Page 193 of Vile Boys

“How is he?” Ares asks.

“Every time I check on him, he keeps throwing shit at the door to make me leave.”

“At least he’s alive,” Ares says, clearing his throat.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Upstairs, to the left of the balcony. The door is painted black. You can’t miss it,” Blaine answers.

I nod a few times, then look at my own hands which don’t looklike mine at all. Someone else’s blood is on me. “I … want to take a shower now.”

Ares’s eyes narrow. “Fine. Go on, then.” He nods at the stairs. “I’ll be right there.”

He’ll be right there?

“What did you do to her?” Blaine whispers behind me.

“Someone got what they deserved …” Ares responds. “And now I need a fucking drink and a smoke.”

I head upstairs, still feeling like my own feet aren’t mine. I don’t want to go back to the guest room. It doesn’t feel like mine. Doesn’t feel right.

So I knock on Caleb’s door, hoping he’ll be my salvation.

I can’t be alone right now.

I can’t be with my own thoughts, or I’ll go mad.

Ares left me with such a destructive wantonness that I don’t want anything anymore except more blood and cum. Death and desire have been forever interlaced.

And all I want right now is to lay down my head and forget.

Caleb

“Leave me alone …”I groan.

I don’t want to eat more of Blaine’s awful cooking. Besides, I’m not in the mood to listen to his endless stories either.

“It’s me.”

Crystal’s squeaky voice instantly makes me jump out of bed. I run to the door to open it up, but my whole body freezes to the ground at the sight of her covered in blood.

What happened to her?

“Can I come in?” she asks.

I pull open the door farther and let her step inside, but I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s covered in splatters of blood, and judging from the shell-shocked look on her face, I’m pretty sure she didn’t just witness a murder … she took part in one.

She steps inside my room, looking around at my decorations and furniture, all in black and red with as little light as possible as I like to keep the windows shut and the curtains closed.

She picks up a skull lying on the cabinet and stares into its eyes.

“He made you kill, didn’t he?” I ask, swallowing.

She places the skull back and sits on the bed, staring at the floor like she’s seen ghosts talk.

I sit beside her and softly caress her hand, but she pulls it away.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

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