Page 37 of Psycho Boys

"We stay and fight," Killian says, his voice firm. "I'm fucking tired of running and hiding."

"Me too," I mutter, lighting the bowl. The taste of stale weed lingered on my lips as I exhale, watching the smoke drift between us.

"It won't be long before someone comes looking. And when they do, will we be ready?" Ash asks, his eyes fixed on Calista, who again seems lost in her own world.

"I'm always ready for a fight. Let them come," she says, rising and walking to the front door, her mask clutched in her hand.

"Where the hell are you going?" Ash snaps, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with worry.

"Out. Don't fucking worry, I can handle myself." She grins, placing the mask atop her head.

"The fuck you are," Ash retorts, rising and grabbing his own mask. "I'm fucking coming with you, like it or not."

Five put his head in his hands and curses under his breath, loud enough for us to hear. He's angry, but more afraid than anything. I can sense his feelings for Calista, mirroring the feelings the rest of us harbor. Whether she feels the same remains a question, but I understand his feelings completely.

I don’t like her willingness to venture out in public after everything that has happened. But that's Calista—strong-willed and determined to reclaim her life, and when she sets her mind to something, there's no fucking changing it.

Killian rises, his movements fluid and silent, and joins Calista at the door. He doesn't speak, but his presence beside her is a silent promise of support. Five, still wrestling with his anxiety, remains seated, his gaze darting nervously between the door and the window. Ash, his earlier playfulness gone, follows Calista and Killian, his hand hovering near the hidden knife strapped to his thigh.

I watch them go, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. This isn't a calculated move; it's a reckless act of defiance, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need for control. But a small, terrified part of me understands. After everything we've endured—the constant running, the ever-present fear, the suffocating weight of it all—the urge to fight back, to confront our pursuers head-on, is almost overwhelming.

Once Ash and Calista leave, Killian sits back down, pulling out a rolled-up bill and sniffing a line of coke off the coffee table like old times. The silence in the apartment is deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of the building. I take another hit from the pipe, the weed offering little comfort. My leg throbs, a dull, persistent ache mirroring the unease in my heart. Five finally looks up, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

"What if they're waiting for them?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

I shrug, unable to offer reassurance. We're all playing a dangerous game—a game with stakes far higher than any of us care to admit. The comforting familiarity of our apartment has been shattered, replaced by a chilling sense of vulnerability. We're trapped, not by physical barriers but by the weight of our past and the uncertainty of our future.

The scratching sound from outside, branches scraping against the windows, echoes in my mind, a constant reminder that we're not alone and that someone—or something—is watching, fucking waiting for us to make one wrong move. But the question is, who will be the one to strike first?

FOURTEEN

PANIC

ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE: NEW FOUND GLORY

CALISTA

Addy's incessant chatter since our return to Boston has become unbearable. Her voice grates on my nerves, leaving me begging for silence, desperate for respite. Her words increasingly mirror my mother's, triggering a deep unease. I've tried ignoring her, but the resulting silence feels agonizing—a huge difference to the ease of normal conversation. The defenses I've carefully built around my heart are slowly crumbling, my resolve weakening. Anxiety, panic, and fear surge within me, threatening to overwhelm the fragile composure I've maintained.

I shouldn't confide in the imaginary friend I created to cope with past trauma, but she's been my companion since I was thirteen. After ten years, severing that bond feels impossible yet necessary. I need to quiet the fucking voices in my head, but shit, I don't fucking know how. Sometimes they're my only solace, and they've saved my life more than once. How can I abandon them?

A single raindrop traces a cold path down my neck, sending a shiver through me. I grip Ash's hand tighter as we walk, a shared apprehension and silent understanding palpable between us. Approaching my parents' house intensifies my anxiety. The carefully constructed shield I've built against their manipulation and abuse threatens to shatter. I feel myself unraveling, and I have no fucking idea to stop it.

I know my parents can't physically harm me—not now, at least. But the fear spreads like wildfire. My throat constricts, my pulse races as my feet fall on the familiar blacktop of the driveway. I'm here. Again.

"Hey, you'll be alright, Cali. I'm here, and I won't let anything happen to you," Ash reassures me, his eyes twinkling briefly in the moonlight before his mask obscures his beautiful face, revealing glowing red eyes and a mouth.

"I know," I sigh, struggling to articulate my feelings. "I can't explain it, but you don't need to worry," I assure him, adjusting my own mask as we walk down the long driveway, trying to ignore the panic constricting my throat.

"What's your plan?" Ash asks, sensing my purpose.

"I want to watch them—my parents, Gunnar, and their associates. I need to understand their movements. And I want Gunnar to know he should have fucking finished the job when he had the chance." A grim smile touches my lips. The thought of confronting them brings a measure of calm. "He should have killed me then—instead of fucking with me—because now, I'll make his death fucking excruciating—he'll receive absolutely no fucking mercy."

"That's my girl," Ash growls, his voice low and husky. His touch sends shivers down my spine as he pulls me close against the old iron fence, hidden from the security cameras. He lifts me effortlessly, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Hespins me, pressing me against the cold iron bars, a sharp pain shooting down my spine before fading to numbness.

"I love you, Cali, but baby, I love it when the Little Psycho in you comes out to play." He removes his mask, impatiently taking mine off as well.

I anticipate what's coming—the thought itself igniting a desire—to possess him here, against the fence, within sight of the cameras, to let my parents and Gunnar witness our intimacy, a defiant act against their control.

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