Nightfall (Devil's Night, #4)

by Penelope Douglas

She didn’t say more, though, and we heard the floorboards creak, both of us spotting Will walking past and halting as soon as he saw us. His hair was sexy-messy as his jeans hung low on his hips, the top button undone, and he just stood there, his eyes falling down and then back up again, taking us in. I stood there in my tank and underwear, while Alex was still in his T-shirt and no pants. “Fuck my life,” he grumbled, shaking his head and continuing down the stairs to his door. “Use the tub if you want. Clothes are in the bureau,” he called out. “I’ll go get some breakfast. Stay here. Both of you.”

“If you have an exit plan,” I asked her, “why isn’t he rushing to escape? I heard him yesterday. He didn’t want to leave.” It was odd, wasn’t it? You would think he’d be ecstatic to be saved, but he didn’t look like he was happy she was here. He didn’t look happy either of us were here. Prisoners sometimes got so used to being inside, that it was scarier to leave. They had a home, three meals a day, a regimen… Sooner or later, the familiar hopelessness was easier than the hopeful unknown. But that wasn’t Will. He had a home, friends, money, opportunities… We were missing something. Something he wasn’t telling us. Alex shook her head, looking after him down the stairs. “I don’t know,” she said. “But if I know anything about Will, it’s not to assume anything. He knows more than we think, and he’s more patient than a crocodile.”

I scooped up some nails and pliers, pausing as I thought about that tiny gazebo. A roof like a witch’s hat and constructed using aged materials that I’d salvaged from St. Killian’s long after it was abandoned. I’d wanted it to look used. Like it had always been there, maybe even before the town. It wasn’t my best work, but it was my first, and finishing it was more of an accomplishment than I thought it would be. It took so much longer than it should’ve because I stopped caring about everything, including my work, for so long. I went months without touching it, deliberately avoiding the village so I didn’t have to see it, and eventually, I’d forced the finish, getting it done without the chandeliers I’d dreamed about, because it would’ve been too painful to remember him every time I looked at it. I didn’t want to build or design. I didn’t want to do anything because of him. Nothing else mattered as I mourned the loss. But I got it done. When I finally resumed my work, it was because, once again, I’d pulled myself up to my feet. Like the coffee table books, the gazebo was another trophy I collected for living another day. But I’d never see it again. It wasn’t there anymore.

Climbing up, I sat on the top of the ladder and started reattaching the rusted chain, using my pliers to open up the link and re-thread it. I didn’t give a shit about this place. I knew I was just making beds in a burning house. But this was who I was, and I wasn’t going to wallow away my time, waiting for my heart to catch up to my head, and if it was something as simple as keeping my hands busy in order to survive Will Grayson and how much I wished I could do everything over again, then that’s what I would do. The calm in the chaos.

Shit. I almost laughed at the muscles I thought I had when I thought I could do this. It had to be a quarter of a ton. Breathing hard, I tried again, using my weight to pull and pull, but there was no way. Even if I got this off the floor, I couldn’t hold it. “No, I’m coming!” I heard Rory growl. I jumped. “Rory!” I called, dropping the rope and standing up straight. “Rory, can you come here?” The next thing I knew, he was standing in front of the door, shirtless and sleepy-eyed like he’d just woken up. Planting his arms on both sides of the doorway, he cocked an eyebrow but didn’t ask me what I was doing. Pretty sure he never gave a shit. “Can you help me?” I asked, pointing to the chandelier. “It’s too heavy for me to—” I heard him laugh, and then I looked back to see him gone, not even letting me finish my sentence. Dick!

“You should’ve put walnuts in them,” Rory said. I turned around, showing him the second pan, the surface dotted with fucking walnuts. Micah stopped eating, staring at the other pan with chocolate covering his mouth and teeth. He reached for it, but I pulled it away. “I need help with the chandelier first.” Rory hooded his eyes, but I could see the smile there, because he knew exactly what I was doing, and I won. If he wanted brownies with walnuts, then… He sighed. “Micah? Taylor? Help me out, please?” Their shoulders slumped, but they went, leaving the room with Rory and heading back to the ballroom. I cut two slices out of the new pan. “Wendy and The Lost Boys,” Aydin mused. “And that makes you Peter Pan?” I asked.

He chuckled as I handed one slice to Alex and pushed the other plate over to Will. But Will shot out, slapping the plate and the pan, sending them both flying onto the floor. Every muscle in my body went rigid as they crashed and broke, the dessert splattered on the floor. I darted my eyes to his. “This isn’t Neverland,” he said, coming up to the island and glowering at me. “If it were, you wouldn’t be here. Grown-ups aren’t allowed.”

I got it. You don’t fit, so stop posing. No surprise here. It didn’t bother me.

Him wanting me with him last night wasn’t about us. I’d let myself enjoy it and let it mean more than it did when he swept me into his arms. I never fit with him. I always knew it, because Thunder Bay was Neverland and the Horsemen his tribe, and I hated to play. I didn’t do fun. And leaving town hadn’t cured me of that. I drifted into the ballroom, seeing the chandelier hanging high above, its lights illuminated and casting a soft glow over the floor. They’d cleaned up the glass, turned on the breaker again, and I kicked off my shoes, turning around in the big, open space with my head tipped back. That was why I loved building and designing things. Making someone’s world theirs. It was a chance to fly, and all I needed was a dumb, happy thought. And I’d had one. Just one that I hung on to all this time.

Fuck him for thinking I was supposed to have everything figured out at sixteen. Fuck him for demanding of me what I couldn’t even give myself. He and Aydin and Martin were all dictators, and I never heard my own voice. Ever. And it was my fault. I should’ve said it louder. I should’ve screamed. I hated that I had to, but it was my fault I fell quiet. I wasn’t a grown-up. He was wrong. I never grew. I was always this pile of dead leaves, blowing in the wind and letting the seasons, whoever they were, come in and change me and walk on me, and I never fought for anything.

I spun and spun, the tears streaming down my face until someone swept me into his arms, and I opened my eyes to see Micah spinning me around as I wrapped my legs around his waist. He planted his forehead to mine, smiling gently as I started laughing, the saxophone vibrating throughout the room. “If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life,” we sang, “never make a pretty woman your wife…” And he spun and spun, and I started laughing so hard as I hugged him to me, catching sight of everyone else by the door watching us. They must’ve heard the music, too. God, I didn’t care. I punched my fist in the air, both of us shouting the lyrics like complete idiots. No one was going to tell me how to feel. Not anymore. No one could make me feel anything I didn’t allow. I was in control. And I was ready for an adventure.

I wasn’t getting out of this situation. And I couldn’t kill him. I had to survive, and just like last night when I told Damon that there was a tear in the membrane, I realized as the hours passed that it wasn’t going away. Something had disconnected, and every memory of his hand across my face or his fist in my stomach over the years was like a dream happening to someone else. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t here now. I didn’t have the energy to care about anything.

I stared at my desk, the wrestling room playing in my head and something swelling in my heart but ripping it to shreds at the same time. I was glad he had his friends. They loved him, and Will deserved to never be alone. But I also hated the idea of anyone else but me making him happy. Making Will happy was an amazing feeling. I wished I could be the girl I was at the Cove every day, but it was gone. The weight had crushed that spark, and I couldn’t muster the energy to even try anymore.

Dropping my eyes, I opened my milk and my ranch, starting to eat as “Army of Me” played in my ears, but then the air around me started vibrating, and I heard a different beat in my ears. Pulling out the earbuds, I looked up and saw Will on top of his lunch table. His friends sat or stood, looking up at him and laughing as he started dancing to some pop 80s or 90s tune, stripping off his school jacket as his shirt and tie hung on him like a god. He was going to look amazing in a suit someday. He jumped off the table, moving around the room as students hooted and howled, and he looked like… I laughed under my breath, a smile spreading across my face. He looked like Jean-Claude Van Damme in Kickboxer. Hang around more and maybe you’ll find out. The smile slowly fell, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. This was for me. Needles pricked my throat, watching him dance and loving the smile on his face.

Twisting back around, I walked away, the cloud in my head thickening again until the pain of wanting him turned into an addiction to the pain of rejecting him. It grew and fed me every day from that point on. Destroying myself and everything I loved and wanted for myself became the only thing I had any control over. I could ignore him in class. Pass him in the halls without a look. Act like he didn’t exist. Pretend I was above it all and they were nothing. I did it all. Time passed, seasons changed, he left for college, and a year later, so did I. What I didn’t know then was that the damage we would do to each other was only just beginning.

Micah dropped her to her feet, took her hands, and twirled her around before pulling her in and holding her close. They danced and laughed, and my chest swelled, feeling too much all of a sudden, my arms weighing a ton. I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I watched her. We all heard the music, one by one, each of us making our way down to the ballroom. Micah couldn’t resist, instantly gravitating toward her, and it wasn’t until he had her in his arms that I saw the tears on her face. She was quickly smiling, though, and it was heart-wrenching, because I knew I’d made her cry. No matter how many times I told myself she deserved to suffer, this wasn’t in my nature. I’d be lost without some second chances myself. There were always two sides to a story, and everything was just a matter of perspective. But finding out that she was the one who sent us to prison was almost a relief. It finally gave me permission to hate her and not just resent her because she had rejected me.

Aydin swept Emmy into his arms, a couple of drops dripping off her heel, and my blood boiled so hot I felt nauseated, seeing her in his arms. Goddammit. If my head would just settle on one emotion where she was concerned, that would be fucking fantastic. I hate her, but she’s mine. Go away, but don’t go with him!

“I realized he was sick, and nothing was going to be good enough,” she told us as Aydin bandaged her foot, “so I stopped trying. My clothes would be wrinkled and my hair not brushed, because if he was going to hit me anyway, then…” She met Aydin’s gaze. “Then fuck him.”

“I hardly ever saw him drunk,” she told us, “but one night, he passed out with a quarter of this bottle left. I emptied it into a water bottle and took it to school.” She chuckled, but a look of sadness crossed her eyes, remembering that day. When was it? Did I talk to her that day? Mess with her? Was I nice? “He thought he drank it all. He never knew.” She paused before continuing. “It was just one time, but that was a good day. I didn’t feel a thing. Not even the cracked rib.” I knit my brow, thinking about Emory Scott sucking down bourbon in math class or stumbling through the cafeteria, and how easy it must’ve been to hide it, because no one ever noticed her. She’d needed that bourbon more than she needed air that day, and I got that. God, I got that. You smile and laugh, not just because your head and everything in it feels lighter, but because when you’re drunk or high, it’s like a vacation. When you’re away from the same people, the same places, the same work…you don’t think about it. It’s a break from everything that worries you or makes you anxious or keeps your world small and shallow, and everyone who wants to take a piece out of you, and when you’re high, it’s like that. It just doesn’t even matter. Suddenly, you’re seeing Machu Picchu from your front porch, and you didn’t even have to leave town. She got drunk and loved her brother again. What made her stronger than me was that she only did it once.

She closed her eyes as she lifted the glass to her lips, and I could tell by the longing on her face that she was escaping again. I charged over and grabbed the glass, the liquid sloshing onto my hand as I tossed it to the side. It crashed against the wall, the glass shattering. Don’t. I stared down at her. I’d rather eat my hands than see her do that to herself. If this was who she was, I’d rather this than see her become what I became—someone who needed to hurt myself day after day in order to fucking smile.

“Clean it up,” Aydin ordered. But I remained still. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do with her yet, but this—whatever this was going on between them—was not happening. She didn’t get to find herself with Aydin Khadir. She was coming with me. “He didn’t save you then,” Aydin told her. “He won’t save you now.” He watched her, and she watched me, and even though I knew she’d told me the truth last night in her bed ...