by Monty Jay
Could she be on the other side of my spectrum?
Could my father have created another version of me with the heinous crime he’d committed against her mother?
I was a born psychopath. I knew that already. I’d accepted that a long time ago.
But she, could she counteract that?
The made sociopath.
Nature vs nurture.
Did being stranded for an entire day next to her mother’s lifeless and bloodstained body turn her into some form of anomaly? Had my father unknowingly connected us through his gruesome hobby?
A branch cracks beneath my feet, and she turns around to investigate the sound.
Her body freezes, and I grin coldly.
We are all six minutes away from death every time we wake up.
Breathing resets that clock.
I am the hands that stop it.
“I think it’s time we finally had a chat, my dearest phantom.”
The End
Thank you so much for reading
THE TRUTHS WE BURN
Make sure you add book three in the Hollow Boys series to your TBR Thatcher Pierson’s standalone, The Blood we Crave.
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If you loved reading about the dark, wicked ways of Sage and Rook, you’ll love the first Hollow Boys love story! Find out what happens when the new girl in Ponderosa Springs see’s something she shouldn’t have and now Alistair Caldwell has to take care of it.
“5 Vengeful stars for the first book of a very promising series. It's one I'll reread over and over again." —USA Today bestselling author, Trilina Pucci
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The Lies we Steal (The Hollow Boys, Book #1)
Allistar
I always knew I was born with a ravenous appetite for violence.
Destined to be the black sheep of my family.
They should learn to warn others about the children that are left to cultivate with the absence of light. When you take away their luster, the darkness doesn’t just become a part of them, they become the darkness.
Power rippled through my arm as I felt this kid’s nose shatter. My knuckles dug into the flesh of his face chasing the only thing that could sustain my hunger.
Pain.
The tall, lanky moron who’d thought it would be a good idea to challenge me fell hard to the ground with a thud.
In official mixed martial arts you’re supposed to stop when your opponent falls that hard.
Fortunately for me, this is The Graveyard. The abandoned racetrack on the outskirts of town, where kids gather from surrounding areas in search of trouble. Illegal street racing, fights, drugs, and half naked girls. It’s the Garden of Eden for rich kids. The grass in the middle of the cracked asphalt circle was where the fights took place, all the while engines roared and echoed seeing whose daddy bought machine would pass the finish line first.
The Graveyard is the place you come to get buried. Especially if you’re up against me.
I charge forward mounting him while pressing my knee so far into his gut I could feel his organs shift below me. My agile fists, heaving punch after punch to his already inflamed face. My breaths rush out methodically, each point of contact I let out another breath. There are hands grabbing at my shoulders, clawing at me to stop.
I don’t care, it only makes my knee press harder. My fists bludgeon him mercilessly.
Why should I let up because he was stupid enough to step into this ring with me?
Seems like a personal problem.
My heart is thrashing inside my chest, the energy coursing through my veins like drums in my ears. It blends with the screams of the people around us, the revved engines, and the smell of oil.
Fuck, what I would give to feel like this every second of the day.
I deliver a right hook, watching as my ring imprints my initials onto the tender skin of his cheek, splitting it right open above the letters A.C.
A gush of searing blood splatters across my chest from his face. A ferocious roar rips through me, the crimson liquid acting as gasoline to the flames inside my body. It wasn’t the blood I wanted though. I wanted his agony. I wanted to see him hurt. I wanted to know that he’d need to be carried to his car tonight, driven home and he’d probably crawl to his fucking bed. Where he’d stay for the next week because the bruises I imprinted were too much to handle.
It made chills speed down my spine.
That’s my not so secret, secret.
I’m always, always angry.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Caldwell, let him up! That’s enough, man!” The voice rings between my ears, but I throw one last punch, before shrugging the eager hands off my skin.
The circle of people around us chant for the brutality that had just taken place. The inability to turn away from tragedy or disaster. All of them are the same as me on the inside, addicted to the cruelty. They’re just too afraid to admit it.
I hate cowards. And every goddamn person in this fucking town is one.
Monsters behind masks terrified of their neighbors seeing the skeletons they keep shoving into their closets. What they don’t know is you can’t keep anything a secret in Ponderosa Springs. Not for long.
I know that better than anyone.
Shades of red flash behind my eyes as I stand up, hot spit coming from my mouth and landing right next to his groaning body. He’s lucky he’s able to make noises, even more fortunate he isn’t dead.
Besides the blood on my chest, there isn’t a mark on my skin. Which almost makes me angrier. Nothing challenges me anymore. I clench my jaw, as I turn around, the mass of people parting like the Red Sea, leaving me an open pathway to exit.
“Money for the bets.” One of the older guys running this chaotic shit, presses crumpled up bills into my chest. I look down at it, then back at him.
“Keep it.” I grunt.
I didn’t need or want that money. He could do fuck all with it, I didn’t fight for cash. I fought because if I didn’t, I’d kill someone.
I quickly scoop up my leather jacket, shrugging it easily over my shoulders. My t-shirt was somewhere in the muddy grass and I didn’t feel the need to search for it.
My breathing begins to regulate as I make my way to my car. Even if the fight was bland, releasing even just a little of my fury would mean I could sleep tonight. With everything going on, sleep was not something I could afford to lose.
Music poured from my speakers as soon as I turned the key over. The sound heavy and exhilarating. My left-hand grips the wheel tightly, I can faintly see the white beneath my blood-soaked knuckles. They throb so hard that it almost feels good.
I quickly throw it into gear, ready to make the drive to my parents’ home. Twenty-eight thousand square feet, nine main bedrooms, ten spares, seven bathrooms, twenty-six acres, and there still isn't enough space between myself and my family. My grip tightens, I was supposed to be on a flight to the East Coast next month. Putting an entire country between them and me.
Instead, I’m trapped here for another year at least, chasing a ghost.
Making a hard right I turn into our driveway. One that’s covered by towering trees, the paved road stopped momentarily by the large steal gate blocking the entrance. I click the button on my remote to automatically open them, pulling past them and into my family’s estate.
Pulling around the tacky marble fountain in front, I slide into my parking spot easily. None of the usual cars are here, meaning no one’s home. It wouldn’t matter anyway, even when they are here, I’m invisible to them.
I always have been.
Lightning cracks across the sky behind the
house, lighting up the fog for a split second before thunder rattles the ground beneath my feet as I walk towards the door. The keypad glows under my touch, entering my passcode and stepping inside.
When my parents and brother are here, this house is shining with light. Its glow can be seen through the trees on the road. Extravagant parties, celebrating a clipped toenail, family dinners that I’m never invited to. But when they are gone, it’s just me and the dark.
My boots echo off the floor, step by step until I’m in the kitchen turning the faucet on. I run my swollen hands beneath the lukewarm water. The blood begins to flow down the drain, some of it anyway. There is some stuck between my fingers, already dried.
There shouldn’t be noise inside the house. It should be how it always is when I’m here.
Dead silence.
Except there isn’t. My ears twitch, picking up on the familiar click, followed by a whoosh at the lighting of the flint.
“Trying to scare me?” I say out loud, drying my hands slowly before I turn around.
I peer into the dark of the parlor room, Rook’s face illuminated by the single flame of his zippo as he flips it across his knuckles and through his fingers. I spot the single diamond strike match resting in his mouth, the scarlet tip peeping out of the side.
He’s leaning back in the leather beveled chair, arms resting on the sides as he stares at me through the dark.
“If I was, you wouldn’t have heard me.” He retorts.
I navigate myself into the chair across from him. Pulling the lamp string, illuminating the room in an amber glow. Just as I sink into the stale material, resting my arms on my knees, I hear footsteps approach behind me. I don’t bother looking over my shoulder.
“Thatch.” I greet, as I see his shadow walk past me, taking the seat to our left.
At six-four, Thatcher is the tallest one of the group. Not like he needs his size to scare anyone.
He slings one leg over the other, his ankle resting on his knee, “Get your rocks off battering some poor kid’s head in, Ali?”
I grind my teeth, the pompous asshole knew I hated being called that. Known that as long as we’ve been friends, but it wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t trying to get underneath someone’s skin.
You see, Thatcher’s veins were constantly pumping with ice water and mine were always boiling.
“You really wanna talk about what gets people off, Thatcher?” I raise one eyebrow at him, taking in his Armani suit. I’d learned to stop questioning his extravagant wardrobe a long time ago.
“I wouldn’t wanna give you nightmares.” He smirks, and I can’t help the matching one that appears on mine.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t wanted to rip each of their heads off at some point. We knew how to push each others’ buttons. However, right now, I was reminded of how I’d kill anyone who’d try to do the same.
It’s why I’m willing to stay in this godforsaken town because one of our own had been scorned.
“Where is Silas?” I ask.
“Sleeping for the first time in, fuck I don’t even know.” Rook answers.
“Don’t be naive, Rook. Silas doesn’t sleep anymore. When he does, he sees her. We all know that.” Thatcher interjects, reminding us all why we are here in the first place.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes signaling that midnight has reached us. The weight of his words pilfers into the room. The wrath I’d just tried to release earlier, started to creep back up. I could feel the flames licking my heels, the copper taste in my mouth.
“Speaking of her.” Rook reaches forward, tossing a cream-colored folder onto the table in the middle of all of us. Perks of being the district attorney’s son.
I lean forward, grabbing it up, “You look inside yet?”
He shakes his head, “Wanted to wait until we were together.” Raising up a bit, he reaches into his back pocket grabbing the white pack of cigarettes. Pulling a single one out, raking a hand through his long brown hair.
“Mind?” He asks, referring to the smoke.
“Burn it down for all I care.” I say honestly. Rook leans back in the chair pulling the match from his mouth and lighting it with his fingers, a trick he’d taught himself when we were at summer camp. He lights the end, inhaling deeply a cloud of smoke gathering around his face.
Since I was six years old the only things I’d ever cared about was Rook, Thatcher, and Silas. We’d sworn to protect each other always, even if it meant wreaking havoc on others in the process. Nothing else mattered besides them, to any of us.
You never see one of us without the others, we are the kids that were never made to be good. We were always meant to be crooked and broken.
“We are all aware of what will happen when we start looking into this, correct?” Thatch asks, “There will be blood on all of our hands. Not just the little destruction we’ve done around town all our lives. We won’t be burning down historic churches or playing wicked games. We will be killing someone.”
We should flinch or cringe at the idea of taking someone’s life. But we all knew what each other was capable of.
“It’s their own fault. They should’ve known better than to hurt someone we care about.”
I remember that night. I remember the smell of that house we found her in. Like pig shit and vomit. A trap house where druggies hide out and shoot their liquid gold. I remember what her body look liked, bent and left hopelessly on the filthy ground.
Like an angel who’d gotten lost and found herself in Hell. She didn’t deserve to die there. And Silas didn’t deserve to find her like that.
I could still hear his screams when I shut my eyes. Hours and hours of shouts. A wounded beast whose pain was growing into unfiltered rage. An emotion that coursed through all of us.
“We find out who did it. We end them. And he can move on. He’ll be able to move forward.”
“He won’t move on.” I shake my head, “Even if we find what we are looking for. You don’t move on from something like this.”
I open the folder, revealing the white pages stuck between. The patient's name in black, bold letters that make my jaw twitch. Rosemary Paige Donahue. My eyes scan through the report, all the questions asked. Was the patient’s death expected? No. Was ACLS performed? Yes (By one of my best friends until we pulled him off her, I note). Flipping to the next page I find the drawing of a body from the front and back, but instead of having circles around certain areas like I assumed it would. It was blank.
My eyebrows inch together as I read the coroner’s findings,
No visible signs of trauma or contusions.
So the scratch marks on her hands? The purple circles from the obvious bruising on her arms? I saw those. They were there.
The most significant finding on the autopsy was the presences of methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) in the patient’s system. After a thorough investigation, it is my conclusion that the amount ingested caused heatstroke in the patient. The core body temperature was raised leading to cardiac arrest which led to death. No foul play was detected.
So the dirt underneath her fingernails, like she’d be clawing at something? That was just a coincidence? The police didn’t investigate further into the fact Rose had never touched drugs up to that point?
There were things that weren’t adding up. That wasn’t sitting right with me.
“Here genius, you read it. Tell me what you think.” I toss the files at Thatcher, watching as he rests his hand on his chin while his eyes scan across the paper.
“No evidence of foul play? No documentation of the bruises or the marks on her skin?” He says out loud and I nod in silent agreement.
“We saw her body. I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got twenty-twenty vision. Rose was not there on her own free will. Nor did she die willingly. She never even went to parties with us, made Si stay home with her all the time. Is Ponderosa Springs really trying to hide the murder of the mayor’s daughter?” Rook comments, taking another puff of
his cancer stick. One that I’m about to steal for myself.
Rose, was not only Silas’s girlfriend, she’d become…one of us. Slowly she’d weaseled her way into our group, making herself a friend. We wouldn’t admit it out loud, but we all cared for her like a sister.
Her death was eating at all of us.
“Wouldn’t be the worst scandal here.”
“So if a pathologist would lie about something like defense wounds and foul play, what else is he covering up? Better yet, who is he covering up for?” Thatcher asks.
“I think we should pay the good doctor a visit.” I scan my eyes across my two friends. Rook’s mouth quirking up into a smile as he flips his zippo across his fingers, snapping it shut.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He mutters.
Thatcher grins sharply, “As long as I get to cut first.”
We made a deal.
A promise to one of our best friends, that we’d figure out who did this to his girl. Left her dead and dirty. All of us giving up our plans to leave this toxic place for an entire year, just to get the revenge he needed.
Not even God could save the people who got in the way of that.
AFTERWORD
This series almost didn’t happen.
Spoiler alert: it definitely did.
I was stuck in this place late last year trying to figure out what I wanted to do after my hockey series. There were a lot of different things I wanted to try, different directions I could have gone with, opinions I could have taken.
But I went with the one that wouldn’t leave me no matter how hard I tried to shake it.
Dark romance was a complete left turn from my early work, and it was a risk changing genres so early in my career, when readers were just starting to trust my words and the plot lines I laid out.
However, I always knew the dark was where I was meant to thrive. Where I wanted to exist.
I knew it from the second I read a short story by Stephen King called The Mangler. I was thirteen, up past my bedtime and hiding beneath my blankets. I was engrossed, shocked, and totally in love with the fear. When I finished it, I realized that I had just spent thirty minutes being entertained by a piece of laundromat machinery that was possessed by a demon. I also spent the next two years avoiding laundromats at all costs, but that’s not the point. The point is, I wanted to write stories that shocked people. That scared them. Made them question their morals and beliefs. I wanted to be the friend who went first inside of the haunted house, pulling you along even if it got too much.
