Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Nothing is enough.
It’s why I came here. Sure, the absence of my bike inconveniences me, and I do have ulterior motives for worming my way into his life.
But truly, the main reason I went through the hassle of coming here wasn’t just to teach him a lesson.
It was so I could be close again.
Like this.
The more he fights me, the deeper my fixation gets.
The harder he pushes me away, the darker my retaliation becomes.
It’s gotten bad enough that I made a deal with the devil, promising an alliance with someone elusive, just to get the code to access this forest.
“The code changes every hour. Make sure you leave before then, or you’ll be trapped inside. If you do, I’ll deny I had anything to do with this.”
That’s what she said before hanging up.
I’m starting to conclude there are no manners at all in Graystone Ridge, but I digress.
Thanks to the access, I got to witness something curious in Armstrong. A trance, maybe. Being in a zone? Or perhaps it’s something a lot more ominous?
At any rate, I managed to watch in full HD how he kills.
Like he has a personal vendetta against his victim, himself, or his weapon of choice.
I still can’t decide which one is more intriguing.
The knife still glints in the night, dripping with blood that clogs my throat.
“Osborn?”
Fuck.
Is the way he says my name with that rough refinement and slight trepidation supposed to go to my dick?
The answer is no, but it takes notice anyway, thickening in my boxers, straining against my jeans.
Fucking hell.
I’m not the type who gets horny easily. At all, actually. It takes lots of sloppy blowjobs to get me in the mood.
So why is the sound of Armstrong’s voice—and the feel of him—provoking this carnal reaction?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He shoves himself away from my grip, and the sense of loss goes all the way down my body.
It doesn’t deflate my dick, but it does fill me with a sort of…disappointment.
As Armstrong swings around, he punches me in the chest. I raise my fist and punch him back with the same strength he used. Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s a reflex of sorts. At an early age, I learned to always give back what I’m given. Though I usually make sure it’s ten times worse.
Obviously, not today.
Hmm.
I wonder why.
“How did you even get here?” he asks in a clipped tone. Coupled with his blood-drenched face and the absence of light, he looks so gorgeously feral.
“It’s a secret.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. You obviously came here to die, and I’m happy to oblige.”
“Not really—”
He tosses the knife aside and punches me again. Then we’re trading blows in the middle of the pitch-black forest—one for one.
The harder he goes, the more I match him.
And that pisses him off, judging by his choppy breaths echoing in the night.
He doesn’t like being challenged. Or maybe he’s not used to someone meeting him strike for strike.
“You are—” He hits me several times, most of it glancing off the mask and my skull. “—a fucking asshole who needs to fucking die! Don’t ever touch me again, you goddamn gay!”
He grabs my shoulders and drives a knee into my stomach. My breath is knocked out of me, but I shove him back, slamming him against a tree. I seize his collar and haul him upward as I slam my fist into his face.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
“You think that’s an insult, Armstrong?” Punch. “Is that why you used it?” Punch. “You really believe calling me a slur makes you more powerful than me?”
I’m hitting him over and over again, that awkward-strange attraction vanishing in minutes.
But then I realize two things.
One, he’s trembling. So much so that his entire body quakes with it.
Two, he’s not punching me back.
I’m towering over him as he slumps against the tree, holding him with one hand and punching him with the other.
At this point, I would’ve expected him to shove me away, hit back, or try to overpower me.
But he just remains still, his hands lying lifeless on either side of him on the ground.
What the fuck is this dilemma on steroids thinking now?
Isn’t the whole point of provoking me and calling me names to fight? So why the fuck isn’t he fighting?
Not that I care what he or anyone else says about my sexuality, but he needs to be taught a lesson in manners, so he’ll stop being a judgmental little bitch.
I’m about to punch him again when something happens.
My throbbing knuckles pause in midair as Armstrong bursts out laughing, the sound manic in the silent darkness.
A sheen of derangement overtakes his face.
Blood stains his teeth like a vampire, and he’s looking straight through me.
As if I’m not here.
As if he’s staring at some imaginary friend.
I shake him with my grip on his collar. “Where have you gone? Look at me.”