Page 13 of Murder

He wouldn’t make a match for you at all, Gwen.

I draw a big breath. In that millisecond all my interest in him, all my admiration of his flawless face and form, curdles.

I watch him pull the arrows from the target with an angry-looking fist. I watch his pretty mouth: so taut and flat, as if he’s frustrated. I watch his brow tighten as he grabs the last arrow out, clenching his hand around it. He puts the arrows under his left arm—strange, when he could hold them in his fist—and strides quickly, with lion-like grace, to his spot just behind the home’s back deck.

Like a model, his movements are elegant and sparse. Actually, he’s probably smoother than most of the ones I knew. I watch his face for one more moment. He’s definitely a doppelganger for Peter Badenhop. Except this guy is bigger. Starker. Honestly, more striking.

I sigh softly.

So that’s my neighbor. Beautiful McBeautyMan. Who looks amazing with his arm pulled back, the bow in hand.

I watch him shoot, and watch the arrow hit the bull’s eye.

Wow. He’s good.

I’m sure he has a good ego to match.

I turn and move as quietly as I can back toward my cabin, vowing to myself to stay away from him.

BARRETT

My knees slam down against the floor; I grab the toilet seat and barely get my head over the bowl before I’m vomiting.

I know it’s Red Bull, but it smells like liquor. Tastes like liquor. Stings like liquor.

My body’s numb and heavy. Still, I feel a door beside me, bumping my elbow as my body lurches.

Bluebell grabs my arm. As my body heaves and puke splashes on my lap, I feel a heavy arm around my shoulders.

“Fucking hell, man.” Blue’s hand comes under my right arm, holding me against him as the car swerves. “Dove, take the road right there. That one!”

“Is that a road?”

“Yes. Take it!”

“Fuck, we’re gonna track.”

“They’ll be gone in half an hour.”

I feel Blue shift back against his seat and hear his voice closer to me. “Shit, Bear. Is it just the liquor?”

Between hurling, I rasp, “Yeah.”

I wrap my hand around one of the metal rods that lock the headrest of the front passenger’s seat into the chair and try to aim toward the floor. Far away, I feel the chaos of anxiety as my teammates buzz and the world riots around me.

“All right,” Breck says roughly. “We’ll get where we’re going and there’ll be a shower.”

Between gasping, I groan, “I don’t care.”

That’s where it ends. I’m always sick until my throat is raw, my eyes and nose are running, neck and jaw are sore. I grip the toilet, moving between then and now, not sure where I’d rather be when I’m aware enough to monitor what’s going on. There with that or here with this.

Breck’s gone.

Re-realizing that prolongs my stomach’s rebellion. Sounds of retching echo in the bathroom, gasping, gagging, panting… Then it’s over and I just want to shower.

With my right arm flung across the toilet seat, I tilt my throbbing head down, looking down at my chest through streaming eyes. The room feels like it’s tilting.

You’re not drunk, you dumb fuck. Get up.

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