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“You have a hideaway?” I can’t help laughing at him.
“Built it when I was younger.” I catch a touch of pride in his tone and suddenly feel bad for mocking him.
“It’s impressive.” I keep the smile on my lips as we step closer to the barely held together structure, complete with a rusty tin roof.
“I ran away from my foster home when I was fifteen and lived here for a few weeks before I met Ta…” he quickly stops himself from sharing more than he intended with me.
“Why have you brought me here, Nyx?” I ask. He keeps so much of himself hidden away, maybe he finally wants to share something with me.
“I brought you here because I know no one will find us here,” he answers, keeping us moving forward.
“Wow, that sounds a lot like the kinda thing a serial killer would say before he slices up the girl and leaves her for bear food.”
Nyx laughs, and it warms the pit of my stomach.
“Don’t be stupid… there ain't no bears out here.” His voice turns deadly serious and he totally deserves the punch I lay into his shoulder. Even if I do have to pretend the impact with his solid muscle didn’t hurt my knuckles.
“So, you gonna show me inside?” I ask, getting impatient, and Nyx answers my question by opening up the old refrigerator door that serves as an entrance.
“You really built this yourself?” I check, actually impressed with the skills of fifteen-year-old Nyx. Judging by the conditions inside, the shelter's roof hasn’t let in any water. There’s a hammock hanging from one tree trunk to another, and an old bus chair in the corner. It really is a kick-ass hideout.
“What’s this?” My fingers touch the hooded skull that’s carved into the wood. I think I recognize it, I just can’t make out where I’ve seen it before.
“That’s nothing…” Nyx spins me around and forces me to sit on the bus seat. “Listen, we got to talk.” He sounds serious all of a sudden.
“Talk about what?” I try not to sound disappointed, I was kinda hoping he’d brought me here so we could make out like we did in the gym yesterday. And then I start to panic when he scrubs his hand over his face like something’s worrying him.
“I… I don’t know,” he sighs, frustrated.
“Nyx, you picked me up from my father’s club on a dirt bike and rode me all the way out to a secluded forest to talk, and now you don’t know what you want to talk about. Do you realize how crazy that sounds?” I snort a tiny laugh, hoping it might ease some of the sudden tension.
“Yeah,” he shrugs back unapologetically, and all I can do is shake my head back at him in confusion.
“I wanna play a game,” Nyx blurts out after a long thoughtful silence that I thought was never going to end.
“I thought you weren’t a game kinda guy,” I remind him.
“Yeah, well this time I’m making up the rules.” He crouches down and sits on the floor opposite me, crossing his legs. “You get to ask me any question you like and I’ll answer, but after, I get to ask you whatever I want and you can’t ask me why.” I take a deep breath because this game he wants to play sounds appealing, especially since I know so little about him.
“And I get to go first?” I check before committing.
“You do.” He dips his head slowly, like he’s psyching himself up for something.
“Okay,” I agree to play along. “Why have you been following me?” I shoot straight to the most important question of all, the one that I can’t sleep thinking about.
“I like knowing that you’re safe,” he responds quickly, not taking a single second to think about his answer. “My turn… Why do you hate your father?” Nyx seems so focused on what I’m going to say next, it's making me wonder if this question is the whole reason he brought me here.
“I hate him because he’s a horrible person.” I put it as simply as possible “He’s mean to my mom, and I don’t know what I’ve ever done to make him hate me the way he does. He’s a controlling malicious asshole…”
I’m starting to wish we had whiskey here too.
“Where do you live?” I fire another question at him, not liking his chosen subject. It makes me think about the trouble I’m in back at home.
“About a forty-minute ride from school…” he answers vaguely, moving on to his next question.
“Has your father ever hurt you… physically?”
“Not yet.” I keep up with his fast pace. Hoping to divert my answer. It’s a scary truth, but I always wonder if that day will come. For now, Father seems content to take everything out on Mom.
