Page 1 of Unmasking Mayhem
betrayed by the truth
where we left off…
Whitney
Noxious: Vana
Given everything that's been happening lately, King and D still refuse to let me go anywhere alone. Even though my stalker hasn't made any recent attempts to approach me, he continues to send messages to the burner phone Havoc gave me. It leaves me wondering how he got that number in the first place. It's draining to constantly look over my fucking shoulder with every move I make, but I know it's necessary.
So, when I'm not spending the night with Boston, I'm with Havoc or Crow, or sometimes both, or even Red and 13. I'm never alone, and they do an incredible job of keeping me safe.
But it makes me feel so small. I despise feeling like a damsel in distress, as if my needs take precedence over everyone else's—because they shouldn't. I resent the special treatment, even though I understand it's warranted. It often breeds jealousy and haters who whisper behind my back because they lack the courage to confront me directly. I'm talking about the dancers atthe club; some have taken to bullying, thinking it's acceptable to speak ill of me, even when I'm within earshot.
I've never been one to bond easily with other women; I’ve never understood the gossip or jealousy. It baffles me why there aren’t more women lifting each other up instead of tearing each other down. That’s why I treasure my friendship with Boston. She’s the only one I’ve allowed to get close, the only one I’ve opened up to and trusted, and the only woman I genuinely respect.
As I lay on the couch in our living room, with Red and 13 stationed outside the front door, Boston emerges from her room holding a bong packed with bright green herb speckled with purple. The aroma is intoxicating.
“Wanna smoke before I head out?” she asks, waving the silicone bong enticingly, drawing my attention away from the reruns of Cribs blaring on MTV.
“Um, always,” I laugh, propping myself up and reaching for the bong in her outstretched hand.
The first hit fills my lungs, and the cough that follows reverberates through the living room, leaving me drooling as I struggle to regain my breath. The anxiety weighing in my gut slowly fades, and the negative thoughts that plagued my mind drift away, replaced by a smile.
“How have you been doing lately?” she asks, genuine concern etched on her face.
“Some days are a struggle,” I admit, watching the smoke curl and swirl toward the ceiling. “But I’m trying to push it behind me, even though my stalker is still out there.”
A shiver runs through me at the thought, and I keep the latest series of threatening messages to myself, not wanting to burden the group any more than they already are. King and D have a club to run and their own little secret society, and the more I distract them with my problems, the more they neglectwhat truly matters. I feel like a fucking burden, and I’m tired of carrying that weight.
I take another large hit from the bong, feeling my lips tingle as I hold the smoke in until it becomes too much, unleashing a fit of coughs.
“Well, that’s why you’ve got bodyguards. Nothing is going to happen to you, Whitney. We’ll all make sure of it,” she reassures me, pulling me into a hug that offers a pinch of comfort.
I respond with a smile, opening myself up to her warmth, and breathing a sigh of relief for the first time in a while. Once the bong is cashed, Boston heads back to her room to pack an overnight bag, leaving me alone on the couch with the two guards outside. Just to be sure, I tiptoe over and peek through the peephole, confirming they’re still there.
As I stroll back to the living room after stopping in the kitchen for a bag of chips and a beer, my phone, nestled in my back pocket, vibrates with an incoming message. My nerves spike with every message, and the weed I just smoked amplifies the paranoia that surges in my gut. Standing at the balcony glass door overlooking the city, I suck in a deep breath and pull up the message, my blood running cold with every word.
*I see the cops you have guarding your door, Whitney. But don’t get it fucking twisted; I’ve got no problem killing cops to get what I fucking want.*
Confusion clouds my mind as I reread the message. Why does he think Cade and Carter are cops? I’m likely focusing on the wrong thing, but the whole cop thing bothers me. Before I can fully process it, another message arrives, doing more damage to my nerves than the first.
*You didn’t know they were cops, did you? I did, because I’ve seen them in action, and if you think they’re there to fucking protect you, think again. They’ve suddenly become present tobuild cases against all of you... you were always such a gullible little whore.*
Rage courses through me, and I turn off my phone, not caring if anyone can reach me for the rest of the night. The cryptic texts torment my mind, jeopardizing my mental health with each delivery. After powering down my phone, I leave it on the coffee table, deciding to escape outside for some fresh air without being shadowed.
Sitting on the balcony, I can’t shake the unsettling texts from my mind. Are Cade and Carter really cops? I know there were rumors about them at the club, but they seemed to die down after Johnny's death.
“Why is your phone off?” Cade’s sudden, deep voice nearly makes my heart leap from my chest, startling me.
“Because I didn’t want to be bothered tonight,” I retort, glaring at him, his face unmasked this evening.
“What’s that look for?” He asks, a hint of suspicion flickering in his eyes, only making me more anxious.
“I’m only going to ask you one time, Cade, and you better fucking tell me the truth,” I warn, standing tall to face him, a subtle challenge to show him I’m not afraid.
“Ask away, Little Mischief,” he encourages, a twisted smile creeping across his lips.
“Are you and Carter cops?” I blurt out, cutting straight to the point.
