Natural Born Killers (Sick Boys Book 3)
Page 37
from me simply because he was bigger and stronger.
And how did he do it? Well, he had to drug me—not once, but twice. Yet,
still, thinking of it doesn’t erase the little, condescending voice in the back of
my head that says it was always bound to happen. Roger had been trying to
get me for years. Patricia had been helping him. Her hatred for me—first
because I’d lived while my father hadn’t, and then for looking like him when
he was already dead and out of her reach—had taken her to lows no parent
should ever go.
I’d fought her and the inevitability of Roger’s actions all my life. I’d
latched onto the first person who’d ever shown me affection and caring and
kindness. I didn’t realize how lucky I’d gotten until I met Micki. She’d taught
me the ways to unleash the rage within me—through fights, through sheer
stubbornness. And even though she had her own issues, her own secrets that
she continuously refused to share with me, she had left me with a very
important gift.
The gift of adaptability, of change, of being able to move the fuck on.
When you live under the cloud of fear for so long, it starts to rot your
soul. You become accustomed to the feeling and the potency lessens. Fear
goes away, but its effects remain.
It’s like my mind and body can work on autopilot when I feel the vast
range of fear that overwhelms me. I don’t have to think about anything; the
emotion takes care of it all.
I was afraid for so long, and now I’m not.
I’m not afraid of Patricia or Corina or Ace or anyone.
I’m not even afraid of death.
Now, the only thing I’m afraid of … is this. His death.
“Dean?” My voice is hoarse as I touch his cheek and move up to his
forehead.
His eyes open, but they’re unfocused. His chest rises and falls, but with
each movement, more blood leaks from the hole to the side of his chest and
from his lips.
No.
“Ava?” he whispers. “Baby?”
“I’m here.” His arm lifts but then falls back down before it even makes it
to me. I reach for it.
“Jesus,” another male voice joins the room—familiar—and then hard
footsteps on the staircase follow us down. Something clear falls onto Dean’s
face as he looks up at me. A droplet. Is it raining? I think. No. Even if it
were, we’re inside. That’s not possible. Maybe there’s a leak somewhere and
it's dripping down right over Dean's face, sliding down his cheek.
“Baby, are you okay?” How the fuck can he be asking me that right now?
I wonder. There's so much fucking blood. On his face. On my hands. All over
his chest. Oh, fuck ... his fucking chest is…
There are grunts somewhere in the room, growing louder. Out of the
corner of my eye, I see Braxton’s father flip him onto his back, but that’s the
last I see of him because as soon as he does, Braxton goes apeshit. He throws
him off and dives back over the man, eclipsing Elric Smalls from my view. I
don’t care. It doesn’t matter. All that matters right now is Dean.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
“You’re not, brother,” Abel says as he finally reaches us and touches
Dean’s arm.
Dean looks down at him and I follow his gaze to see that Abel’s staring at
the two of us with a hard look and a phone pressed to his ear. Someone picks
up on the other end. “Yes,” he snaps into the phone. “I need an ambulance
at…” He rattles off an address.
I tap Dean’s cheek, grabbing his attention once more. “Dean…” There’s a
heavy weight sitting on my heart. I feel sluggish, like the whole world is
moving in slow motion.
Dean’s eyes return to mine and he smiles, though it’s weak. “It’s okay,”
he tells me. “You’re okay. It’s all gonna be okay, baby.”
“No,” I tell him, grabbing the side of his shirt, it’s soaked through with
blood just like everything around us. Hell, I feel like I’m sitting in a kiddie
pool full of it. How much blood does the human body even hold? I was sure
I’d learned it somewhere before in one of my classes, but for the first time in
my life, I can’t think of the answer. School always came so easy—rote
memorization wasn’t that hard—but all of my memories now have blurred
together and formed one black line. I know what I’ve done. I know who I am,
but for the life of me, I can’t recall a single instance with any kind of clarity.
“—with a gunshot wound to the chest,” Abel says, his voice coming back
into focus as he leans over Dean and tries to assess the damage. He curses
and then says something else to the person on the phone.
Dean reaches out for him and Abel drops the phone and grabs hold of his
outstretched hand. “Hold on, man,” he says quickly. “The ambulance is on
the way. You’re gonna be fine.”
“Take care of her,” he says.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demand. More rain falls on his
face. My vision is blurry—more faded and watery than it's ever been. “Didn’t
you fucking hear him? Abel said you’re gonna be fine. You just have to hold
on until—”
Dean shakes his head, cutting me off. “I’m sorry, baby.”
I shake my head. “No,” I tell him. “Fuck your sorry. Don’t fucking say
sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re fucking fine. You’re going
to be fine. Abel said—"
“Ava…” Abel cuts me off, his voice growing deep. Gruff.
“Shut up!” I scream at him.
I grab Dean’s head, holding it centered squarely in my lap. It hurts to
breathe. The world is growing fuzzy. “You’re fine,” I tell him, not caring if
it's a lie. I've lied so much in my lifetime, what's one more? “You’re fine.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers again, more blood leaking out from the side
of his mouth.
I can hear the sirens now. They’re growing louder. The sounds of Elric’s
grunts from across the room have faded and all I can hear from Braxton is the
steady and slow sound of fists hitting flesh—again and again and again.
“Hold onto him,” Abel says. “Keep him here, Ava. I have to—just hold
on.”
I don’t know what he has to do and I don’t care. He gets up and leaves,
sprinting across the room to where Braxton hovers over his motionless father.
“Dean…” More water drips onto his face, sliding down his cheek and
mixing with his blood. My vision grows blurrier by the second. There’s
something wrong with me. It feels like my chest is caving in. Breathing
grows steadily harder. My nails scrape lightly against Dean’s beard stubble.
“I love you,” I finally tell him. “Please don’t. Don’t do this to me.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “I’ve been waiting to fucking hear you
say that for forever,” he admits.
“I’ll say it every day,” I promise. “I’ll wear your stupid ring. I’ll even
wear a white fucking wedding dress. Just don’t … leave.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says again, coughing. Something wet hits my cheek
and I know it’s his blood. The sirens are right outside now. Red and blue
lights flash over the windows and into the interior. I can hear Abel talking,
though not what he’s saying. Everything in me is focused on the man in my
arms.
“You have to stay,” I tell him.
“I wish I could. You don’t know how badly I wish I could…”
When Dean’s eyes close and his words drift off, the air freezes for a
moment. Then I shake him. Hard. “Dean?” Nothing. No response. “Dean!” I
shake him again. Slapping his face.
Breathing is hard. It’s the hardest thing that I’ve ever done. Dragging in
air feels like ripping my own heart out of my chest. Pain echoes around inside
of me, sharp jagged points tearing into my organs. Ripping me to shreds and
leaving nothing but a crumpled heap of flesh and death in its wake.
Distantly, I hear doors opening, shouting, men and women, and then there
are people surrounding me. They touch Dean’s neck, his wrists. Feeling for a
pulse. There has to be a pulse. Someone pulls me back. I fight them—or I try
to—I’ve never felt so weak before, though. I just sag into the body behind
me. When I look up, I realize it’s Abel.
Horror covers his features as he tries to move me out of the way, but I
fight him. He wraps his arms around me and physically lifts me away,
dragging me backwards. One of the EMTs yells for something and someone
goes sprinting out of the room. Everything is so loud, but nothing is clear.
How can it be so noisy and muffled at the same time? I wonder. And why
does my chest still hurt so badly?
I reach down and feel around against my chest. I wince when I feel torn
flesh inside a hole in my shirt. Oh fuck…
“Abel…” He looks down and his eyes widen when my fingers come
away from my chest wet with fresh blood—blood that isn’t Dean’s. The
world shifts, tilting into darkness.
“Avalon!”
But it’s too late. I can’t answer him anymore.
47
AVALON
THE SOFT WHIRRING OF TIRES TURNING OVER PAVEMENT LIFTS ME OUT OF THE
darkness. It feels like several tons of concrete are sitting over my eyes as I
fight to open them. Once I do, I find that my forehead is pressed against the
cool glass of a car window. Blinking rapidly, I sit up. The world is foggy; I
can't seem to bring anything directly into focus even with my eyes wide open.
Trees fly past outside and I look to see who the driver is.
"Dean?"
His head turns. "Hey," he says, his voice deep and familiar and yet, at the
same time—strange. "You're awake."
"Where are we?" A hard pounding ricochets through my skull. I put a
palm to the side of my head and groan. "What happened?"
"Don't worry," he replies, looking back through the windshield. "It's
going to be okay. We're almost there."
"There?" I repeat, confused. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer, and that doesn’t sit right with me.
"Dean?" Something hits me. We’re in the Mustang, but Abel isn’t here. I
feel around, my hands cold and shaking. The aching in my skull isn't going
away. Instead, it’s getting worse. It feels like red hot spikes are being shoved
through my ear holes and into my brain. "Ugh." I lower my face to my knees,
breathing rapidly through my mouth and nose as I try to bear through the
pain. What’s wrong with me? Why can't I remember getting in the car? Why
does everything still feel so fuzzy?
"Dean," I say through clenched teeth, "where are we going? Why are we
in Abel's Mustang? Where is Abel? Where's everyone else?"
Dean turns his head towards me, though his hands remain gripping the
wheel. "It's going to be okay," he repeats.
A chill rushes down my spine and irritation flares to life. I slam my fist
against the dashboard. "Stop fucking saying that,” I snap. "Just answer me!"
"You're hurt, Avalon," he says, cool faced. Not Ava. Not baby. Avalon. I
turn my head and stare at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look at me.
I’m in pain—it’s obvious—and he’s not asking me if I’m okay. No, he’s not
asking—he’s telling me that I will be. Maybe I’d believe it if his voice shook,
if he showed some sort of emotion, but he seems as cool as ever. And that's
when I know. This isn't real. He isn't real. Whoever this man is, he most
certainly is not Dean Carter.
My hand shoots for the glove compartment and I rip it open, reaching in
for the gun I know is always stashed there. My hand meets empty air. I jerk
my head down. There’s nothing in there, not even papers or old receipts like
there normally is. It’s just … empty. Slowly, I lift my head and stare at the
man driving the car. "Who the hell are you?"
He glances my way finally and sighs. "I thought you would feel more
comfortable with this face," the man says.
Chills chase down my spine. "That's not an answer," I reply.
"You should get comfortable," he says, ignoring me. "We'll be there
soon."
"You still haven't told me where we're going," I grit out.
"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet, Avalon."
I hate it when he says my name with that face. Whoever this man is, he
isn't right. There is not a single ounce of emotion in him. No fear. No anger.
No concern. Just a stillness, a coldness I’ve only ever experienced from one
other human being before.
His body is like a puppet. His movements are jerky as if he’s being played
and pulled around by strings. I want to cut them. I want to shoot him in the
head and see what comes out. Will it be blood? Or will he be as hollow and
empty as his words?
My breath comes faster. The pain grows fiercer. My eyes dart to the door
handle. I reach for it.
"Don't," he warns.
"Don't what?" I ask sharply. "I want out. Get me the hell out of here."
As I fight through the agony in my head, a new one spreads through my
chest. Breathing becomes harder. My heart squeezes, pumping so slowly it’s
as if it’s moving tar through my veins and arteries instead of blood. What’s
happening to me? Where the hell am I? Is this a dream?
"It's not a dream," the man says. Had he read my mind or had I asked that
question aloud? I don't know. I can't even hear myself think anymore.
"Fuck," I whimper. It hurts. I want it to stop. Stop hurting. Stop tearing
me apart inside. I want it to stop. Stop. STOP!
"It will," the man assures me.
"Stop doing that!" I yell. My lungs squeeze with my panic. "Let me out!" I
grab onto the door handle and yank. It doesn't move. I release it and punch
the window. My bones feel like they've broken, but the glass remains
unfractured. I’m not going to stop, though—not until I get out of this fucking
car.
"Avalon, you’ll hurt yourself before we even arrive. I recommend that you
don't."
"Shut the fuck up!" I scream. "I don't know who you are. I don't trust you
and I hate that fucking face you're wearing!" I rear back and punch him.
" Fuck !" I double over, cradling my fist in my hand. His face is like granite
beneath the facade of human skin. Certainly harder than the glass.
"Calm down," he says.
I work through the pain. Unbuckling my seatbelt and sliding down in the
passenger seat. I turn and put my feet against the window and start kicking.
"Dean!" I scream his name. "Dean, get me out!"
Suddenly, the dark trees outside begin to grow lighter. Sunlight peeks in
through the branches. I shudder inside. The warmth in the car turns cold—
like ice in my veins. The fake Dean turns his head towards me and stares in
what appears to be shock. "Interesting," he murmurs.
"What?" I look back at him, trying not to panic, but that’s all I feel right
now. Panic. Horror. Fear. True fear. Where is the real Dean? Why isn’t he
here? "What's interesting? What does that mean?"
He looks down at me. "I thought you were ready," he says. "I guess not."
I gape at him. "No fucking shit, Sherlock! Now, let me out."
He hums and I feel the car decelerate. "It's time for you to wake up,
Avalon."
“What?” I blurt. I sit up straighter as something hard hits my back, like a
hard metal surface, but when I glance at the seat, it’s normal—just a regular
car seat. Nothing metal about it. I refocus on the fake Dean.
The car rolls to a stop as more sunlight pours in through the trees on
either side of us, and he turns to face me fully. "Wake. Up."
I’M PROPELLED OUT OF THE CAR BY A FORCE I CAN'T SEE. MY EYES SLAM
shut and when I open them again, I’m not in the Mustang anymore. Instead,
I’m on a rolling table. The hard metal surface, I absently realize. A bright
light shines down on my face—not sunlight but a manufactured light—
straight into my eyes. What the fuck? Memories come rushing back to me.
Corina. Patricia. Them. The gun. Dean’s blood. I’m not where I’m supposed
to be. I’m not with Dean. Where is he?
"She's awake!" someone yells, distracting me.
"Increase the dose and put her back under,” someone else replies. “We're
not done."
The black fog that I'd fought my way free of before begins to seep into
my mind once more. My lips part and I can feel how dry and cracked they
are. "No..." I can't go back. I won't.
"Shhh." Someone's fingers brush over my hair, smoothing it back from
my face. "It's okay. Avalon," they say. "This is a good thing. You're awake,
honey. You woke up. You'll wake up again."
That’s the last I hear before the darkness rips me back into oblivion.