Page 28 of Make Them Bleed
My pulse spikes. I release her hand only to slide two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up. The mask’s rigid lips hover an inch from hers. “Then I keep pace.”
She exhales a shaky laugh—half arousal, half disbelief. “You talk big for a guy hiding behind a dead president.”
“Dead presidents have secrets,” I whisper. “But they still hold power.”
Her eyes search the black eyeholes. “Show me yours.”
I freeze—temptation a live wire. One pull and this entire ruse shreds. I could lift the mask an inch, let her see my mouth, prove I’m flesh and not phantom. But the cost—trust broken, plan imploded—flashes like hazard lights.
Instead I dip my head till plastic lips graze the corner of her mouth, a feather-light nudge. She gasps, hands fisting in my hoodie. Latex squeaks; the kiss isn’t a kiss, but the spark it detonates is real.
I straighten—only a beat, but long enough for her eyes to glaze. “Eat,” I order softly. “Then we hunt.”
She blinks, cheeks blazing, tries for a smirk and fails. “Bossy.”
“Efficient.” I sit, pretending to focus on lo mein, though my heartbeat rattles the modulator.
We finish dinner in charged quiet. Every rustle of chopsticks feels like foreplay. She keeps sneaking glances at the mask. I keep replaying the near-kiss until the plastic smells vaguely of her strawberry lip balm.
At last she clears her throat. “Ready to dive back in?”
“Let’s torch a corporation,” I agree, voice steady only because the mask holds it in place.
We return to the monitors—HOLO-BURST brass plastered on the left, Mystery Man blank sheet dead center. But the war room hums differently now, as if charged by the static still crackling between us.
She scrolls as I code. Outside, river fog curls against dirty windows, hiding us from anyone who might look in. Inside, Herbert Hoover’s rubber face watches Juno Kate with hungry eyes she can’t see, and Arrow Finn—the man she trusts, the friend who loves her—realizes he might be one heartbeat away from becoming the very phantom she’s longing for.
13
Juno
I wake to Morse-code knocking and the rich, roasted smell of salvation.
Coffee. Arrow. Thursday.
Except my brain is still tangled in last night’s almost-kiss with a rubber Hoover mouth, so it takes me a full five seconds to remember that Arrow Finn—real, warm, boy-next-door Arrow—always shows up with caffeine on weekday mornings. Ritual. Comfort. Totally platonic.
I yank the apartment door open in yesterday’s sweatshirt and one sock. Arrow stands there in jeans and that soft charcoal henley that clings to his forearms like a sin. He’s holding two lidded cups from the Bean Flicker and wearing a crooked smile that could power small cities. A small Amazon box sits at his feet like an obedient dog.
“Morning, Junebug.” He holds out my order—oat-milk cold brew with a shot of cinnamon syrup—then arches a brow. “Rough night?”
More like rough fantasies of an anonymous vigilante who touches my wrist like it’s breakable glass. “Late editing,” I lie, clutching the cup as if temperature shock might reset my brain.
Arrow’s gaze drifts to the package. “Doorstep fairy came early. You expecting something fun?”
Panic flares. I toe the box inside and shut the door behind him. “Just podcast props.”
He makes ashow megesture, fingers wiggling. I cave, tearing open the cardboard to reveal the glossy Ghostface mask and a tiny voice-modulator shaped like a cassette tape.
Arrow whistles low. “Planning to reenact an entire slasher?”
“Visually enhancing my brand,” I say, which technically isn’t a lie—my brand is currently murder-adjacent chaos. I fish out the mask, its empty black eyeholes staring back and screamingbetrayal.
Arrow takes the modulator, turning it over. “You know these cheap ones squeal feedback like a demonic hamster, right?”
I shrug, trying for breezy. “Atmosphere.”
His eyes search my face—too perceptive. “What’s really going on, Juno?”
