Page 5 of Hate Me

Since the night he’d turned from me—from us—and walked away.

He’d dropped off the grid shortly after and I’d only been able to pick him up once, when he’d walked into a church in desperation, beseeching them to help him with his darkness, to forgive his sins, and guide him toward finding redemption. I knew he’d become a missionary for a while, immersing himself in his newfound faith for several months, wherein my attempts to bring him back had been met with powerful resistance. He hadn’t wanted to be reminded of Rossun, of me, of Bastian, of Skylar, of anything that connected back to that night when he’d carried out a brutal massacre of Jett Bane’s accomplices, the memories of which had even haunted me for some time. During that stint as a missionary, he’d slipped up, become an angel of vengeance upon the city he’d been residing in at the time, carrying out vigilante work, much like that of The Jackals.

And then he’d crossed paths with darkness personified in Asher Monroe.

At that point, he’d dropped off the grid and disappeared into the shadows.

Until now apparently.

“You found him?” I asked Dante.

He nodded. “He’s been operating under the alias of Clark Rothchild. But he took a risk very recently in a bid to assist Asher with his war against the Infidels, and he put himself back on the radar. Very briefly, but it was all I needed to get a lock on him. You’ll find everything inside that intel packet, some of which I believe you’ll find rather interesting. Suffice to say, I have my people watching him now. He’s safe and well and now I’ve found him, I’ll be able to ensure he remains that way. The rest of the details, I’ll leave for you to absorb whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I somehow managed to utter through the weight of it all. “This means a lot.”

He smiled, then wrapped his arm around me. “Let’s vacate this area. I’ve made a reservation at a fantastic pizzeria fifty miles from here. We’ll have a low-key celebration and some much-needed downtime for you.”

“That’ll be nice.”

As I clutched the envelope in a white-knuckle grip, he tightened his hold around me as we walked along. “Happy Birthday, Caspian.”

2

~Sebastian~

“My name is Sebastian and I’m an addict…”

That was the usual spiel, how it went every week I came to this support group meeting.

Although it was impossible to remain anonymous for me considering my celebrity status in the city, this particular group consisted of those in the spotlight like me, all of which didn’t want these issues of theirs exposed any more than I did. That collective desire meant we protected each other’s privacy in ways we wished the outside world had protected ours.

A lot of people were in here because of that pressure, that intense public attention and scrutiny. First they loved you, then they picked you to pieces and relished your downfall. It was, in essence, the nature of humanity. At least, my experience with it all.

Well, there was also one other protective element in the form of Caspian King. He’d founded this group for me eighteen months ago, and it had birthed a whole lot of others due to him recognizing how successful it had been.

I recounted my ups and downs of the last week to the group of fourteen, how I was sticking well with my routine—attending Luxe to finish off my Architecture degree, doing MMA three times a week, eating healthy, and going to sleep at a reasonable hour, while also avoiding any invitations to parties and events. I even ended up confessing a trial that had come my way in the form of one such invitation being to a joint frat and sorority party that was being held at The Ruins. It was what they were calling the former Bennett home these days.

And of course it had been a trigger to me.

So I’d ended up coming to group tonight off-schedule. I’d cut my last class of the day short and come here for an extra meeting, rather than just the twice-a-week thing I normally did.

Once I’d got all of that off my chest, somebody else began their turn to purge.

As I listened, while trying to get a handle on what I’d put out there, I felt eyes on me.

I looked out to see the tall blonde who’d started coming here a couple of months ago. She’d shot me a look or two every time I’d been here, but I’d never engaged beyond a polite head nod or smile. Her long platinum-blonde hair was loose this time, straightened and falling all the way down her back. She had a silver cropped puffer jacket on with a long tank beneath that matched her mini-skirt and gave way to a pair of gray thigh-high boots. Ashley Morrison. She was an up-and-coming model who’d been garnering a ton of press attention, her fashion tips videos going viral several times over on social media. She’d come here because she’d become addicted to cocaine, something that had come close to ruining her career before it had even reached its peak. Despite all of that, she was loud and bubbly with a very positive outlook any time she’d spoken.

I wasn’t usually one to go for the whole ray of sunshine personalities, but with the dreary existence I was living right now, that I had been living for the last two years, it had gelled well with me and gotten my attention.

And that was why I hadn’t spoken a word to her, despite her often looking my way.

I couldn’t afford that attachment.

Ever again.

Not with anyone.

It had cost me way too much two years ago.

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