The Truths we Burn (The Hollow Boys Book 2)

by Monty Jay

  “Sage!” she scolds, laughing louder, “I know you find it hard to believe, but Silas makes me happy.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. She’d been saying that since they met in middle school, always trying to convince me of how tame he was, how sweet he could be. So much so that it was easy for her to overlook all the other hell they caused.

  “It’s not about you being happy. It’s about you being safe.”

  “You sure it’s not about my reputation?”

  I click my tongue. “Your reputation is a part of being safe. What are you going to do when Silas says the wrong thing to someone? What are you going to do when that loud-ass Rook pushes someone too far?”

  My mind sends me flashes of Rook’s face as he stared directly at Easton with a look so full of fury that for a second I was afraid he’d catch fire. His green eyes had become a forest fire, the tops of stunning pines torched by raging orange flames.

  I’d never seen anything like it.

  Rosemary grins. “I think he might like you.”

  I recoil, not expecting that from her. “I was seconds away from breaking a nail off in his eye. I was going to waste a perfectly curated set of acrylics for a Hollow Boy. We were fighting, Ro. Or did you just not see that part?”

  The blush that warms my face irritates me.

  Rook Van Doren does not get to make me blush. Just like he doesn’t get to make me angry. He doesn’t get to see anything other than what I show him.

  Rook Van Doren does not affect me.

  “There isn’t a difference for him. Flirting, fighting. It’s all the same for RVD.”

  I shouldn’t care, and I don’t.

  This is just a chance to gather more secrets, to uncover more dirt on the boys that are a mystery to everyone. The perfect people to have leverage on.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just refer to him by his initials. So what does that even mean? This is not kindergarten where boys are mean to us if they like us.”

  She rolls over to her back with a sigh. “He’s the one I know least about. I know his mom died, and his relationship with his father is awful. But what I can tell you, from what I’ve seen over all these years, is he enjoys lighting things on fire, and his emotions are all the same. Rook Van Doren does not give attention to things he deems boring. If he notices you, if you interest him, you’ll know it.” She glances over at me. “And I’d say he noticed you.”

  “Yeah, well, he can point his attention elsewhere. I have no urge to come into contact with him ever again.”

  We fall into a pleasant silence, the comfort of being next to one another soothing not only her but me as well. Underneath this blanket, I think of what my life will be like years down the road, after I graduate this year.

  Just one more school year, Sage. Keep it together for one more year.

  And it’ll be your best performance yet.

  Rook

  Homecoming.

  Where the entire town comes out and watches high school students drive around downtown on excessive floats. Sports teams, homecoming attendants, local businesses, school clubs, anyone and anything involved with the school sits in these and waves as they pass.

  I wonder if they know how stupid they look from the outside.

  To each their own, but I can’t find the fun in sitting on the side of the road to watch teenagers wave and smile. Just say you peaked in high school and stay home.

  All it’s doing is boosting the already colossal egos of my peers and their infatuations with their own image.

  Music blasts through my headphones into my ears, the current song bouncing around violently in my head. My throttle hand tightens, pulling back a little more, spurring my bike forward with a sharp whine of the engine.

  Wind pushes up my black hoodie, and the world outside is tinted light brown from the matte-black visor that is technically illegal to use on the road, but I doubt any police car would be able to chase me down on this thing.

  Riding is a blank space. Even when I’m high, I’m still filled with thoughts and memories. But when I’m riding, everything is gone. I’m a complete white sheet with nothing scribbled on me.

  It’s the nearest thing to flying unaided that anyone will ever know.

  The speedometer’s hand ticks past eighty-five, climbing higher every second. There’s a thrill in knowing if I tilt the wrong way by even an inch, I’ll become another piece of the pavement. Nothing but a road-burnt pancake.

  That’s the thing about fear. At the root, it’s just the fear of dying, right? You’re not scared of the actual experience, just the aftermath.

  So fear doesn’t work for me. We found out early in our lives that fear doesn’t work on any of us. Not when you’re already dead on the inside. When you’re racing the Grim Reaper to the grave. When you could not care less if the world ever saw your existence ever again.

  Adrenaline junkies on an intense scale.

  For me, any chance to either hurt myself or put myself in a situation that would increase my epinephrine levels, I would do in a heartbeat. There is just something about that natural high that makes me feel electric. It makes me feel like my body is on fire, and I love that feeling.

  My body leans with a curve, emerging through the soaring pine trees and heading into the town of Ponderosa Springs. It’s a square of sorts, and right now everyone and their mother is on the east side of this shit swamp.

  The parade lasts right until dusk, meaning we have another thirty minutes to do what we came here to do and leave before anyone else sees us.

  Like ghosts, you could feel us in the air, but you’d never be able to prove it.

  Or demons that hide inside your closet, only coming out when we want you to see us.

  I drive through the empty street towards the town hall. Confetti, balloons, and candy cover the asphalt, a clear sign that this side has already been passed through.

  My bike skids to a halt when I pull in front of the building. What used to be a Catholic church had been turned into the town hall. It had been here since the founding of the town, upgraded to stand the test of time. It’s where my father worked fifty percent of the time.

  I hit the kill switch, my toe kicking the stand, and I slowly ease my way off my bike. Removing my helmet and setting it on the seat, I pull out a cigarette and sit on the concrete steps below the fountain in front of the building.

  Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I see a message from Silas.

  Passing the pharmacy now.

  That was three minutes ago, so we have roughly twenty minutes before the entire town makes their way back to where I’m currently sitting. The parade always starts and ends in the same spot every year.

  Halfway finished with my dart, I see the lights of a brand-new Range Rover coming towards me. My leg begins to bounce, and my fingers hum with anticipation.

  Welcome to the gates of hell. The show is about to begin.

  “I hate homecoming,” Alistair says, hopping out of the front seat of a car that does not belong to him. The control freak inside of him wouldn’t let me and Silas handle this on our own.

  Plus, we have a mob mentality. You hurt one. You hurt us all.

  I scoff at the cheesy white words written on the windows, things like, “QB1” “State!” “#7 Sinclair”

  Never understood the obsession people have with high school sports.

  “What don’t you hate?” Thatcher replies, sliding out of the passenger seat. I’ve known him a long time, and I know he’s petty, makes jokes, plays piano, and enjoys pissing people off.

  Yet there are pieces of Thatcher I’ve never understood. Parts of him that are darker than my own. It’s when he gets quiet that the world needs to fear him.

  The day he finally gives into his heritage is the day the world will pay for what they made him into.

  Even I get goosebumps thinking about it.

  “Hitting people.” Alistair smirks, bumping shoulders with Thatch as they make their way in my direction. The two of them
had been tasked with jacking Easton’s car and meeting me here, while Silas is keeping an eye on the traffic.

  “False,” I start, tossing my cigarette to the ground. “You hate the town’s homecoming. Ours is always fun.”

  “You got cigarettes?”

  I reach into my pocket, tossing the pack at Alistair, his leather jacket shifting as he catches them. My part of this begins now as I open my black book bag, the inside filled with everything you need to be thrown in prison for an arson charge, and pull out two empty bottles of whiskey, ones that I’d taken from the trash can in my own home.

  “Lighter?”

  I raise my eyes to my dark-headed friend, Alistair.

  “You want me to smoke it for you too?” I joke, tossing him my Zippo. “Don’t fucking steal that one. It’s my favorite.”

  He inspects the front of the lighter, arching an eyebrow, and lights his smoke before throwing it back to me. “Your favorite Zippo out of that entire massive collection is the one with your initials on it? A little fond of yourself, aren’t you?”

  I roll my eyes as I squirt isopropyl alcohol into the inside of the whiskey bottles. “Says the one who likes leaving imprints of his own initials on people’s faces.”

  We share a laugh while I work my pyromaniac magic, soaking a few rags in the alcohol before shoving them into the tops of the bottles, leaving a few inches hanging out of them.

  “Look at him, our little chemistry nerd.” Thatcher rubs my hair, and I refrain from smacking the shit out of him.

  “This has absolutely jack shit to do with chemistry. You can literally Google this. Four-year-olds could do it.”

  “Well, let’s speed this process up. They’re headed back, and I want to get a good spot to watch Easton’s face when he shows up.”

  I nod, heeding his warning and working quickly. Taking both bottles, I pull out my matches, striking one and watching the orange burst from the stick. My blood boils as I touch the flame to the rags hanging from the neck of the bottles. As I light them, I hope every time Sinclair sees his car he’ll think back to the words he spat at that diner.

  He’ll think twice about pushing me too far next time. He’ll watch his mouth when it comes to Rose, when it comes to my friends.

  This is a warning.

  I’m consuming his car now, but the next time, it will be him I watch burn.

  With agile movements, I rear back and chuck one bottle at a time through the Range Rover’s windows. One lands in the back seat and the other in the front. It won’t be long before the real action begins.

  Two loud cracks like a whip against wet skin spark into the air as the glass bottles explode inside the car, swarming the vehicle in an inferno of retribution.

  “Let the show begin, boys.”

  My mouth begins to water as I move my bike up the hill past the town hall, a small knoll where we won’t be seen but has the perfect view of the disarray we are about to cause.

  My foot bounces as I reach into my pocket, grabbing another cigarette to smoke while we watch. I watch as the entire town rolls in front of their star quarterback’s torched car.

  The entire vehicle is completely up in smoke, covered from back to front.

  Goosebumps race down my spine as I watch the flames dance, swirl, and spin with fascination, seeing every single sin I’ve ever committed inside of them. The embers floating off into the open air remind me of the tiny pieces that are left of my soul.

  There were times when I was young, I would hear fire trucks pass my house, and I’d desperately try to chase them, running behind their sirens so I could see what it was they were racing to put out.

  I’d only successfully made it to three, but every time, I was jealous that I wasn’t the creator of that blaze. It was beyond my control sometimes.

  A sickness.

  One that rushed through my veins and spun around every cord of my DNA. It infected me all over. A sickness that I refused to cure.

  My heart pounds in my chest, my palms sweaty as I grin from our spot on the hill, looking down at their horrified faces. Easton is losing his fucking mind as people desperately attempt to dull the fire.

  It’s total mayhem.

  Parents gathering their children.

  Students yelling.

  The football team using their letterman jackets to swat at the sea of flames.

  And then there is her.

  Pretty poison in her tight cheerleading uniform that wraps around her like a second skin. A long-sleeve top that squeezes her perky breasts and leaves her diamond belly ring glinting in what’s left of the sunset. The forest green of her outfit is the complete opposite of her curled, red hair, only making her stand out more.

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, dying to know what’s underneath that skirt.

  By nature, she is seamlessly made.

  Designed for deception.

  You are taught to steer clear of beautiful things in the wild. Exquisitely colored frogs with neon patterns, stunning jellyfish that glow with their bioluminescence, exotic caterpillars that seem friendly enough to pet—they are all designed to bring attention and ward off danger.

  Other creatures know to steer clear of the pretty things of the world. Humans feel the need to ignore those warnings, feel the need to touch even when we shouldn’t.

  Leave the beautiful things alone, they tell you.

  They speak the same things about fire.

  And, well, we see how well I listened to those tales of caution.

  Sage

  “Fucking mentally deranged rejects!”

  My boyfriend of choice yells as he kicks the tire of his burnt Range Rover. I hated that car to begin with, so this almost seems like an improvement.

  Our homecoming parade has officially gone up in smoke.

  Pun intended.

  Madness and confusion sweep over the rambunctious crowd that has gathered to watch their high school students celebrate before our rival football game tomorrow. Children scream for their parents, students speed away as quickly as possible.

  Sure, it’s just a car on fire, but everyone knows who’s responsible, and no one, not a single soul, wants to wait around to see if they have more in store.

  My friends, or lack thereof, had abandoned me as soon as danger was detected, and considering I had ridden with the target of their rage, I’m going to need to find a ride home.

  Even as people dart past me and spectators whisper, I’m caught in a momentary daze watching the orange blaze overtake the vehicle, knowing deep in my stomach every cruel intention that was meant when they set that fire.

  This is a warning.

  A message.

  One that should not be taken lightly.

  “Watch your language in public, son.”

  Stephen Sinclair’s voice means business as always. It has to, being the dean of a world-renowned university known for breeding some of the world’s most successful adults. There isn’t much he misses or lets his son get away with.

  Dating Easton did leaps and bounds for my reputation, but the same energy isn’t reciprocated when it comes to anything outside the public image.

  He cowers in situations where he should stand his ground. Always fading into the blur of normalcy. Nothing he ever did excited me.

  Ignited me.

  Yes, he’s blinding to look at, but he never made my heart skip or butteries flutter between my thighs. Which means breaking up with him after graduation will be a breeze.

  Until then, I’ll continue letting him tote me around like a Pomeranian shoved inside a Prada bag.

  “Dad, but my fu—” Easton starts but stops his sentence when Stephen’s eyes laser through him. A glare that says if you say another curse word, you’ll regret it.

  People linger, watching from a safe distance but close enough to hear any form of drama they could scoop up. His father knows that; he’s always aware of prying eyes and open ears.

  “My car is totaled, and don’t act like you don’t know who did it! I’m not
letting his father get him out of this one.” He seethes. The nice boy who wears ties on game days is gone.

  There is a moment of silence, one that hangs like a pendulum in the air, swaying back and forth, getting closer to Easton’s throat.

  With practiced form, Stephen holds his phone to his ear with a tight smile, while the other hand dusts his son’s letterman jacket off before resting his fingers there.

  “You let me worry about the car and who is responsible. And don’t you dare think of retaliating, do you understand?” he warns with a severe tone, squeezing Easton’s shoulder with a deeper grip.

  Then like a switch, his smile is genuine as he turns to the rest of the remaining crowd.

  “Plus, we have a football game to win tomorrow night, isn’t that right?” he booms.

  The people clap and cheer, the fire completely out and forgotten about. This place is very good at covering up shit with fake happiness.

  My boyfriend is overtaken by his football team, all of them scooping him up onto their shoulders like some sacrificial lamb, boosting his ego and rekindling his already huge God complex.

  The sun has almost completely set, and my uniform is starting to itch. There’s a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream and a rerun of Sixteen Candles calling my name.

  I pull my phone out of my purse, knowing Rose won’t drive here, and my mother is getting a spa treatment, so that leaves my dad.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Easton approaches me with a grin, still laughing at his friends as they shove him in my direction.

  “Well, considering your car looks like my mother’s attempts at cooking, I’m going to need a ride. I’m texted my dad to pick me up.” I wiggle my phone at him, smiling for a short minute.

  “Mind cutting the attitude?” he says. “I thought girlfriends were supposed to comfort their boyfriends after tragic events, not act like spoiled brats. I thought you told me you were coming to the party?”

  “Your Range Rover got set on fire, it’s not like your dog died,” I return with a snippy tone. If he wants an attitude, that’s what I’ll give him. “No, Easton, I told you I wasn’t going. I have homework, and I’m exhausted.”