Page 85 of The Order of Disorder
A sob catches in my throat.“Nooo.”It’s breathless. Fragile. The word breaks apart as it leaves me. My body tries to fight, but everything’s wrong. I can’t seem to move fast enough. Eventurning my head takes everything I’ve got, and all I see are lights spinning above me in dizzying trails.
“Mmm,” Silas growls. “This is just so perfect.” He yanks me tighter against him, then spreads his legs to pull mine apart with them, pulling the t-shirt up over my hips. He reaches between my legs and fumbles with his zipper, and then I feel the unmistakable heat of him against my skin.
“You know what’s going to happen now?” he murmurs. I can’t say anything. I can’t move. Why can’t I move? “I’m going to fuck you right here, in front of hundreds of spectators. I’m going to be deep inside you when it happens.” He chuckles viciously. “It’s fucking poetic. In about sixty seconds, your boyfriend’s bike is gonna blow and this crowd is gonna lose their king, and when it happens, I’ll be balls-deep in his girl, probably coming as the fuel line—“
POP.
A white flash detonates across the stage, blinding and sudden, followed by a crack of concussive sound.
The world blinks white. Sound distorts. People scream.
Silas pushes me onto the chair to his right and jumps up, swearing. I slump to the side, heart thudding, ears ringing.
“The fuck was that?” someone shouts.
“Firework?” another guesses.
“No fucking way,” and then—
BOOM.
The airstrip explodes.
Flames shoot skyward at the far end of the runway. Screams crest in a single, massive wave. The crowd breaks. People surge toward the barricades. Phones rise. Someone’s yelling for EMTs.
“Billy!”someone screams.
Everyone is running off the stage, toward the explosion, leaving me behind, except for two figures breaking through the smoke. Black hoodies pulled over their heads. They move fast,sprinting toward me. Hands on my back, under my knees, and then I’m lifting into the air. My vision swims. The lights, the smoke, the screaming—it all spins. I see only flashes. I don’t scream. I can’t.
I’m being stolen.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MY MIND IS floating, just barely tethered. Like it’s on a long leash and I have to remember to tug the cord to reel it in, to keep up.
I’m being carried off the stage, suspended in strong arms. My head’s too heavy to lift. It hangs over my abductor’s arm, and I watch the stage bounce away upside down. His companion—tall, broad, athletic—paces ahead, hood up, face hidden. I don’t know who they are—don’t know how to make sense of anything right now, the explosion, these men, any of it—and I strangely don’t care. I’m disconnected, floating away from myself, and grateful for the release from worry and pain.
The men hustle me away from the noise and light of the airstrip, following the path that cuts through the brush back toward the hangar yard, and the cage. When I see it, I moan. Even in this state of disconnection I remember how cold I was last night; how thirsty. Not this again.
“Put her down,” says the man in front, turning slightly. “Here.” He points to the ground beside the chain-link fence ofthe cage.
It’s hard to see him from this angle, my head swaying, blood rushing behind my eyes. But the voice slices straight through me.
Damian.
It sounds so much like him. Same sharp edge. Same bossy certainty. And I ache with missing him.
I open my mouth, wanting to say his name, just to hear it out loud, but the man holding me kneels, lowering me carefully, and the ground tilts. Nausea rises and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it to pass.
When I open them, the two figures are crouched in front of me. Beautiful, familiar faces. I would gasp if I could. They’re ghosts from the past.
I’m hallucinating, I realize.
“Stay awake, Max,” says the one who looks like Jake. He sounds like Jake. The memory brought to life makes my heart hurt.
“Where’s Wyatt?” says the one who looks like Damian. It’s hard to keep my eyes on them, the world slips and shudders, but every time I refocus they’re still there, looking the same.
Ghosts.
