DECEIT (B723) by Hazel Grace (ebook reader for surface pro .TXT) 📕

is so loud that it makes it even more annoying when it echoes off the gym walls.

I stop squirting to keep some of my flammable liquid and hold out a hand for Kyson.

“Arrow,” I say through our hood victim’s hollers and pleas.

Kyson holds the pointy tip and I spray it with my reactor, then light it on fire. My bow is handed over, and I step back, giving me more space to make my next shot something I have to focus on.

Inhaling a hit off Mills’s blunt, I hurl back on the cord of my bow. Mad Dog lowers his voice as he seethes air through his clenched teeth.

Then his eyes crinkle in challenge and I let it go, allowing the arrow to fly and pierce the top of his thigh.

He growls loudly, tucking his chin into his collar bone to attempt to keep his agony muffled.

“Ready now?” Marty asks as I snatch another arrow, listening to another male voice squeal out in pain.

Kyson is having his own fun and this is therapy for me.

“These streets don’t talk, motherfucker,” he seethes through his teeth. His chest heaving unsteadily from the pain. I answer him with an arrow to the ear. “You missed.”

Humor laces in his tone as Marty tears it from the red mat off the wall behind him and bayonets it into his back.

“No, he didn’t,” Marty muses in his ear, chuckling that eerie little tone that he does when he’s delighted at the torment of others.

Mad Dog bows over for the first time, the ropes around his wrists keeping him upward. He’s gone whiter, his brown curls alluding sweat along his brow.

Mad Dog’s dark eyes flutter as he struggles to catch his breath. Kyson steals a glance at me, another unsaid message that we’re going to have to start eliminating bodies pretty quickly here if we don’t get anything else.

Mad Dog’s mouth curls into a sinister smile. “Fuck you, Pocahantas.”

My cell goes off in my pocket and I pull the blunt from my lips, hoisting my bow over my shoulder to answer it in case Mills needs us.

Emmy: I’m sorry. You’ll never know how much. 

Emmy: Forget me and all the things that we did. You’re too special to mourn a girl who couldn’t let it go and accept you for who you are.

I stare at the white letter on my phone.

Her plea for me to let her go. That she realized my thoughts and fears but couldn’t live with them.

She doesn’t know how much I want to block her from my mind. That it’s not something I can snap my fingers and do.

I loved you and now you’re gone. 

I want to send those words so agonizingly so, but it’s not worth the response or the lingering thing that is us. That she still needs to have the final word and decision in this. How she couldn’t just fucking love me and allow me time.

“I’m not spitting shit!” Mad Dog roars out, causing me to shove my cell back into my pocket.

Forget me and all the things we did. 

Sure, no problem.

And two seconds later, I’m piercing my own makeshift heart to make it stop beating when I pierce the tip of my arrow into Mad Dog’s chest.

Our love is dead.

And so is Kyson’s informant.

“What is the color of your sister’s bridesmaid’s dresses?” I yell at Alexander who is showering in my bathroom. “I don’t want to clash.”

“You’re talking to the wrong person,” he hollers back as the shower shuts off. “The only reason why I remembered her actual wedding was because she asked me if I’ve spoken to our mother about it.”

“Do you normally not speak to her?” I continue rummaging through the dresses in my walk-in closet, realizing then that I don’t know too much about Alexander’s family. Which makes me feel like a selfish bitch.

He asks me about everything like he’s writing my autobiography—my favorite food, restaurant, holiday, and biggest pet peeve.

Meanwhile, I know the bare minimum, and I never spent considerable time asking. It’s not an excuse but I’ve been elsewhere in my head.

When we’re together, I recognize I’m turning a new leaf. I’m aware that moving on with him gets me further away from Bishop.

And I’m scared.

I emailed my husband divorce papers today, ripping the Band-Aid off but I still feel sick about it.

I’m being a grown-ass woman and I’m making necessary moves but still used the wrong words—that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’m pregnant and it’s not yours.

Well, how the hell do I know?

Bishop and I never spoke about kids. I never even gave him a chance to tell me if he wanted to support or even be in the baby’s life.

I have a man who wants to give me everything. And another who chooses a hot night in the sheets and to take care of his ex-girlfriend.

It seems that both of us like to torture ourselves with people who don’t or can’t love us back.

“You wanna order in tonight?” I pull out a black lace gown that goes all the way to the floor and exposes most of my back. “I wanna watch the Curse of Oak Island.” Silence answers me and my eyes flick to the closed door. “You okay in there?”

“Don’t know.”

“I didn’t hear you fall.” Not a peep comes from the other side. I begin to make my way to him when the door swings open, exposing Alexander in a tan towel at his waist and my pregnancy test in his hand.

Fuck. 

“Please tell me that you would’ve eventually told me?” he conveys slowly, staring at me like I just grew a second head.

I mean obviously, I would’ve gotten as big as a house in the next few months. 

So, all I do is just nod at the sadness and betrayal in his voice.

Though, the things I want to say are smart ass as a defense mechanism. And the others are only matters that I don’t know yet.

Like I’m not sure if this is your kid.

This would be the perfect time