Page 3 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

MASON: some fucking weirdo following me

Three dots.

TYLER: lol

MASON: I’m serious

TYLER: who

Mason looked behind him. Nothing.

MASON: idk. mask

The response took longer.

TYLER: what

Mason tapped Tyler's name and called. The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

“Mason?”

Relief hit harder than it should have. “Where are you?” “Uh, my bed?” “You're back at the house?” “Yeah.” Mason continued walking. “Come get me.” A pause. “What?” “Come fucking get me.” Tyler laughed. “Are you serious?” “Yes.” “You're like ten minutes away.” “I know.” “So walk.” “Some psycho is following me.” “You're drunk.” “I am aware of that.” “What kind of mask?” Mason glanced behind him again. Empty. “I don't know. White. Cracked. Creepy as fuck.” “It's October.” “Thank you, Tyler.” “I'm just saying.” “He was following me.” “You sure?” Mason opened his mouth. Stopped. “Yeah.” “You sound very confident.” “Fuck you.” Tyler laughed. The familiar sound loosened something in Mason's chest. He kept walking. Maybe Tyler was right. It was October. Some asshole had probably left a Halloween party and realized scaring a drunk guy was entertaining. That explanation made sense. Mason liked explanations that made sense. “You remember that freshman tonight?” Tyler asked. Mason smiled. “Which one?” “The kid you made get on the table.” A laugh escaped him. “Oh my God.” “He looked like he was going to fucking cry.”

“He did cry.”

“Mason.”

“What?”

“You're an asshole.”

“He was fine.”

“You took his phone.”

“He gave it to me.”

“You took it.”

“Same difference.”

“You told him you'd upload the video if he left.”

Mason rolled his eyes.

“He shouldn't have been such a pussy.”

The words had barely left his mouth when another voice spoke behind him. Quiet. Close.

“That's what you said.”

Every muscle in Mason's body locked. Tyler continued speaking through the phone. Mason didn't hear a word. Slowly, he turned. The porcelain face was inches away. Mason screamed. He stumbled backward so violently his ankle rolled beneath him. His phone flew from his hand, struck the sidewalk, and skidded beneath a parked car. Tyler's voice became a distant metallic shout. The masked man stood exactly where Mason had been a second earlier. Silent. Motionless. Close enough now that Mason could see every imperfection in the porcelain. The cracks weren't painted. They were real. Tiny fractures cut through the glossy white surface, some darkened around their edges as though soot had settled inside them. One particularly deep crack ran from the left eye toward the cheek. Another crossed the chin.

The blackness behind the eyeholes remained absolute. Mason's lungs forgot how to work. The mask tilted. Mason ran. His body reacted before his mind caught up. He sprinted down Bellweather Avenue, shoes striking pavement hard enough to send pain through his shins. Cold air tore into his throat. The tequila that had made him pleasantly warm twenty minutes earlier turned his stomach violently with every stride.

“HELP!”

The word ripped out of him.