Page 157 of Trailer Trash

I stumble backward, thumping into the wall. I lunge down the hall, rushing to get my phone in the living room and call 911. Just as I pass Killian in the kitchen, he tosses another rose over his shoulder. Instinctively, I try to stop him, grabbing his wrist and swatting at the few remaining roses in his hand.

Thump!

My back slams against the front door. His hands clamp around my shoulders, firm and immovable.

“You didn’t tell your therapist about Evan pressuring you to become a prostitute. No. You two spend the entire time telling yourself I’m the monster.”

I gawk, unable to process this. Smoke fills the room and inches lower, dark and suffocating. It’ll reach us soon.

“Killian! We need to leave!”

“You want me to be a monster? He’s your fucking monster.” He looks at the smoke-filled ceiling.

Then he grabs my bag from the coffee table and drags me outside to an idling car, shoving me into the backseat.

The driver looks at me and smirks. It’s Brax. “I remember you. Keysha’s friend at the pool party.”

Killian drops into the seat beside me.

I wrench at the door handle.

He grips my arm, firm and effortless, stopping me.

The car glides away from the carnage that is my home. The flames fill the rearview mirror, reflecting across my face. The neighbors. The fire department. Someone will call. They’ll get the flames out. My home is okay. I’m okay.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

“Was this your plan coming here?” Brax asks Killian.

“No,” he says, his voice far too calm for the chaos he just created.

My chin quivers and I can’t speak. I’m in shock. Killian reaches over, taking my hand in his.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” he murmurs.

I shake my head, slow and subtle. He’s closer now. His eyes are darker than I remember.

He wipes a tear from my cheek. The villains’ faces inked down his arm have never looked more like an extension of him.

“You need a place to stay now. If you ask nicely, you can stay with me.”

I gawk. He really is insane.

Just then, he clutches my jaw, moving my mouth like I’m his puppet. He mimics my voice, far more pathetic than necessary:

“Yes, Killy. I’m ungrateful and called you a rapist, but please, let me live with you.”

I thrust his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

He smirks, wicked and cruel. “I can touch you whenever I want. The other day, you begged me not to stop.”

“That was you?” My voice cracks. “In the mask?”

His grin widens. “Who else?”

The nightmare wasn’t a dream.