Page 10 of Chalk Outline
I scan the pumpkin-infested yards and the vacant roofs on each side of the street before turning around. He comes into view two houses ahead, adjusting the hood of his dark leather jacket and walking past a row of vehicles that lead to the party.
While metal music blares from the speakers inside, the shapes of shadows against the house’s exterior wall catch my attention. The LED lights decorating it change color as people come and go. I climb the four steps to a wraparound porch and pass the creamy stone pillars decorated with fake cobwebs, spiders, and skeletons.
Fake blood drips down one pillar, continuously dotting the floor.
“Let’s paint the town red.” A big, red Joker smile is all up in my face, whispering before he brushes past me straight to the blackSUV I saw earlier. The driver immediately steps out, raking his tatted fingers through his blonde mullet. They share a brotherly handshake and laugh about something.
A familiar tingle of awareness snakes down my spine, and the hairs along my neck bristle as I glance to the left. The back of a dark leather jacket disappears behind the wall leading to the back of the house—bingo.
My legs immediately charge in that direction.
“Excuse me,” I repeat, shouldering my way through groups of people circling the two-story house from all exits and corners.
The sensation of being followed or watched is not foreign to me.
I’ve lived under heavy surveillance and had bodyguards my entire life. There’s always someone lurking in the shadows.
As I pass, clouds of smoke blur my vision, urging me to clear them away. I approach the open glass doors, scanning the large crowd reveling in the back before I enter the house.
“I’ve been a bad girl, officer.” The girl in the bunny costume whispers seductively to the guy at the entrance—I zoom in on the spider web tattoo on the side of his face before I move forward. “You can cuff me later, Baby.” Her voice trails behind me.
I brush past a few more costumes.
The couches are packed with huddled college kids, but I recognize some older faces from back in the day. Some have never outgrown this phase, including the owner of this house, Cash Andrews, who went to college with me. He’s been hosting parties for years since.
This place looks exactly the same.
Honestly, I never liked those parties, but I preferred being here to being lonely in a big house. I suppose I still do subconsciously, because here I am.
I make it to the less-crowded kitchen, allowing me to see all the exits at once. Summer Kent, the girl I saw in the jeep earlier, stands right next to me, drinking booze and smoking a joint.
She’s the only survivor from last year’s deadly game. It never hindered the city’s beloved college kids, who would give the middle finger every time the subject was brought up.
“Wants some?” She takes a long drag, letting the weed infiltrate her lungs —I’m struck with a reminder of the present I got—before she hands it to me, looking in the other direction.
She didn’t bother to dress up like the rest. A red bandana is tied around her long, chestnut-brown hair, and a dozen silver bracelets hang around her forearm—something is written on her skin too, but it’s not a tattoo because half of it is smeared.
“No thanks. I promised my boyfriend we’ll get high later.” I reject her offer with a grin while pouring myself a glass of vodka that I won’t drink.
“That’s nice.” She takes a swig straight from the bottle. “I wish I could find someone like that, you know.” She wipes her mouth on her wrist.
“Decent,” I give her the side-eye and arch my brows. My eyes keep searching for the mystery guy who’s following me, but the question is, why am I here?
“Exactly! Someone who doesn’t party with everyone and sleeps with every girl he meets.”
Something tells me she’s talking about the guy in the officer costume, since her eyes shoot daggers at him. I scan the room, and a group of girls looks at Summer with terror, probably thinking, “What the hell is she doing in the open?”
She did survive, so I guess lightning can’t strike twice.
“My girl is here, so don’t worry about it.” The guy in the Joker costume rounds the kitchen island as he talks on his phone, stopping beside me. “I’ll end it tonight.” He licks his lip ring.
“I thought you already ended things with her,” Summer says, handing him the joint, but he shakes his head.
“I told him to, but he never listens.” The Joker’s friend from outside chimes in and snatches a bottle of whiskey, overlooking the piece of paper underneath it.
They all do.
I pretend to check the bottles while taking the paper.
