“What is this?” I breathe out as I look down at the fingers, wondering what it is, exactly, that Bohnes wants me to do with them. “It’s a gift,” he says, as if that were obvious. Blood drips from between his fingers to the floor. Oh sweet dark goddess, what am I doing with this man? Kellin Bohnes was arguably the worst choice of all the Prescott trash that I could’ve selected as a fuckboy. There are dozens of hot young dudes who know their cars, who have ink and muscles and metal, pain in their hearts, darkness in their eyes. If what I wanted was tortured, fucked-up, and broken, I had the pick
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