Page 15 of Velvet Thorns
There’s only one face burned into my memory. One face I can’t forget, no matter how hard I’ve tried. But as my eyes sweep the room, heart thrashing so hard in my chest it feels like it might burst through my throat, he’s nowhere to be seen.
I shove that familiar twist of panic back down into the pit ofmy stomach where it needs to stay and force myself through the crowd, shouldering past sequined wings and dollar-store capes, dodging plastic skulls and cobwebs strung like nooses across the ceiling.
The Halloween crap is a little over-the-top, but as I move toward the edge of the room and spot the bartender, I come to a complete stop, staring at him like a dick-starved demon who’s two seconds from begging to be ruined on the sticky side of the bar.
He’s got that face-paint thing going on—white and black smeared like war paint, hollowed-out eyes, and a smirk that says he’d follow you down a dark alley… not to hurt you, but to fuck you raw against a brick wall while you clawed at his shoulders and begged for more.
Yeah. I’m into it.
Okay. Fuck Phoenix.
The demon behind the bar leans forward on his forearms and tilts his head, waiting for me to say something, but before I can get a word out, someone slides up behind me, close enough that I can feel their heat on my back.
“The lady will have red wine. It matches her hair.”
Lame.
The second I turn my head, the floor drops out from under me as recognition slams into me like a car crash I saw coming and still couldn’t avoid. He’s wearing a Phantom mask—white, pristine, and theatrical as hell. It only covers half his face, but he doesn’t need a full disguise. I’d know him anywhere. Not because he looks different, because he doesn’t. That mouth is still carved in the same smug, mocking line it always was. And the way he stands there, comfortable and cocky, makes my skin crawl.
Brandon Michaelson.
He used to slap my books out of my hands just to watch me crawl around on the dirtyfloor.
He'd hurl trash at me in the middle of a crowded hallway—apple cores, wads of gum still wet from his mouth that stuck to my hair, and once it was a half-eaten sandwich that exploded ketchup across my shirt—and all he did was laugh, like my humiliation was the best part of his day.
But the worst was the fire. He waited for me to be distracted before taking a lighter to the ends of my hair during gym class and grinned as the flames ate through the strands.
I’ll never forget the smell.
He was the cruelest bastard in a school full of monsters.Well… almost the cruelest.But he was the boy who made sure I knew I was prey.
I look at him now, and for a single, vicious moment, I find myself hoping that something finally happened to him. That someone, somewhere, had enough of his shit, grabbed him by the throat, and dragged a blade across his face, slicing deep enough to leave a scar he couldn’t charm his way around. Maybe that mask isn’t a costume at all, and finally, the outside is just as ugly as the inside.
I turn back to the bartender with his inked knuckles and perfect jawline, shaking my head like Brandon’s some annoying fly I need to swat away.
“Cosmopolitan, please.”
“So she’s a city girl, huh?”
God, just shut the fuck up.
Brandon tries to chime in with his order, but I slam my card down, making it crystal clear I’m not here for him.
“You’re giving off bad energy, gorgeous. Did I fuck you in high school and forget your name?”
“Nope. I just don’t get wet for men who peaked at prom.”
His smile falters, and his face contorts like I just spat in his drink. “What did you just say to me?”
“Oh, come on, you heard me just fine… Now be a good boy and kindly fuck off.”
He stares at me like I just slapped him across his privileged face, and the shock in his eyes is absolutely delicious. I face forward, completely satisfied, but the silence behind me is short-lived when his voice suddenly explodes across the room.
“Yo, quarterback! Been waiting for you to show up!”
Every muscle in my body locks up because the next time I turn around, it’s going to be him. The one I came here for. The one I hate so much, his name still tastes like blood in the back of my throat.
The one I still dream about in ways I shouldn’t.
