Page 1 of Call It What You Want
PROLOGUE
Ava — Missouri, Three Years Ago
All I see is blood.
It’s everywhere. On the walls. On my clothes. Pooling on the tiled floor, bright red rivulets seep into the white grout like veins through marble.
The air feels too thick to breathe. It’s heavy, metallic, and it makes me gag. I drag in several breaths. The world narrows to the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.
I’m frozen, standing in the kitchen, the edge of the marble counter biting into the small of my back.
I can’t think. I can’t move. All I can do is stare at the boy in front of me—the one I thought I loved—the overhead light cutting sharp shadows across his beautiful, terrible face.
His fist is clenched around the knife, trembling, skin slick with someone else’s blood. His chest rises and falls in a violent rhythm, each breath jagged.
When his eyes lift to mine, something inside me unravels.
Because I finally see it.
The truth.
He’s not shaking because he’s afraid for me. He’s shaking because he reveled in the violence. And in that instant, it all crystallizes. The monster isn’t the lifeless body sprawled across the floor between us. The monster is standing right in front of me.
The man I thought I loved.
CHAPTER ONE
Ava —California, Three Years Later
My heart claws up my throat.
Something is wrong.
It’s dark as I walk out to my car after my shift at Isca—the swanky restaurant attached to the exclusive hotel, Exeter House, on the far side of Malibu. It’s well after eleven at night, and the staff are forced to park in the backlot. Usually, one of the security guards, David, walks me to my car, but he wasn’t at his post tonight. So, rather than bother someone else, I made a beeline for my car.
I’m already regretting that.
Overhead lamps throw little pools of light onto the asphalt below, but not enough to push away the shadows that lurk on the outer edges of the backlot. Murky, undefined silhouettes seem to move and shift in the darkness, but…maybe I’m just being paranoid.
If I am, there’s a good reason for it.
Trauma doesn’t just go away overnight, right? According to the internet, it takes time. But, I don’t know. I’ve been in survival mode for so long, I’m starting to think it’s my new normal. Ialways seem to be looking over my shoulder, always on high alert. Always wondering what’s lurking in the shadows. What Big Bad Thing is going to jump out at me next?
My heart is pounding, and I’m halfway to my car when I reach into my purse for my phone. I can’t find it. Did I grab it from my staff locker?
I pull my purse off my shoulder, then crouch so I can set my purse down on the asphalt and search more thoroughly. Wallet. Sunscreen. Sun glasses. I practically tear the inside of my purse apart, panic rising in the back of my throat. It’s not here. I must’ve left it in my locker.
“Fuck,” I breathe, piling everything back into my purse. I glance over my shoulder at the glittering twin towers of Exeter House. Should I go back and grab it? I have an early shift tomorrow?—
That thought is cut off when a black SUV screeches into the parking lot. It stops directly in front of me, and a guy with a black mask pops out of the backseat. He steps toward me, and I stand up, purse clutched in my hand. My heart rate has gone from slightly panicked to DEFCON 5 in half a second.
But before I can even think, or run, or scream, I’m yanked off my feet and tossed into the backseat of the SUV. My back slams against the leather seat as the door snaps shut, and the car peels out of the parking lot.
Holy fuck.
My brain is spinning, trying to process what the fuck just happened. There are three guys in the car—one driving, one in the passenger seat, and one in the back with me—all wearing black masks that cover their faces.
“What do you want?” I ask, scrambling back into the corner, my hand feeling for the door handle. I yank on the handle, but it won’t budge. My fingers search for the lock, but pressing it does nothing. It must be child-locked.
