Page 24 of Masked Mayhem

Settling onto my bike, I swap my mask for my helmet and watch as Hawk approaches on his bike. The others took off, eager to distance themselves from the turmoil. I don’t blame them. In the shadows near the back door, Red and 13 stand unfazed with bullets having peppered the frame, their calm demeanor raising my suspicion once more. Hawk pulls up next to me, dragging his feet to stabilize his stillness, and lifts his visor, inquiring with a look.

"What's up, bud?" he calls over the low thrum of our engines.

"Not much. Where are you headed?" I ask, secretly hoping he’ll choose to do his own thing tonight.

"I'm heading to meet a few guys at a bar down the road, just to play it safe. You want to join?"

I shake my head, relief flooding me at his response. "Nah, I’m going to call it a night. I’ll see you back home."

He nods, lowers his visor, and speeds off, kicking up dust and debris with his back tire. Once he vanishes from sight, I glare back at Red, wanting nothing more than to wipe that cocky grin off his fucking face. But I have other plans, more important than dealing with his ass.

I rev my bike and feel the warm end-of-summer air envelop me, reminiscent of a safety net I could have used an hour ago. I let the music blare through my helmet, zoning out as I navigate through the city, leaving the vibrant nightlife behind as I head toward the familiar darkness where I truly feel at home. Despite my desire to see Whitney, I resist the urge, opting instead to ride aimlessly, grappling with the reality of how close we had come to our fucking deaths.

This was the life I had embraced—the family I had always yearned for, the brothers I never had, the love that felt ripped from the pages of a fairy tale. Nothing worth having comes free; all that you desire comes at a fucking cost. Being part of Masked Mayhem is no game—it’s a matter of life and death, demanding a readiness to sacrifice for your family. Tonight, that harsh reality had brushed ever so closely to us.

After an hour of riding, my legs numb from the relentless vibration, I park outside Whitney’s apartment, choosing a secluded spot at the back. Donning my mask, I approach the rear door, inhaling the crisp, refreshing air to steady myself. Once inside, my composure will likely shatter.

Whitney had an unparalleled impact on me, stirring emotions I couldn't articulate. There was a primal urge to protect her, mingled with an intense desire to possess her—all the while, history tethered our souls together. Our childhood had forged a bond, one forged in horrific trauma that no child should endure. We leaned on one another—Hawk, Whitney, and I. When she began dating and could no longer see us, it fucking devastated me in ways she could never comprehend. I spiraled, falling prey to vices that nearly consumed me entirely. I fled to Boston, realizing that staying in Cali would lead to my demise or incarceration. Back then, Hawk and I lacked the structure and guidance we have now; our lives, like now, were marked by instability.

Ascending the seldom-used back stairs to the third floor, I keep my head down and my hood up, evading the watchful gaze of the camera. With each step, my gun presses against my hip and my knife grazes my ankle inside its sheath—a constant reminder of the danger that accompanies my lifestyle, a thrill I fucking relish.

The real question remained: would Whitney accept me when she learned the depths of my darkness? When she finds out who I really am? The only way to know was to enter her world again.

Using the spare key she's unaware I have, I slip into her apartment and quietly lock the door behind me. Navigating past Boston’s unusually dark and eerily quiet room, I brush it aside, focusing on the reason I'm here. Whitney’s door is ajar, just wide enough for me to peek inside and witness her peacefully sleeping, music softly emanating from the speakers—a comforting echo from our childhood. It makes me smile, knowing some things never change.

I push the door open and step inside, closing it behind me. I turn the music up slightly, remove my boots, and toss my hoodie onto the window seat. The light thud stirs her from her dreams. I sit at the edge of her bed, beside her head, slowly twirling her hair with my knife while I watch her.

She's fucking perfect.

As if sensing my gaze, Whitney suddenly wakes up from her sleep, yanking her hand out from under her pillow, clutching a knife, and swinging her arm quickly—my bicep ignites in pain as her knife slices through flesh. She bolts upright, gripping the knife as if it were a lifeline, clearly poised to defend herself. Something must have happened to her recently if she feels the need to sleep with a knife under her pillow; that isn't like her.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she blinks a few times, attempting to grasp reality. The sight of my masked figure startles her, and instead of relaxing, she scoots towards the headboard, raising the knife defensively.

"Who are you, and how did you get in here?" she demands, her voice tinged with apprehension.

“Fucking relax, Little Mischief, it’s me, Havoc,” I growl, noticing the blood soaking through my sleeve from the cut she gave me.

“Havoc?” She repeats, blinking in disbelief, reaching for the lamp beside her bed.

“Yes, but please don’t fucking turn on the light,” I snap, my mood darkening quicker than I anticipated.

Though she still holds the knife tightly, she lowers it a fraction, her posture softening. A sigh slips from her lips, sending a rush of heat coursing through my veins, igniting a fire within me.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice softening as she stifles a yawn, rubbing her eyes.

“Do I need a damn reason to see you?” I shoot back, frustration bubbling to the surface as all the blood in my body rushes to my cock and makes it instantly hard.

Her startled expression tells me she didn’t expect my tone. I refuse to apologize; after the chaotic night we had, she should know my fucking state of mind. Yet Whitney is unpredictable—a whirlwind of emotions, much like me.

“Are you okay?” she asks, sweet concern coloring her words.

“What kind of fucking question is that?” I sneer, pacing by her bedside. “No, I’m fucking not okay, Whitney. That’s why I’m here. I need you to make me feel better.”

Her brow furrows in confusion as worry etches her features. She sets the knife down, and in an impulsive moment, I lunge toward her, pressing my knife against her throat.

“Havoc, wh... what are you doing?” She breathes, panic washing over her.

“You fucking cut me and drew blood, Little Mischief; I think it’s only fair I get my turn,” I rasp.

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