Page 89 of The Blood we Crave

Dead because I’m wearing a seventeen-thousand-dollar Rolex that is more likely to be stolen than wrong with the time. So that meant Lyra was already twenty minutes late.

They told me she would be fine. That this plan would not fail. She would gather entail and meet us scratch free. Yet, I’d only seen her once during the chaos of circus themed costumes and juggling acrobats. When she was tucked away behind a food stand while Easton preened to a group of accolades who looked extremely unimpressed by whatever he was saying.

But that had been it. A whisper of her curls, a glimpse of her dark sweater. All the texts I’d sent had been left unread. I’d been thoroughly ignored all day and now she was late.

“Checking your watch won’t change anything,” Rook mutters across from me where he leans against his bike. “Give her a minute, Thatcher. Maybe she thought we said nine thirty.”

My arms stay crossed in front of my chest, my back resting against the driver’s side of my door. I can feel how deadly my glare is as soon as it lands on him. Lyra wouldn’t mix up times, she wouldn’t do that. We agreed on nine, campus parking, lot B. If everything was fine, she would be here.

“You told Sage about your plan?” I ask with a tilt of my head. “Does she know you set her friend to play spy on her vindictive ex-fiancé?”

The color drains from his face. Whatever smart remark waiting on his tongue dies. It’s replaced with a vicious rage. At just the thought of putting his precious little Sage in danger or anywhere close to Easton Sinclair.

“You shut your fucking snobbish mouth or I’ll make you swallow your teeth, Pierson.” He pushes off the bike, standing straight. “We agreed to tell them after tonight, it’s a test run. There is no need to freak Sage out over something that might not even work.”

Alistair puts a reassuring hand on Rook’s shoulder, trying to keep him levelheaded so that we don’t have a brawl in the middle of the campus parking lot, but I couldn’t care less.

It might actually be a pleasant distraction from my wandering mind. One that can’t seem to let go of the idea that Lyra is in trouble, and we are standing her doing nothing.

“Go on,” I nod towards Alistair. “Release your dog from its chain. I have a rabies shot.”

“Get fucked asshole.” Rook grumbles.

My fingers tap our message thread, pulling up Lyra’s contact and calling her. Just like it did for the first three times, it only rings until it reaches the sound of her voicemail. Glancing down at my watch as I listen to her voice.

“Hey! This is Lyra, sorry I missed your call. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

She must have made that when she was in a good mood. Her voice has a lightness to it that only comes out when she’s surrounded by the people she cares about or talking about her passions.

My gut tightens and a feeling of knowing settles inside. A sensation that tells me that this brief experiment has cost Lyra her life, at the very least one of her limbs.

“I never agreed to those terms. You and Alistair did. Assuring yourself that lying to your doting girlfriends was the best way to keep them safe.” I say with a flick of my wrist and a patronizing voice, dripping with disdain and sarcasm.

“Thatcher I swear—”

The sound of tires rubbing against the pavement catches our attention elsewhere. I’m hoping to see Lyra’s older model vehicle. But unfortunately for literally everyone, it’s not.

Easton Sinclair’s freshly wrapped McLaren pulls into the parking lot. Pulling into the spot just next to mine. I look over my shoulder as he slides out of the driver’s seat, no bimbo girlfriend or meathead friends at his back call. Just him.

“Late night, Sinclair?” I ask, over my shoulder.

He lifts his gaze to mine, a streak of white-hot fear blazing across his face. It’s not often that I’m the one in his business, approaching him, having my sights on him as a target. But he quickly remembers the role he plays, the macho man and easily schools his features.

Stephen, his father, would be so proud.

No matter how many skin grafts his plastic surgeon did, Easton still wore a brutal scar to the left side of his face. It had been mutilated, healed with time, but the skin discolorations and lines of tissue covered from his jaw to upper cheek.

It was gory, but there was no one who deserved to wear it more.

“Been a while, boys.” Easton looks over my shoulder, eyes slitting when he sees Rook behind me. “How’s Sage, Van Doren? Does she still taste as good as I remember?”

I feel the steam that pours from Rook’s shoulders. It’s a bold move from Easton, considering my pyromaniac friend has been chomping at the bit for a chance to roast him on a spit.

Sage will always remain a sore sport between the two of them. Whether it’s the ownership Easton feels for the strawberry blonde or some form of love, it will be a long time before he lets go of her. It’ll be an even longer time before Rook ever lets her go.

“I’m not sure, do you still remember what the exhaust of my bike tastes like? Or do you need a reminder?” Rook tosses his head towards the bike, beckoning for trouble.

Easton runs his fingers along the side of his scar. “Lay a finger on me and I’ll make sure Sage is the one to pay for it.”

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