Page 35 of Masked Mayhem

Without hesitation, she takes the blunt, clearly craving something to get her calm. I sneak another glance in the mirror, watching her full lips wrap around the end of the blunt—a brief, tantalizing thought shivers through me as I imagine those lips on me instead. She takes a few puffs, holding the smoke deep in her lungs before releasing a massive cloud that hangs thick in the car, slightly obscuring my view of the desolate road ahead.

“Where are we going?” she asks, tapping my shoulder as she passes the blunt to me. “It better not be some fucking place in the middle of the woods,” she snaps, her fear apparent. “I’d rather take my chances in the city where there are witnesses if things go wrong.”

“You have me and Crow to protect you. Nothing will happen to you, pretty girl,” I answer, trying to lighten the mood with my reassurance, though I’m not sure it has the intended effect.

“I still hate the fucking woods, Havoc,” she huffs, sinking back against the seat, her eyes still locked on the outside view.

I want to tell her that I understand—that ever since she was assaulted at a high school party, she’s avoided wooded areas like the plague. But I can’t. I can’t burden her with my guilt over our failure to protect her that night. In her mind, Raze and Hawk are still in California, and we’re just two guys she clicked with when she moved to Boston. Not even Lux or Donovan knows our real names. They’ve seen our faces maybe a handful of times but remain oblivious to our true identities. We can’t risk exposing who we are.

Why haven’t we come clean? Our reasons feel like a heavy weight, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

As the blunt makes its rounds and the SUV fills with smoke, we roll down the driveway of a secluded cabin deep in the heart of Massachusetts, each of us blissfully stoned and far more relaxed than we were an hour ago.

“Motherfucker,” Whitney says, punching the back of my seat. “I’m not staying here.”

I cut the engine, and Hawk hops out, grabbing our bags to unpack and to make the place feel more welcoming. Whitney, however, remains defiantly in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, a scowl adorning her stunning features. Knowing how to coax her out, I unbuckle my seatbelt and step outside, slamming the door behind me. I quickly open her door, reaching for her seatbelt, but she swats my hand away, refusing to budge.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn,” I growl, narrowing my eyes as I reach for her belt again.

Again, she slaps my hand away. In exasperation, I pull out my knife and flick it open, pressing the blade against her throat, my mask brushing against her nose. She freezes, yet her heartbeat remains steady—calm, unlike anyone else’s would be in this situation.

“You pull a fucking knife on me, Havoc, you’d better use it,” she whispers, leaning into the blade.

“Oh, I’m going to use it,” I threaten, making a small incision near her collarbone before guiding the knife down toward her seatbelt.

As tiny beads of blood well up and trickle down her skin, she shivers, but there’s a wild grin playing on her lips as I slice through the strap. Free from her restraints, I toss the knife aside and wrap my arm around her waist, lifting her from the car regardless of her protests. In one swift motion, I throw her over my shoulder, grab my knife back, and slam the door shut.

“Havoc, you can’t just pick me up when I said I wasn’t getting out,” she protests, hammering at my lower back in a futile attempt to be put down.

“Well, how come I just fucking did?” I shoot back, a sarcastic grin appearing as I give her a playful smack on her ass that echoes through the quiet night.

Once inside, I lock the door and set the alarm, tossing her onto the couch where Hawk is already cracking open a beer. He grins, reaching for another from beside him, handing it to me before offering one to Whitney. She snatches it from his hand with a huff as she sits up, twisting off the cap and downing it like it’s water.

“I know I don’t have a say in this, which is fucked up, but you two better stay sharp if I’m expected to spend time in the fucking woods,” she warns.

“Nothing will happen to you, Whitney, so just relax,” Hawk reassures her, pulling out a small glass bowl from his pocket.

“More weed?” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “How are you not passed out by now?”

Hawk chuckles, pinching some freshly ground weed and packing the bowl. “Shit doesn’t make me tired. Plus, smoking is literally all I’ve done since middle school.” He quickly realizes his slip, exchanging a glance with me that says he hopes she doesn’t connect the dots.

For a moment, silence envelops us as she seems to put the pieces together. I hold my breath, anxiety mounting, but she remains quiet.

“I used to smoke all the time, but it just doesn’t hit the same anymore,” she admits, reaching for the bowl as Hawk passes it to her. “Lately, though, it’s been working its magic, and I think I’ve needed it more than I realized.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Little Mischief. If the whole world took a puff every now and then, it would be a better place. Most people just need to chill the fuck out,” I reply, sweeping my gaze across the living room, ensuring the windows are closed and the security alarms are still activated.

As the room fills with smoke and the atmosphere eases into a vibe of relaxation, I collapse onto the couch beside Whitney. I can feel her gaze piercing the side of my masked face, and I know before she speaks what she’s going to ask. Despite wanting to reveal myself to her, I can’t. Just as she opens her mouth, I cover it with my hand, feeling her breath warm against my palm.

“Don’t even fucking ask,” I warn, sensing my emotions bubbling close to the surface.

Her brow arches in silent question, and the look she gives me pierces my fucking heart. Deep down, she seems to know the truth—she knows it’s me and Hawk—but for some unfathomable reason, she hasn’t confronted it yet.

The tension hums between us as the smoke wins its battle against our uncertainty, thickening the air with an atmosphere that’s both relaxed and chaotic at the same time. Whitney studies me, her eyes flickering between curiosity and defiance. I can tell she’s wrestling with the urge to demand the truth she senses lies just beneath the surface of my mask. I want nothing more than to tell her everything, to let her see the man behind the facade. But I can’t—there are too many risks involved, too much at stake.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” she finally says, pulling away from my hand and crossing her arms once more. “I didn’t want to know anyway. Just don’t expect me to be all comfortable and trust you two if you keep this shit up.”

The frustration in her voice cuts through me, sharper than the knife I used on her seatbelt. It’s because of that same frustration that I can’t let my guard down.

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