Page 20 of Make Them Bleed
Here it is: the moment where truth claws at the back of my throat like a feral cat.Actually, Arrow, I met up with a Hoover-faced vigilante in a dark alley and I’m meeting him again to hunt real-life killers. Yeah, that will go over great.
I default to humor. “I’m fine. Just… uh, trying not to ugly-cry on Paul Hollywood’s handshake montage.”
Arrow’s brow lifts, unconvinced, but he lets it drop. “Fair. Hollywood tears are sacred.”
We lapse into silence again. The bakers scramble; flour flies; someone’s Swiss roll implodes. My phone buzzes on the coffee table, screen lighting up the dark room. Arrow’s focus flicks to it, then back to me—polite, but curious. I flip it over face-down, heart thudding.
The vibration keeps going—three short pulses. Hoover’s encrypted channel. Of course.
Arrow raises an eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“Spam.” I choke on the lie. “Apparently my car’s warranty is expiring.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“Right. So clearly a scam.”
He watches me for a beat longer than comfortable, then nods. “Block and report. Scammers eat drywall.”
My laugh comes out brittle. I excuse myself to the bathroom, phone death-gripped in my hand. Once the door’s locked, I check the message:
HOOVER: Double checking we’re still on for tonight. Midnight.
Midnight. That’s less than three hours from now. I exhale through my nose, anxiety crackling. Arrow and I usually marathon until at least one a.m. He’ll notice if I vanish.
I text back:
Yes. I’ll be there.
Knuckles rap softly on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?” Arrow’s voice, playful concern threaded with something warmer.
“Just reapplying lip balm!” I call.
“Okay, but if you’ve fallen in and need rescue, let me know.”
I smile despite myself, pocket the phone, splash water on my face, and step out. Arrow’s standing in the hall, arms folded. The hallway lamp halos his hair and I lose a second to the sudden urge to run my hands through it.
He tilts his head. “You sure you’re not getting sick? You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale.” I brush past him toward the living room. “Uptown vampires keep poaching my SPF.”
He chuckles, follows, and drops onto the sofa. As I sit, he angles his body toward me, knee brushing mine. Tiny electric jolt. I resist yanking my leg away.
“So,” he says, “Netflix has given up recommending new shows. Want to bail on the tent bakers and watch something else?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
He scrolls, thumb hovering. “There’s a new docuseries on cult infiltration. Lots of hidden mics, night-vision—your jam.”
“Oh, you know how to romance a girl.” The words tumble out before I can leash them. Heat rushes my cheeks. “I mean?—”
Arrow’s grin turns lopsided, disarming. “If I were romancing you, Juno Kate, you’d know.”
My breath hitches. There’s a depth to his tone—teasing, yet edged with sincerity—that makes my pulse trip. Does he mean that? Does he know I want him to?
I clear my throat. “Speaking of romance…my podcast listeners keep asking when Final Girl Frequency will return. You think people still care about my rambles?”
“Are you kidding? You left them on a cliff-hanger about the Garden State Axeman. True-crime nerds are frothing. You should go back when you’re ready. Your voice matters.”
