Page 11 of Begging for Mercy
Sam’s eyebrows hitch. “Yeah? How’d that go?”
Umm.
“He wants to kill me.”
Sam’s smile tightens. “Seriously, Mercy, no offense, but we need to work on your punch lines.”
“Seriously, Sam, I’m not joking.” I flick the triangle at him, hitting him square in the chest. Lowering my voice, I lean across the table so that no one but Sam can hear me. “I caught Reaper and his brother burying a body in the cemetery.” The memory resurfaces like a bad dream, the taste and grit of grave dirt on my tongue churning my stomach.
“Reaper? Like, theReaper?”
Our server interrupts to take our order, and we both say the same thing: a large vegetarian with extra parmesan packs. Oncethey’re gone, Sam sets his forearms on the table and leans across to whisper back. “I don’t believe you.”
I considered this outcome while Sam was at practice. I don’t need him to believe me so long as he tells me everything he knows or gets me in touch with someone within Reaper’s inner circle. Still, Sam’s disbelief hurts more than I anticipated. “Why not?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Am I not pretty enough to be his type?”
“You’re not stupid enough to be his type.” Narrowing his eyes, Sam scoffs. “Besides, isn’t it a little too ‘on the nose’ for a guy named Reaper to be a killer?”
“I know what I saw.” I clench my jaw and quickly decide to give Sam the full details. “He and his brother tried to kill me after I caught them burying a grave. Well, Zane tried, but Reaper stopped him. I’m not sure why. Trust me, I’ve spent all day thinking about it.” I take a sip of my water. “But it gets even weirder. They want to play some kind of fucked-up game. The loser dies by the winner’s hand.” A shiver rolls down my spine. “They gave me until Halloween next year to win the game.”
Sam sits completely still, his eyes searching mine. “You’re serious.”
“As the grave,” I say dryly.
“Not funny.”
“Kind of funny.”
“How do you win the game?”
This is where I lie. “I have to figure out who they are and why they kill people. Like a detective.” The ice in my glass rattles as it melts. “What do you know about Reaper’s brother Zane?”
“Hold on,” Sam interjects, holding his hands up. “Why don’t you just go to the police? You can’t play their game. The odds are stacked against you.” Counting off on his fingers, he lists all the reasons why the game is rigged. “They could lie about who they are. They could try to kill you before the deadline. Reaper’s likea ghost, Mercy; he’s in and out of the frat houses whenever he pleases, there one second and gone the next. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked in on him dicking someone down, then as soon as they’re finished, he disappears.” Sam crinkles his nose in disgust. “But anytime I’ve asked around—because he’s broken more than one virgin’s heart—I don’t get any answers.” He sighs and rubs his forehead. “The game is rigged. They want you to lose.”
I seal my lips tightly together. “I’m aware.”
“Then why play at all?” A muscle in his jaw tics. “We should go to the police. Let them handle it, Mercy.”
Instead of following that line of thinking, I backtrack. “What do you know about Zane?”
Sam chokes on his water. “Pleaselet this go.”
Interesting.
“Why are you avoiding the question?”
Our pizza arrives, but neither of us looks away from the other. Our server refills our drinks and retreats quickly, sensing the tension in the air.
“There are some things within Greek life that you should stay out of,” Sam says, choosing his words carefully. His gaze flicks over my shoulder for a moment before returning to me. We aren’t exactly in a private venue, so people are going to see us together. If he spills sacred fraternity secrets, there could be consequences.
I nudge his knee beneath the table, and he reaches under to keep me still. Grabbing my thigh over my knee, he squeezes, his fingertips slipping through the holes of my fishnets. His Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” A sharp pain tears through my heart, and I have to look away from Sam’s piercing stare. “Isn’t my life worth something?” My voice trembles, and I take a sip of water to cover.
Sam sees right through me, like he always does. “Hey,” he breathes, gently brushing his hand across my knee. “Of course it is. You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Part of grief counseling is coming to terms with your inner demons, and Sam had a front row seat when I first met mine. Depression is one fucked-up bitch. “Let’s eat, okay? We can talk about this later.” His gaze shifts behind me again, and he pulls his hand back.
“What’s wrong?” I glance at the plexiglass panel behind his head, but it’s not reflective enough for me to see what’s behind me.
“It’s nothing.” He splits the pizza in half and slides three huge slices onto his plate. “Don’t let the pizza get cold.” He turns the conversation to our families, classes, and plans after graduation. We’ve had these conversations before, so the familiarity is comforting, if not a little boring. It’s been a while since I’ve had a conversation that didn’t involve reading the latest obituaries in the newspaper and divining which family will contact us for funerary support. I’m a bit out of practice.
