Page 77 of Never Say Die
“To kill me?”
Shay worried his lip with a fang. “Does it matter?”
Aiden didn’t need an answer. He knew the truth, anyway. That Shay had tried to be like him—murderous, vengeful, power-hungry—and that he’d been too good, even at his worst, to become anything like Aiden. “I can feel her, somehow. I know it’s crazy, but…” He gestured to his upper half. “This isn’t you and it isn’t me. So, it’s her. What’d Kelly call it? Tied, tethered?”
“Tethered.” Shay gave him a slow once over. “Did you feel me?”
“After the. . . ? No, I just felt empty.”Me, without you, he thought.What a fucking mess.
Shay went still for too long, searching his face. He set his knuckles against Aiden’s cheek, then his forehead. “We’ll cutrehearsal short. Head back to the hotel, eat something, get some rest?—”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.” He lifted his shirt again, peering at blush-colored scratches. Pain remained, steadily aching in each raised track, but no new marks surfaced. Whatever Laura had done, she’d finished. He imagined someone grabbing him. Clawing, hitting, flailing. Trying to get away. “I saw Georgia with her throat torn open,” he murmured, and smeared a red droplet gathered in the center of the deepest scrape. He blew out a breath and dropped his shirt, drying his hands on his jeans. “I need a shower, like, ascaldingshower.”
Shay sighed, like always. “Please, let me take you back to the hotel.”
“If I leave now, Georgia’ll drag me to urgent care. I mean, can you imagine? Hey, doc, yeah, just some mild stomach pain. Ignore the random definitely-not-demonic scratches. Oh, and the holes in my neck? Totally normal sex thing.” He shouldered through the door.
“Look, you’re not wrong, but?—”
“But nothing. If I almost faint again, catch me.” The rakes across his belly stretched and stung, but he kept walking and pulled out his phone. Shay took his empty hand—squeezed twice.
Aiden Moore: any word from your *interesting friend
That Bitch Ass Psychic: Tomorrow. Meet me in the lobby at 11 a.m.
Aiden Moore: sound check is at 4. we’ll be done before then?
That Bitch Ass Psychic: Probably. You’re buying coffee.
Aiden Moore: fine
Muffled voices filled the suite on the other side of the bathroom door.
“You think he’s okay?”
“He’ll be all right.”
“Just needs rest.”
“Pretty sure I have a heating pad in the RV. Maybe that’ll help?”
Aiden peeled the transfer paper off a band-aid and placed it over the closed gash on his neck. He stacked two more, hiding a starburst of broken blood vessels and four pinhole punctures. He’d soaped his body in the shower. The red trails along his stomach had faded, leaving red peaks where fingernails had shoveled into his skin. He rubbed lotion over freshly shaved flesh and moisturized his face. Closed his eyes and slid a syringe into the top of his thigh, breathing through the familiar pinch, push, retract of his weekly testosterone dose. He shoved the used needle into a red medical case on the counter. Unwrapped another band-aid and slapped it onto his hip, trapping a red bead.
How many times had he stood in a bathroom, washing away blood, bandaging wounds? He glanced at his reflection—pitted eyes, battered body, bitten neck—and looked away before someone else appeared.
Knuckles gently rapped the door. “Aiden? You doin’ okay?” Pru asked.
He stepped into his joggers, pulled a shirt over his head, and opened the door. “Hot shower helped.”
“I know it’s not the same, but my plumbing’s screwed up, too. Doc thinks it’s endometriosis.” She shook a bottle of extra strength Ibuprofen. “Couple of these and a shot of Patron. You’ll be golden.”
Aiden cracked a smile and tossed two pills into his mouth. “Thanks, Pru.”
“De nada. We’re about to call Jacob,” she said, tipping her head toward the main room, fixed with matching queen beds, curtained windows, and a vintage desk.
Aiden eased onto the bed next to Dylan and propped his back against the headboard. Shay spun in the wheeled desk chair, doom-scrolling on his phone, and Georgia opened her laptop, clicking around until Jacob’s meaty, stubbled face appeared. He squinted behind his reading glasses, dressed in a terrible Hawaiian shirt.
“Hey,” Jacob barked. He glanced around the screen. “Where are you? Where is—oh, there. How’s everything goin’? I touched base with the hotel manager. They’re crediting Shay for two nights, rights? I’ll scream if they don’t, I swear to God. They’ll never hear the end of it.”
