Page 11 of Never Say Die
“Didn’t seem sore last night,” he mumbled, and tugged the comforter away. “Nice shirt. Let me see.”
“Figured you’d let me borrow some clothes at the very fucking least.” Shay hissed through his teeth as he stripped the black tank away. An angry puncture wound split the skin to the left of his navel. Scabs lined the edges, but the gaping center shone red.
Aiden remembered the weight of the knife. Warm blood soaking his knuckles. Shay saying his name on a winded breath. He remembered that feeling—that awful, monumental, instantaneous grief. Remembered knowing in his depths that he would be haunted.Here he is,he thought. The haunting he’d begged for in the seconds, minutes, hours after. He hadn’t realized he’d reached forward until Shay snatched his wrist, halting his fingertips inches from the gash.
“I have band-aids with spaceships on them and a bottle of vodka,” Aiden said. He wrenched away, reminded of last night, being pinned against the wall in the kitchen, and Shay’s hands latched around his waist at the Ocean Grove trailhead. “There’s a sleeping bag in my closet. If you can handle Thomas, I’ll go grab some shit from the pharmacy.”
“You want me to put Thomas in a sleeping bag? That’s your plan?”
“It’s better than leaving him in the kitchen, Shay. I assumed you weren’t going back for seconds, but if you’d like to finish him off then be my guest.”
“You have zero self-preservation instincts. I killed a man in front of you last night and?—”
“And, what? I killedyouthe night before that. Let’s cut the shit. You want me dead? Do it.” Aiden’s heart pounded. Exhaustion ached behind his eyes. He’d done the impossible, made the impossible happen, watched the impossible sleep in his bed. So, yeah, if death was on the horizon, Aiden wouldn’t run. At least Shay would deal the final blow. Poetic justice, you know? Shakespeare bullshit.
Shay stayed silent, fierce eyes locked onto Aiden’s face.
Aiden stood. He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck and flicked through his phone, checking texts—none—his bank account—seventeen whole dollars.Great. He’d save a few bucks and walk to the pharmacy.
“Put your clothes in the sleeping bag with him, all right? I’ll be back in a bit. Just… just don’t leave. You should probably check in with your former bandmates,” Aiden said.
Shay rolled his eyes, scoffing.
Aiden sighed. “What now? What else could you possibly need besides some medical tape?—”
“My phone drowned with me,” Shay snapped. “So, explain what you mean byformer. Right now.”
“Chain Reaction’s summer tour is done. David Crystal checked into a wellness center yesterday and you. . .”
“Got kicked off a cliff.”
“Sure, yeah. Anyway, it’s over. Bid your fancy glam-metal career a bitter farewell.”
Shay flopped on his back and immediately clutched his stomach, cursing under his breath. “Damn, Aiden. You casted one hell of a spell.”
“It wasn’t a spell, asshole,” Aiden said.I’m not my goddamn sister.He grabbed his wallet off the counter, creeping over Thomas’s stiff legs.
“Is this what you asked for? Chain Reaction in shambles? Turning me into. . . into whatever the fuck you’ve turned me into? Did you get what you wanted?”
Stolen future.
Aiden yanked open the freezer and grabbed a palm-sized bottle of vodka. The cap clattered in the sink. He tipped the cold glass against his mouth and swallowed. Shay stared at the ceiling, one hand raked through his hair, the other drumming on his chest. Light shot through the blinds, streaking his fair torso. In a way, Aiden had gotten exactly what he’d asked for. His heart rioted at the thought.
“I might’ve,” Aiden braved. Shay opened his eyes but refused to meet his gaze. He stayed there, sprawled on Aiden’s bed, staring at the bumpy ceiling. “Knight’s Blood headlined lastnight. Jacob’s booking us for the rest of your tour stops.” He fished in the sink, screwed the vodka shut and tossed it onto the bed. “I can see it now. Breaking news from TMZ, Knight’s Blood lead singer Thomas Manko takes personal hiatus, leaving former front-man Shay Bennett to helm their reunion tour.”
Shay stayed deadly quiet. He felt across the comforter until his fingers hit the bottle.
“Don’t drink it all.” Aiden snatched his keys and made for the door. “The sleeping bag is on the top shelf.”
Aiden bought medical tape, knock-off painkillers, and antiseptic ointment. He shoved a bottle of peroxide down the front of his pants, stuffed packets of powdered bleach into his pockets, and left CVS with the manager’s eyes burning holes into his back. Four things occupied the forefront of his mind: Shay was back, alive but hurt, and for some ungodknown reason, he hadn’t killed Aiden when he’d had the chance. Thomas was dead and Aiden felt. . .nothing. It frightened him, that empty pit where sadness should’ve been, but his inclination toward grief was overshadowed by relief. And honestly? Thomas was a fucking douchebag anyway. Knight’s Blood had a tour to fill, a legacy to secure. Shay Bennett had ripped a man to pieces last night. He was hungry and monstrous, and stillShay, and they needed to understand what he’d become.
But first, the corpse in his apartment had to go.
On his way home, he bummed a cigarette from a skateboarder in the park, sucking on the filter while morning heatsettled over Los Angeles. As he rounded the corner in front of Papa’s Pizzeria, he blew out the last curls of smoke, flicked the butt into the gutter, and loped up the stairs.
“Oye! Moore, hey!” Enzo, one of the co-owners of the building, leaned around the brick wall, waving a spatula. “I get it, man, money’s tight. But if you don’t have cash for us by tomorrow, we’re cuttin’ you off. End of story.”
“Just waitin’ on a gig payment. Money should hit my account tonight,” he said, craning over the banister.
