Make Me (The Silent Hollow, #2)

by Alina May

For those who never got justice: I see you

“You have the right to remain silent.” Then, I pull the trigger.

I like things that are the farthest from sweet.

I will never be anything for anyone again.

I fucking hate cops, but that would just be stupid. Cops don’t do that. They get on their high horses and chase men like me. Chase, but don’t catch. I’m too good at what I do.

Right. Made it up like I’m dying for a grippy sock vacation. Like I want to see the inside of a mental hospital and never end up leaving.

Guess it’s my turn to teach them what not to do: kill someone on my watch.

Then, all I can think is to sing Sweet Home Alabama in my skivvies so my brains don’t get splattered across the wall behind me. Sweet Jesus, I am definitely going insane. But it’s this, or go to see Jesus. And fuck that. That’s one man I don’t want to meet.

Peeking a glance back, she has the thick, leather ‘spanker’s stick’ Mom just bought. The one her Jesus people told her to buy. A special brand for bad kids.

The more I don’t understand, the more frustrated Mom gets with me. The more I feel stupid. The more I want to cry. But boys don’t cry.

I’m stupid. I know I should get this, but I don’t, and now Mom won’t be proud when she talks to Dad tonight.

Why doesn’t she love me? Because I’m bad. I’m bad, and I can’t stop.

I didn’t make a sound when Mom hit me, but I still lost. I still lost, and I’m still helpless, just like I’ve been for years. I just want someone to save me. Someone to make me safe.

When has fighting ever worked in my life? It’s just gotten my ass beaten harder.

This is survival, Ronan. If it’s suck a dick or die, you’ll suck the goddamn dick.

I start to say no, but the word gets stuck in my throat. I’m frozen there for an agonizing second, the small letter sound getting stuck in my throat. I try to remember what they said in therapy about making open-mouth sounds and letting the words call out. Finally, I get out, “Nah.”

But as I go about my evening, I can’t get the loneliness of that list out of my head. I hate that I keep thinking about it. Because Ronan Carter sounds a lot like me.

Looks like a bullet grazed him. Or like a turtle took a bite out of him. A turtle bullet.

Note to self: drink whiskey; it makes you gay.

It's not the whisky, Ronan....

Maybe soon I’ll learn that being alone beats putting yourself out there any day.

Every cell in my body needs to chase him. Needs him to stay with me forever. Needs him to learn he can never run from me.

He sounds like a shell of the man I’ve gotten to know. Angry, bitter, lost. Broken. But still, I go. What other choice do I have? Because I’m finding that anywhere Ronan Carter goes, I’ll follow.

“You know, it’s okay to like men.” Defensive energy rolls up inside me, but Logan raises his hand to cut me off. “What we did doesn’t make you dirty or wrong, and if that’s what you were going to say, I’ll beat your ass right here.”

That’s not what I was going to say. I actually don’t know what I was going to say. That I let my kidnapper take my ass, and I fucking liked it?

“It’s okay to be unsure if you liked it, but it’s not okay to judge yourself becaus...

I don’t know what else to say. Okay I’m listening? To my kidnapper? Sorry, the hot kidnapper who I want to fuck over and over and over again? I want everything about his strong, sexy body to hold me down and fuck me until I’m forced to come over and over again.

Okay, well, maybe I’m gay for more than just Logan. Fuck me, I’m fucked.

And I’m not thinking straight. Because I’m totally gay, and it’s happening again.

I can never get away from the injustice. No one ever gets justice. Not Ember. Not Dakota. Not Greyson. Not me.

‘But if you have to pick between being fair and being happy…why don’t you pick being happy?’ He sounds….sad. “I don’t get to pick.”

‘Maybe you do.’ I don’t, though.

I wish I could wash it away. Open my head, get in the shower, wash the rage out, then go back to life as normal. But I can’t do that. Nothing can.

Fuck, I’m an evil dick. I don’t want to be. I just want to be okay.

I want this Ronan to stay real. I want him to stay here and alive. I don’t ever want to see a hallucination that looks like him again.

Ronan and I are fucking bombs, just waiting to be triggered. It’s dangerous and destructive and fucking addictive.

It’s time to kill a man with my boyfriend and our lapdog. It’s not justice because if it was, this would have happened a long time ago. But it’s the best I can do.

There are times I want it to kill me. And then there are times that I want to kill everyone else. Especially Callum Walker. And then there are the times I feel nothing and the times I cry uncontrollably. Nothing feels stable. Nothing feels right.

Ronan Carter is passively suicidal. He doesn’t want to live, but he doesn’t want to die.

Because part of me is terrified of this new future, and part of me is excited that I get to stay with Ronan and Logan. And that’s the part that is going to get me killed.

And right here, I realize that if I never feel again, I’ll never be able to enjoy kissing those freckles.

I want to feel. Even if it’s just for this short moment.

I move to Ronan, who has sat back up. “And you are going to start living.”

So I look Logan in the eye and say, “Make. Me.”

“I’m trying to make you,” Logan hisses. “Trying to make you safe. Make you happy. Make you seen.” He leans in, those blue eyes so fucking tortured it kills me. “But here’s the thing. You have to let me.”

For the first time in a long time, I think I actually want to let someone be there for me. I think I want to let this broken, bossy, beautiful man bulldoze through my bullshit and make me feel. Make me live.

His hand around my neck is no longer tight. He’s just…holding me. His thumb strokes up and down my neck. His voice comes out soft…broken, “Please, Ronan.” I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared. But at some point, I either have to die or decide to live. Before, living was always alone. But maybe, just maybe, right now, I have someone else? That has to be worth something, right?

I’m feeling all of them too—fear, anxiety, depression, rage…and also, a new one. A new one that floats around like a tiny, flaming ember: hope.

“Okay. Make me.”

It’s not that I didn’t like it. In fact, I loved it. But the voices in my head got too loud. And I don’t think I can face them again.

“Go ahead. Try and run. It’ll only make it more fun when I catch you.” His threat sends shivers down my spine. So, I run.