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I wasn’t supposed to have to enter the games out of desperation. It was supposed to be for family honor.
Duty. Obligation.
My birthright.
Fuck that.
At least my shitbag mom taught me one thing:how to win.
I repeated her strategy in my head as I kneeled to boost Jenna up into the truck.
Rule number one: Get out of the open.
She crawled over the counter, dropping down inside and offering me a hand to help me up. My boots slipped on the rusted metallic wall of the truck, but I managed to get in. The two of us sat with our backs against the cool cooking equipment as we listened to chaos unfold around us and our own panting breaths. Beneath us was that same splintered wood that seemed to cover the park. The discomfort of it was a welcome distraction—a good way to keep my head clear.
Rule number two: Don’t hide somewhere a stray bullet could hit you.
The telltale sound of gunfire met my ears, making my stomach sour. There were so many Seekers infiltrating the park. I could hear their footsteps pounding against the concrete. Screams ringing out mere moments after the shots.
Fucking hell.
“I didn’t expect them to get guns so fast,” Jenna hissed as footfalls passed by.
“Of-fucking-course it had to be a goddamn carnival,” I whispered harshly, fighting the urge to look out the windows to watch for Dylan.
He hadn’t seen me, and I’d skipped the pre-season. There’s no way he knew that I was here…right?
And why the fuck was he playing again?
He couldn’t have known that I’d enter, so it had to be something else he was playing at.
I glanced at my watch, grinning as the white viewer count in the top right corner started climbing. I knew the hair would draw attention, but the outfit Gwen chose was positivelysinful. Eye-catching.
Exactly what I needed.
Heavy footfalls approached around the side of the truck, warning me that other players were close by. Jenna put her hand over her mouth, trying to dull the sound of her panting breaths, and I followed her lead.
“Boost me up!” a feminine voice called. “I want to check if anyone is hiding inside.”
Jenna and I shared a panicked glance.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
No way was I going out like this, not in the very first fucking opportunity to prove myself.
I glanced around the truck, my eyes catching on a heavy metal frying pan hanging from a hook overhead. If I stood up, they’d see me, and if they had guns—I was fucked.
“What are you going to do, choke them to death? We should get weapons first…” another female said, her voice whinier than the first.
“I said, boost me!”
“Fine,” the other girl snapped. “Your funeral.”
Privately, I agreed.
Finally, rule number three: If all else fails, fight for your life.
