Fuck me. What am I supposed to do?
I glance back at the door, knowing that Carver is only two doors away. If I was to crawl into his bed, I’d sleep like the living dead, but I have to stop needing him like this. I have to start relying on myself. The guys are only interested in me because their stupid secret club is enforcing it. I only wish I knew why.
After learning what I had to do, my world crumbled as I tried to come to terms with it. Cruz scooped me up and brought me up here to my room while King texted Ember to let her know not to expect me back at her place. I haven’t moved since, but the more I think about it, the clearer it becomes.
I have to do this and the sooner I do it, the higher my chance of survival is.
It’s him or it’s me, and without a doubt, every time I will pick me.
But how? Do I slit his throat like I told him this morning? Find a gun? Fuck, what weapon do I use to become a murderer? This isn’t a job for a cheap set of brass knuckles. I need to step up my game and I need to do it now.
My hands shake as bile rises in my throat. I throw my blankets back and race into the bathroom before slamming my knees down on the hard tiles. I grab the toilet seat and rip it up just moments before my head tips over the bowl and I let loose, hurling my guts up until there’s not a damn thing left.
I drop to the tiles, the side of my face basking in their coolness until I find the strength to get to my feet. I make my way over to the sink and splash cold water over my face before rinsing out my mouth and trying to find the courage to do what I have to do.
All I know is that once I get started, I can’t stop. If I do this, there’s no backing out, no finishing only half the job. I do it, and I do it right. I get in, I get out, and I don’t leave a shred of evidence behind.
Fuck.
I raise my head from the sink and meet my reflection in the mirror before letting out one last shaky breath. I see nothing but a bitch-ass pussy staring back at me, and I instantly hate what I see. I’m stronger than this. I can handle my business. I was born to fucking handle my business.
I stand tall. I’ve been acting like a fucking idiot up until now, but not anymore.
I turn out of the bathroom and flick the light off as I go before walking straight out of my room, down the stairs, and out the front door. There’s a chill in the late evening air, but it’s not going to slow me down.
I make my way right up the long driveway, keeping up a good pace, knowing that if one of the boys were to catch me out here, they’d try to stop me. One by one, the boys had come into my room to offer to take the task off my hands, but I denied each one of them before listening to their advice on how they thought I should handle this, but truth be told, I don’t think I heard a damn word any of them had said.
They don’t want me to do this. They all want to be the big hero of the hour and save me, but they should know better. After the bullshit I’ve gone through, there’s absolutely nothing left to save. I should be the one trying to save them from the same fate. Though, from the effortless way they spoke about it this afternoon, it’s left me wondering if maybe the topic isn’t so new to them.
I reach the top of the driveway and have to scale the gate while hoping that I don’t set off an alarm. I drop down to the other side, wishing I had something better than Cruz’s old shirt and sweatpants to wear. I can’t say that I’ve ever dreamed about murdering someone before, but if I had, I’m sure that I’d want to look like a complete badass while doing it, not a drowned rat in clothes twelve sizes too big.
I find my bike still hidden deep within the bushes outside Carver’s home, and as I straddle her, I feel her power seeping into me. I can do this. I’m not someone’s meal ticket, I’m a survivor, and I’m going to thrive.
I put the bike into neutral and push it down the street until I’m far enough away that the roaring engine won’t wake the boys, and the second I can, I hit the throttle and get myself back over to the shitty end of Ravenwood Heights.