by S. Massery
In any case, I was too busy to pay attention to him. I willed myself to be too busy.
But now he’s here, in my bedroom.
My heart picks up, galloping.
“W-What are you doing here?” I rip my hands against the bindings, but they don’t give. “Untie me.”
“We need to have a little chat.” He circles to my side, leaning in close. “You’re more likely to tell the truth when you’re afraid.”
Something sharp touches my jaw. He raises it so I can see the blade in his grasp. Fear kicks through me.
He wouldn’t hurt you, idiot. This is just some game.
I take a deep breath. “I’d be honest if you untied me.”
He steps away and turns on the light.
I shimmy upright as much as I can. He’s attached both of my wrists together, and it looks like he used my shoelaces. Looped them down to the bedframe.
I twist to the side, keeping my back to the wall, and bring my legs up.
When he turns back around, I gasp.
His face could’ve gone through a meat grinder with better results. The left side of his face is puffy, mottled red and faint traces of purple. He’ll probably have a full-on black eye by tomorrow. There’s a clotted cut on his lip, too.
“Does this bring back memories?” he asks. “You feel any sort of sense of loyalty?”
I narrow my eyes. “To who, you?” I laugh. I can’t help it. “Because you supposedly saved me once, I’m supposed to owe you?”
He stalks forward and takes hold of my ankles.
I kick at him as he pulls me flat. It’s no use. His grip doesn’t loosen. I throw my body to the side, toward the edge of the bed. If I fall, he will, too.
The laces on my wrists tighten, holding fast. My arms nearly get wrenched out of their sockets.
He releases my ankles and grabs my throat.
I go still and meet his eyes—what I can see of them, anyway.
I lived in Stone Ridge my whole life. The house was inherited from my dad’s family, and he hated the idea of selling it. So, even though I went to Emery-Rose Elite for school, we stayed on the outskirts of town.
Liam and his family moved in next door when I was in middle school. I won’t pretend I never had a crush on him—because I’m pretty sure every girl in the neighborhood did—but we had a weird relationship.
Not friends.
Barely friendly.
But he was there, whether I wanted him to be or not.
“Careful, angel,” he murmurs. “Where’s your phone?”
I narrow my eyes, and his thumb moves a fraction on my throat. Chills skitter down my spine, but I will myself not to shiver. Or worse, tremble.
“How was Howl?” he asks. He finally spots my phone and leans to the side, snatching it from my nightstand. “RJ was pretty clear about the rules, was he not?”
I swallow.
Shit. What rule did I break?
“I—”
“Shut up.” His hand tightens.
I suddenly can’t breathe.
I writhe, bringing my knee up. I catch him in the side—the same side his opponent hit a few times, I think.
He grunts and releases me, briefly touching his side.
I pull myself up again, glaring at him.
What I don’t expect is his chuckle.
Where is my fucking roommate? Whitney’s probably with her boyfriend in another building. It doesn’t mean no one will hear us, because the dorm is filled with people, but it does mean they might write off what they hear.
This all started as a regular Thursday night. I was trying to be sociable, to make friends. We’re still in that stage of college where everything is blindingly new. And Natalie’s boyfriend got an invite to Howl…
Liam laughs.
It’s mean, aimed like a weapon. He’s still got my phone in his hand, and he unlocks it easily.
“How do you know my password?”
“If you don’t want people breaking in, don’t make it your birthday.” He shows me a screen. “This is what you did.”
I stare down at the post that came from my account.
My name.
Didn’t think I’d learn this at college, I wrote almost two hours ago.
And a video.
I meet his glare. The blade is back in his hand, and I shrink backward. He lunges forward, grabbing my wrist. In one motion, he cuts me free.
“Delete it,” he orders. He throws the phone into my lap.
I scroll through it, to the incriminating video. “I didn’t post this.”
It doesn’t matter. It’s got over a hundred thousand views. Eight hundred comments. People asking where I go to college, who that is.
I only remember drinking, seeing Liam, holding my phone…
It’s blurry after that. Maybe I did post it, knowing no one would even see it. I don’t have any followers on this site—well, I didn’t.
My notifications are blowing up.
“Delete it, Buckley,” he growls.
I wince and delete the post.
He nods, takes a step back, and glowers. “We’ll see how far this goes. If I even catch a glimpse of you at Howl again—”
I raise my hands in surrender. Now’s not the time to admit that going to Howl felt like taking uppers. It’s easy to get addicted. I can see why he likes it, anyway. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
He sneers. “Sorry? Now?”
The door crashes open, and my roommate yells, “Skylar, you’re never going to believe—oh, shit. You’re him.”
“In the flesh,” Liam deadpans.
“You’re on the news!” Whitney crosses to our little television and turns it on, flipping to the local Boston station.
A woman at an anchor desk has a stack of papers in front of her. “…in a stunning display of violence. One of the fighters, now being identified as Ashburn sophomore Liam Morrison…”
“Turn it off,” I say.
Liam’s face is slowly getting redder. Any more and his head might pop off.
I don’t think I can explain that one away to my R.A.
“What Ashburn College will do next with these allegations of a fighting ring is anyone’s guess. Some speculate this video may be the tipping point—”
Whitney hits the power button, biting her lip. “Um…”
“Out,” Liam growls.
She doesn’t react quick enough, because he takes her by the arm and drags her to the door. It slams closed behind her, and he faces me.
“You know me,” he says in a low voice. “You know I’m good for my word.”
He stalks forward.
I stand, ready to… I don’t know. Fight him? Run away? He’s blocking the door, and I saw for myself how he handles combat. He keeps coming, forcing me back, until my butt bumps the windowsill.
He pauses millimeters away, looming over me.
I’m not afraid of you.
“However this plays out… however much this comes back on me? I’m going to make sure it hurts worse for you.”
I swallow, but I don’t have a retort. I knew what Howl was going into it, and the twin who took our money at the door said as much: it was illegal. Secret. A coveted club.
And I just single-handedly ruined it.
He turns the television back on, and now a screenshot of my post is behind the woman. My name for all to see.
“Howl will survive this,” he says, heading for the door. “But will you?”
3
Sky
Two years later
I hurry toward one of the campus’s many gates. Even though Ashburn is fenced in, making it a tiny little oasis in the heart of Boston, there are gates for walkers at a few of the sidewalk entrances.
Except, it’s closed. A campus security guard loops a chain around it, whistling under his breath.
“Excuse me,” I call. “I need to get out.”
He pauses and half turns toward me. “All entrances are being sealed except the main one. Everyone has to sign
in and out.”
“What?” I hold my book bag close. “Why?”
He stares at me like I’m daft. “The missing girl. We sent out an email about it.”
An email about a missing girl? I squint at him. He can’t be serious.
“From Ashburn?”
His eyebrow jumps, and he focuses back on the gate. He takes a padlock from his belt and secures it, making a show of rattling it, then gestures for me to walk with him. If it wasn’t late, I’d probably think twice about it. Yet there’s a warmth to the air tonight, and that settles my nerves.
My muscles are itching to stretch after the three-hour history class, but the news of a missing girl is jarring.
I follow him to the guard station in silence.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
I frown. One step farther outside my comfort zone.
“Relax. I was just going to offer our shuttle.”
I take the clipboard and scrawl my name and student ID number. The name two rows above mine catches my attention, and I pause for a split second.
Liam Morrison left campus only fifteen minutes before me.
A chill runs through me. I know, from intense stalking—self-preservation, I swear—that he lives off campus. So was he going home? To a bar? As a new twenty-one-year-old, he would be entitled to a drink.
On a Tuesday, Skylar? I don’t think so.
The security guard watches me, waiting for a response.
I never answered his question, and I don’t particularly want to. Moving off campus was a way to escape—my roommate is aware of my peculiarities. Mail is routed to a local post office. She can bring people over, but only with fair warning.
And no one knows I live with her.
“I’m fine,” I say. “My roommate is waiting for me.”
That’s a lie, but the guard just nods. I hurry onto the street and quickly make my way to my apartment building. Whitney, my freshman year roommate, seemed to take pity on me after what happened at Howl. We’ve lived together ever since, even if we aren’t friends.
It’s the ability to coexist peacefully that sealed the deal.
We’re rarely home at the same time. She got a bartending job at Moe’s, one of the bars near campus. It has a reputation for not carding the students, and its five-dollar margarita nights draw large crowds.
She’s often out until three o’clock, preferring to party with her friends after work.
It’s fine by me. The little two-bedroom apartment is my safe haven.
I more than just care about privacy—I live by it. Sometimes the line between privacy and secrecy blur, but it’s what I had to do to survive. Living on campus was misery, and the students didn’t take it easy on Whitney, either. She could only distance herself so much while sleeping five feet away from Howl’s snitch.
I unlock the front door of the brownstone and let out a breath. Before going upstairs to my apartment, I pull out my phone and refresh my email. Sure enough, an alert was sent from administration two hours ago. I can pinpoint the exact moment students got it, too. A murmur broke out through my class, but it was quickly squashed by the professor.
The subject reads: Ashburn College advises students use extreme caution when leaving campus.
There’s not much more detail in the body of the email, just that a missing person report has been filed with the police. Amber Huck, a sophomore from Chatham, New York. She was studying business. Blonde hair, blue eyes, dark-framed glasses. The photo they used must’ve been her high school senior picture.
Last seen on Ashburn College campus Sunday afternoon.
My stomach twists. Snatched from campus? Or did she leave and someone—
A door on the second floor slams, and I shove my phone in my pocket. Guilt is an icy deluge over my head, even if I don’t quite understand the emotion. I jolt into action, moving away from where I was seemingly stuck to the floor.
A three-story climb later, I step into my apartment. One of the lamps by the balcony is lit. I drop my purse and keys on our entry table and move farther into my home. It feels different, but I can’t place why.
The kitchen entry to my right is dark. Down the short hall into the living room, and there’s another hallway on my left that leads to Whitney’s and my bedrooms. It’s not like her to leave lights on, especially since we split the utilities.
I’m halfway to my bedroom when someone grabs me from behind. Their hand wraps around my mouth, yanking me backward, and the other pins my arms behind my back. It’s a smooth attack.
I kick out and buck against the pressure, throwing myself sideways. The missing girl’s write-up plays like a loop in my head.
Someone might be on the hunt for—for what, girls from Ashburn? These predators never just stop with one.
My heel finds my attacker’s foot, and a sharp exhale hits my neck.
I shudder and throw my head back.
Crack.
Pain explodes across my skull, but I’m hoping I got their nose.
“Fuck,” they grunt.
They release my mouth and shove me into the wall. Their hands pull my wrists up, higher than the small of my back. My shoulders burn. I blink away tears.
In this moment, I hate that I recognize him.
I hate that even with blurry vision, out of the corner of my eye, I know his face.
“L-Liam,” I choke out.
“This is a warning,” he says in my ear.
I try again to shake him off, but he leans more of his weight into me.
“What is so important that you’ve broken your silence to warn me about?” I grit out.
His hand on my wrists eases. “Just wanted to remind you not to do anything stupid.”
My whole body moves with my huff.
“Sky,” he says.
His breath is hot—and then it isn’t just his breath, but his teeth on the shell of my ear. A nip, then he dodges when I try to hit him again.
Heat floods my face, and I can imagine how red my cheeks are. It isn’t just the pain. I hate that he managed to get this close to me. He’s comfortable, while I’m going to boil from the inside out.
All that’s existed between us since that night after Howl has been stony silence, save for one interaction. But there’s been plenty of things to keep him busy. Like turn the entire school against me, for one. Make sure no one wants to come near the pariah who snitched on Howl.
To say I’ve learned how to cope with loneliness is an understatement. I’ve made it my best friend. My home. My currency.
I think back to our last interaction: I was leaving a math class and walked right into him. He sneered, and I thought for a second he would smack the books from my arms or shove me away.
He did neither.
He stared at me like he didn’t quite recognize me anymore, and I considered my mission complete. My transformation was slow-moving, one piece of my identity at a time. Chess strategy played out across months.
“Get away from me,” I say now, although I don’t move. And I certainly don’t expect anything from him—but we can’t stay like this forever.
A thrill rushes through me, but I squash it.
He cocks his head. “Why?”
“B-because I said so.”
Instead, he comes closer. His front to my back. My wrists are released, and he cups my throat. Uses it to pull me flush against him. His other hand slides down my chest, over my breasts.
“You should know I don’t like being told what to do,” he whispers. His fingers keep going south, under the edge of my pants, then the hem of my panties. “I’ll take and take until you’ve got nothing left to give me.”
I suck in a deep breath. Why, why does my body flush hot—in a good way, I think—when he does that? When he touches me? It’s like I’ve been craving him for years and only just now remembered it.
He touches my clit, rubs small circles, and suddenly the wall and his hand on my throat are the only things keeping me upright. I brace against it, letting my head
fall back to his shoulder.
“You’re soaked,” he says.
“I hate you.” I press my palms to the wall, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. I don’t make a sound, but my traitorous heart rattles in its cage.
I haven’t been touched in a long, long time. And never like this, with a strange combination of fear and lust.
“Just admit that you want this, angel.” He leans in close, running his nose through my hair. “Tell me you love this.” His finger curls, dipping inside me, and I shudder.
Loathing crawls up my throat, restricting my air.
I could throw up.
“Stop,” I say. It’s more of a low moan, though.
My body is a live wire, and any minute I’m going to implode. Little shocks fly through me, and I rock my hips into his hand just the slightest bit.
“What do you want, Sky? Shall I rip this orgasm from your body?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Before I can stop myself, I whisper, “Yes.”
He steps back and releases me.
It takes a second for the burning emptiness to register. He just… stopped.
Anger surges through me. I spin around, but he just puts one hand flat on my chest, over my heart. Enough to keep me pressed to the wall, although now I narrow my eyes.
Slowly, he raises his fingers to his lips and licks them clean.
My core pulses, but I clench my thighs and focus on anything else. I focus on the fury in his eyes, and then on his warning: to not do anything stupid.
But what is there stupid to do?
And Liam, he seems… the same, but worse. A bruise on his cheekbone has turned his skin yellow and green, and there’s a healing cut on his full lower lip. Dark circles under his storm-gray eyes. I must’ve caught his jaw, because it’s red. The only injury that seems recent.
“Should I even ask how you got into my apartment?” I force myself to maintain eye contact, but I’m disconcerted. Flustered.
Skylar Buckley isn’t the type of girl to get flustered, yet here we are.
First the missing student, now Liam has made a move.
A brazen one, at that.
I’ll be honest—I was fine with how things were.