He chuckled. “Who exactly is going to sign a restraining order against me? My father or the woman he’s been fucking for the last four years?”
The sheriff and Judge Stone?
“Touché,” I said. “Do you have a sense of shame or embarrassment? Would posting the voice mails for everyone to listen to work as a threat?”
“Are these your questions?” I heard a thud and voices on his end. “They’re a waste of the three minutes you have till I hang up.”
“Now that I want to talk to you, you don’t have time for it? Yesterday you went on for twenty minutes describing how the fear in my eyes was even sweeter than my pussy.”
“Yesterday the idea of you was tantalizing. Today it’s boring me. I’m sure you’ve heard I’ve got plans tonight. Be more interesting or I’m hanging up.”
“Are you a killer, Cairo Sharpe? Does your lust for fear and dominance ever push you over the edge?”
A long, thick silence poured out the end—unbroken by the noises I heard before. Everything had gone quiet from Cairo.
“Answer me, Cairo. Are you a killer?”
“Hm. I asked for interesting and you delivered,” he said. “How about this one? Send me nudes or I’m hanging up.”
I folded my legs on the bench, gripping my calf in a stranglehold that hurt. Everything hurt. My heart bruised, banging against my rib cage. My lungs screamed for air as I held my breath. My head ached with weeks of fear and stress, and nowhere for it to go.
It was all coming to a head. A ticking bomb counting down my last seconds. And through the fog, there was Cairo. In the waking nightmare since I received that letter, the only time I felt anything other than crushing dread was when I was with him.
I did have a question for Cairo. Another one. A question that was even more important, and that he’d eventually answer for me whether he wanted to or not.
“Are you?” I pressed.
“Why would I be?” There wasn’t a trace of offense in his voice. Anyone else would’ve shouted off at that question. Not Cairo Sharpe. “Lots of stories going around town about the Bedlam Boys and what we do. Someone spreading that we’re killers?”
“They don’t have to. There’s something in your eyes.” I shut mine, seeing Cairo darkly glorious, like he stood before me. “Something burning. Uncontrolled. I’ve seen that look only once before.”
“You haven’t. You’ve met no one like me.”
“Just answer me.”
“Why? What are you looking for, Rain?”
“I want to know how,” I rasped. “How someone can take a soul without losing their own?”
Voice smooth and unruffled, he replied, “Who said I didn’t lose it?”
I breathed hard, the air gusting through the speakers. He sensed my anxiety while I sensed nothing. “Why do you want me? Is it really to check me off the list?”
“Stopped being about that a week ago.”
“Then why?”
“Because you need me, Rain. There’s something in your eyes too.”
I shook so hard I rattled the bench. “Where does this leave us?”
“You’ll find out.”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. Glad that he couldn’t.
“Come tonight,” Cairo said. “Westchester Drumlins. Say it.”
“I’ll be there tonight.” I couldn’t have stopped myself agreeing if I wanted to. “What will you do?”
“I told you. You’ll find out.”
The line went dead. My three minutes were up.
***
My class of the day ended at three, pushing me out onto a campus almost completely taken over. Ruckus Royale had arrived to Bedlam, and no one was holding back the fun.
Westchester Drumlins was on the lips of nearly everyone I pushed past, struggling to get through the crowd dancing in the commons. The place looked like a music festival instead of a prestigious university. Half the student body was out with paint, water guns, and competing sound systems.
A blast of water hit my neck, knocking me back. Wet soaked my white tee and plastered it to my black lace bra. The naked frat boys returned for another shot at messing up my day.
“Assholes!”
They ran off hooting, spraying every girl in range.
I broke free of the party and made it off campus. The town wasn’t in a better state.
Banners hung from shop windows, poles, and apartment balconies. Either welcoming this year’s celebration or warning it off.
I walked through State Street on my way. The whole row was restaurants, little shops, and craft stores—each one split on how to play this.
“Official Ruckus gear,” shouted the stall owner. “Get your shirts, beads, and cups here.”
Venders, stalls, and people spilled out of the shops, taking over the street.
“Want to know where to find the party?” called another. “Twenty dollars for the answer to the clue. Don’t be the one to miss out.”
“End Ruckus Royale!”
A flyer flew in my face.
“Rampaging and trashing our streets, the Royale is an embarrassment.” Frizzy brown hair and bulging eyes blocked my way. This lady had something to say, and apparently, I had to hear it.