Page 3 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He follows me up the front steps and as I reach for the door, he grabs my shoulder and pulls me back to face him.

“You’re not alone, you dumb shit,” he says in a softer tone than before. “But if you keep pushing everyone away, eventually there’s not gonna be anyone there to catch you when you fall.”

I stare at him, the sincerity in his eyes throwing me off balance. Killian might be a sociopath, but he’s also the only one who has ever given a shit about me, and I hate how much I need him for that.

“Yeah well,” I say uncomfortably, shrugging him off. “Maybe I don’t deserve to be caught.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. “You’re fucking exhausting, you know that?”

I manage a smirk even though it feels like my chest is split wide open. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything to this and just pushes past me into the house, and I can do nothing else but follow him.

Damon

23 Years Old / BFA Visual Arts

RomanBishopisacrossthe bar, bleeding and grinning like he’s proud of it and I can’t decide if I want to end him now or watch the show.

He’s wearing a crazed smile as he takes the punch from the guy I know he could probably kill with his fists alone. The blood from his split lip trails down his chin and I can’t help but follow it with my eyes.

Then he licks at his split lip and I notice the venom piercing, something he definitely did not have two years ago. The guy is gearing up to take another swing, but Roman just smirks at him like he’s daring him to do it.

Typical. Roman fucking Bishop, one of Blackthorne U’s star forwards, and the sole fucking reason my life turned to shit.

I tip the whiskey back and it burns all the way down. Lighting my smoke, I adjust the collar of the leather jacket that doesn’t belong to me. It still smells like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, just like my baby brother. Just like the past that I can’t seem to fucking bury.

Roman’s hazel eyes finally flick toward me, and I swear I see his mask slip before he forces it back into place and licks the blood from his lips again. He’s playing a fucking game he doesn’t even know he’s already lost.

“Another?” the bartender asks and I shake my head.

“Not yet,” I answer because I don’t need another drink. I just need him to see me and remember. And then, when the moment is right, to break.

I swirl the ice around in my empty glass, the nicotine doing fuck all to calm me down. I’m waiting patiently for someone to walk in and ruin the show, and as if on cue, Killian King walks into the bar.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and polished enough to look like he belongs at a country club, not a dive. But I know better. Everyone thinks he’s the calm to Roman’s chaos, but they don’t see what’s underneath.

Roman might be the wrecking ball, but Killian is the kind of guy who knows exactly where to place the bomb to make the whole building collapse.

Killian’s eyes scan the crowd and lock on Roman. They narrow when he sees the blood and the guy Roman is letting beat the shit out of him. He doesn’t hesitate to cut through the crowd to get to his friend. Roman doesn’t just look like he’s used to Killian’s shit—he looks like he needs it.

I should be gone already, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the sight. I was just supposed to be here to get a read on the fuckhead, and then leave before anyone noticed me.

I turn and know the show is over, so I kill my smoke and slip out the back door. The alley smells like piss and stale beer, the kind of place where regrets fester. My R7 is parked at the edge of the lot, the black paint gleaming in the flickering light of the lamppost above.

Fuck, I shouldn’t have come here. The bar, the campus, any of it. But I did.

And now Roman Bishop is back in my life, bleeding and laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like his hands aren’t stained with the same shit I’ve been drowning in for years.

I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the curls like it’ll somehow clear my head, but it doesn’t. Nothing does anymore. I know that revenge won’t fix anything, but it’ll at least quiet the demons in my head.

For a while, anyway.

I reach my bike and pull the helmet off the handlebar. The leather jacket feels suffocating, as if my brother’s ghost is sitting on my shoulders whispering shit I don’t want to hear. He’d tell me to let this go, to move on and live my life.

But I’m not him. The only good Ward died when he did. The rest of us are all fuckups, but at least I can do this for him, even if he doesn’t want it. Even if it is his best friend.

The engine roars to life, loud enough to drown out the thoughts trying to penetrate the back of my skull. I twist the throttle and take off down the empty street toward what will be my home for the next year.

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