Page 38 of Petal

Both Kai and Archer are on the floor, ten or so feet away from each other, moving slowly, not able to get up.

“Kai!” I grab him, trying to lift him up. “Baby, look at me.”

“Get everyone out!” a guard roars.

Several guards are in the octagon, pulling Archer up.

Another one grabs me by the arm. “The bitch set the shit on fire.”

“Get off me!” I punch his arm and rush to Kai again. His face is bloodied but not swollen bad—maybe it’s not his blood.

“Baby, can you get up?” I ask, and when his hands grab my arm, I help him stand up.

There are shouts all around. People file through the doors like ants. The hangar is full of smoke. The fire spreads to the other drapes, crawling up the walls almost around the entire place.

Johnny Cash’s song “Ring of Fire” comes to mind as I choke, the smoke burning my lungs.

Archer glares at me and spits blood on the floor, wiping his mouth when he manages to stand on his own.

I want to throw him into that fire so he knows what it feels like. But he can barely stand. His face is swollen, so is his one eye, his nose bleeding.

“To be continued,” Archer rasps and coughs, covering his mouth with his forearm. “Take them back to Ayana.” He stumbles, and a guard’s arms catch him.

I feel Kai’s weight on me, but I summon all my strength to help him to his feet and hold him up.

“I got you, Kai,” I murmur. “I’m right here.”

I don’t care where we go right now.

As long as they stop hurting Kai.

18

ARCHER

I can barely siton the Quad on my way back to the resort. I am still barefoot and shirtless. My hands are slippery with blood. My eyes are swollen. So are my lips. I think my ribs might be broken. Everything hurts. I’m dizzy, I can’t see well, and I can’t even ride at proper speed, losing my focus of the dark road ahead.

Droga doesn’t understand that Carnage wasn’t about who wins. It was about confronting what we had and releasing that anger.

And that’s fucking frustrating. When I see his face, I remember his pledge. And then seeherface and remember the way things went down four years ago, and it’s like Callie Mays just took everything I cared for and wiped it out.

And then she sets my fucking fight club on fire!

Memories are like Langoliers—you either run away from them, kill them, or get swallowed with no way back.

Except, mine are always right there—I am like a carrot dangling in front of them, and they nibble and nibble and nibble at me, slowly eating away my skin and getting to the bone.

My body is beat.

I almost wanted Droga to beat me unconscious. Killing me would be better. So that I could fuck off from this world with a bloodied smile, and he could carry the guilt for the rest of his life. Just like I carry mine.

Pain is not letting someone hurt you but unintentionally hurting the people you care for and not getting a chance to make up for it.

I have to admit, that fucking blondie has balls. She is coming along nicely. Droga should thank me. Finally, she is not whimpering and running away but stepping up for him. The fire is ironic. I set the one that killed our friendship. She set the one that might have saved one of us from dying in that octagon.

I park the Quad by my villa and stumble inside, make my way to the bathroom, and wash my hands and face, staring into the mirror at the bruised monster.

When I come out, Marlow is in the living room, saying something into the radio. He studies me as I fling myself onto the couch. Red blood on gray—perfect.

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