Page 99 of The Lies We Steal

Shaking my head, “I don’t smoke, thanks though.”

“The only thing we seem to have in common.” Thatcher adds.

“You don’t smoke?” Lyra asked Thatcher, making conversation with the wolf in sheep’s clothing as if he wasn’t the scary kind of handsome that all successful serial killers had.

He looked over at her, tilting his head as if admiring a child so I automatically leaned closer to her. Feeling the need to protect her from him.

“I don’t believe in killing yourself slowly, Lyra, darling. If you’re going to do it, I say,” He runs his thumb across his throat, licking his canine teeth because the thought of blood probably made him hungry.“Do it quickly.”

“Like father like son I guess,” I say with a razor-sharp tone.

He moves his eyes off her, cutting them in my direction. Like it kills him to pull his attention from her. All of them had a different soft spot, something that sent them over the edge and Thatcher’s was his dad.

An icy glare slices through my hardened exterior and for a split moment I think he might kill me. My blood runs cold as his lips turn up into a vicious smile that rivaled Heath Ledger’s in the Dark Knight.

He struck fear in me because of what I knew he was capable of outside the gates of Hollow Heights. He’d graduate from here, inherit a company, marry a dull, pretty woman, and have three kids. He would live an essentially normal life, wealthy friends, golf on Saturday, and brunch on Sunday. Except at night, in his basement where his wife thinks he’s working on small projects, he’ll be torturing innocent people. He will never be suspected, the man everyone adored, but he has a vile personality trait.

They won’t ever catch him either. Because he’s stunning but twice as bright.

“No, sweets. My father didn’t have a type, he just wanted to end as many female lives as possible. Ya know, mommy issues and all.” He jokes.

He leans towards me, his face close to mine. My heart pounds into my chest, over and over again, he elevates his index finger to wrap around a strand of my golden hair. The urge to vomit hits me hard.

“I prefer dark hair, and I like to take my time with them. Bleed them slowly, cut them up. The dismemberment just,” He inhales deeply, shivering as he does, “gets me going.”

I can smell his oaky scent at this distance, like the forest after it rains.

His eyes darken and he has wound my hair around his finger so tight it’s starting to pull at the roots of my scalp.

“I’ll look over your tasteless, moronic comments because Alistair likes handling you himself and he's made it very clear no one else can touch you, but if you get in my way, I'll kill you and dye your hair after.”

Revving of bike engines drowns out the sound of anything else as he leans back into his seat, my throat dries with anxiety. It took all the strength in my muscles to swallow. It would seem Thatcher was over our banter, I’d crossed one too many lines with him.

I turn back around to face the track, uncomfortable with having him behind me. I had no idea what he could be doing back there. Planning to cut my hair with scissors, slice my back up.

“Van Doren better not lose. I have hella money on that fucker.” Some guy in front of us complains to his girlfriend, and I look harder towards the racer’s lining up.

Both of them are sitting on top of sport bikes, their feet planted firmly on the ground on either side as they wait for their green light. I recognize Rook’s black on black bike almost immediately. I hear it pulling into the school parking lot most mornings when I’m sitting in class, turning my head and looking out the window to see him arriving late.

“How does he even see out of that thing?” Lyra asks me, taking in his appearance of black jeans, black hoodie with orange flames drawn on the sleeves. His helmet is matte, the face shield reflects in the night, and I’m not sure any light is even allowed through that visor.

“Luck?” I answer, unsure myself.

The Christmas tree shaped light that dangles between them begin blinking from red, to yellow, I hold my breath a little as I watch Rook rotate his wrists to rev his engine, the sound making my ear drums buzz.

When the light drops to green, he releases his clutch propelling him forward at an insanely quick speed, both feet coming up to rest on the pedals as his tires eat the pavement beneath.

The whining of the motor blends perfectly with everyone’s cheers, and as my eyes begin to follow him around the track I catch the sight of a large skull tattoo on someone’s back in the middle of the stadium.

Standing in the grassy center, where fights had taken place all night is Alistair. A small circle of people gathered around him and his opponent. I take in his shirtless stature, the way his muscles tensed with every breath and sweat made him glisten in the night.

My attention had shifted completely from Rook to him.

Even as I heard the bikes whizzing around and around in circles creating this tornado effect in my mind.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from him. There was something electrifying about watching him.

Alistair’s opponent towered over him in both height and weight. A man with tree trunks as arms and buildings as legs, the difference in bodies seemed unfair to me. One punch to the face and Alistair would have his jaw shattered.

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