors to message me after my first release to tell me how much they loved Bully. I’ll never forget.

  To T. Gephart, who takes the time to che
ck on me and see if I need a shipment of “real” Aussie Tim Tams. (Always!)

  And to B.B. Reid for reading, sharing the ladies with me, and being my bouncing board. Can’t wait to climb inside your head. Wink-wink.

  It’s validating to be recognized by your peers. Positivity is contagious, so thank you to my fellow authors for spreading the love.

  To every author and aspiring author—thank you for the stories you’ve shared, many of which have made me a happy reader in search of a wonderful escape and a better writer, trying to live up to your standards. Write and create, and don’t ever stop. Your voice is important, and as long as it comes from your heart, it is right and good.

  Penelope Douglas is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author.

  Her books have been translated into fourteen languages and include The Fall Away Series, The Devil’s Night Series, and the standalones, Misconduct, Punk 57, and Birthday Girl. Please look for Nightfall (Devil’s Night #4), coming soon.

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