That irritation stirs. “You need to stop thinking like that. You’re smart, good at a ton of things, nice, and pretty. And don’t think otherwise.” When she doesn’t say anything right away, I add, “You have to think you’re pretty because we’re twins, so if you think you’re ugly, it means you think I’m ugly.”
“We’re not identical.”
“So? We look similar.”
She considers what I said. “I don’t think I’m ugly, but I still want to borrow an outfit of yours. And not because I’m changing myself for Benton. I’m honestly just trying to figure out who I am.”
“You said that already,” I mutter. “It’s weird because I always thought you knew who you were. In fact, sometimes I felt jealous of it.”
“We’re almost eighteen, Lex. No one at eighteen really knows who they are. But it’s definitely the perfect time to start figuring it out.”
She’s right.
She really is.
But, unlike her, I don’t know where to start.
“I’m going to go talk to Loki. Then will you help me pick out an outfit?” she asks with hope in her eyes.
While I’m a little bit wary of her changing herself for this band/fake dating thing, I manage to smile. “Sure.”
She smiles brightly at me in return. “Thanks.” Then she practically skips out the door.
While I’m glad she’s not acting like the perfect, borderline robotic Zhara, I worry about her. She hasn’t experienced a lot of things in her life, at least as far as I know, and she sometimes has a naïve way of looking at things.
I’ll just have to make sure to keep an eye on her. And when she goes on the road with the band … well, I need to figure out a way to stay in touch with her. Then again, maybe I’m the wrong person to do that, considering the current status on my life.
Blowing out a loud exhale, I pick up my sketchbook and pencil. Then I spend the next thirty minutes or so trying to recaptures the tattoo on that guy’s neck. I’m just about finished, although I’m not positive I’ve drawn it to the exact, when my phone rings.
I don’t bother putting the pencil down—too in the zone—and answer the call without looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Blaine says hesitantly.
I stop drawing and set down the pencil, wariness flooding my body. “Why are you calling me?”
“I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing since we haven’t talked in a few days.” He gives a short pause. “Have you talked to West today?”
I recline against the headboard. “Yeah, he left my house, like, an hour ago.”
“Oh.” He settles into silence, leaving me to wonder why the hell he’s calling.
Just to talk? Or is there more to it? Like, say, he’s calling because our blackmailer is making him.
“Did you need anything else?” I ask impatiently.
“No … Yes … I don’t know …” He sighs exasperatedly. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry … that I wish things could’ve been different … and I’m not the guy you think I am. At least, lately I haven’t been. And I’m so sorry for hurting you. I really am. It’s one of the things I’ll always regret the most. And … And I … I love you.”
The line clicks.
“H-hello?” My voice is trembling almost as badly as my body. But, what the hell? Why did he say all those things? That he was sorry? That he wasn’t the guy I thought he was?
That he … loves me?
It has to be because of the blackmailer. It has to be. Still, I can’t shake the sound of his voice, the hint of fear and panic in it.
I try to call him back, but it goes straight to voicemail. Unsure of what else to do, I call West. His doesn’t even ring, going straight to voicemail, too, which leaves me wondering if he has his phone turned off. But what?
Unsure of what else to do, I send both of them a text then pace my room as I wait for them to respond. Eventually, Blaine does.
Blaine: I’m fine. I’m sorry for calling you. I was drunk and being an idiot.
I relax a droplet that he at least messaged me back, but … since when does Blaine drink on weekdays? I mean, he’s not a saint, but he’s also not the kind of guy who’d get hammered on a school night. His dad’s a cop, too, so he’s usually careful about drinking.
Me: Why are you drinking on a school night?
Blaine: My friends and I were hanging out, and I … well, like I said, I haven’t been myself lately.
I may have been pissed off at him, but after what West told me, I feel sort of sorry for him. Am I irritated he didn’t tell me what’s going on? Yeah. But I also haven’t told him a lot of things either.
Me: You want to talk about it? And I mean for real, where we have a two-sided conversation and you don’t hang up on me?
Blaine: That sounds nice. How about tomorrow? I think I’m too drunk right now to have that conversation.
Me: Sure. Let’s meet up after school.
Blaine: Thanks, Lexi. You really are a good friend.
He must be super drunk since he called me Lexi and hardly anyone ever does.
Me: You know it.
I put my phone down and wait a few more minutes for West to message me back, telling myself that I don’t need to feel guilty about spending time with Blaine tomorrow. We’re just friends. Nothing more. And I plan on telling West I’m meeting up with him.
However, guilt churns in my stomach, which is so freakin’ annoying.
I lie down in bed and turn off my lamp, keeping my phone beside my head, watching the screen, waiting for it to light up with a message from West.
It never does.
I ended up falling asleep with a bad feeling churning in the pit of my stomach.
12
West
I messed up.
I screwed up.
I’m so screwed.
These thoughts keep streaming through my head as I sit at the table with Holden, Ellis, and a group of the most sketchiest guys I’ve ever seen. One of them has arms bulkier than my body while another one is sporting brass knuckles. And don’t even get me started on the guy Holden is chatting with. He’s the scariest-looking one of all with a knife laying on the table in front of him.
But the conversation they’re having is what’s unsettling me the most.
“Yeah, we can push that,” Holden tells him as he thrums his fingers against the table.
We’re in a kitchen of a home that looks a little nicer than the one I’m currently living in, but not by much. The air smells stale and muggy, and I don’t even want to know why. On top of that, I don’t really think anyone lives here, since the table is basically the only piece of furniture around, which makes me question what this house is. A place to set up drug trafficking deals? From the conversation going on between Holden and the guys, it probably is.
My phone is turned off due to Holden telling me I had to, and it’s making me unsettled. What if something happens to Lex while I’m here and she can’t get ahold of me? Would it even matter anyway? Because I feel like, if I try to walk out of here, that knife might end up in my back.
“Good, good,” the guy says, his gaze sweeping across Ellis and me. “You guys good with that, too?” he directs his question to Holden.
I want to interrupt. I want to shout “No!” Want to say I don’t even want to be here. But Holden stressed that neither Ellis nor I should talk while we’re here unless directly spoken to, and considering the guys are armed …
“Yeah, they’re good,” Holden assures him with his arms crossed.
The guy nods, picks up his knife, and then smooths the pad of his thumb along the blade. “How about we cut a line and seal the deal then?”
Awesome. Now, on top of dealing, I have to do a line? It’s not like I haven’t done drugs before, but I’ve been trying to cut back, trying to keep a clear head. For myself. For Lex.
She needs me to be able to keep my shit together.
As everyone does a line, I t
ry to sit back and pretend I’m not here. Eventually, though, the guys start to notice.
“You gotta a problem with my drugs?” the guy who’s been doing all the talking asks me.
I want to say yes, but again, my lips remain sealed.
Holden discreetly elbows me hard in the side, and I wince. He gives me the hardest look, warning me that if I mess this up, he’ll mess me up.
So, with my jaw ticking, I lower my head and snort a line. And in that moment, I hate myself. I hate my fake parents. I hate that I got into this mess to begin with …
Then that drip trickles down my throat and all that hate sort of blends away.
Everything does. Except regret.
Lots and lots of fucking regret.
13
Alexis
I wake up the next morning to my phone buzzing and buzzing and buzzing. At first, I ignore it, but as the sleepiness evaporates from my brain, I realize it might be West.
Nope, just Masie messaging me relentlessly.
Masie: I need to talk to you.
Masie: Please answer
Masie: This is bigger than our fight.
Masie: Lex, please.
Masie: Blaine is gone.
I quickly sit up in bed. “What the hell is she talking about?”
My phone rings then, a call from Masie. Normally, I wouldn’t answer it, but something about the way she’s texting me has me …
“Hello?” I answer.
“Oh my God, Lex. He’s gone! He’s just gone!” she shouts into the phone, sobbing and veering toward hysterical.
“Calm down,” I say, trying to calm down myself. “What do you mean, he’s gone? Blaine? What happened?”
“I don’t know what happened exactly,” she whispers shakily. “Stella, she called me this morning … She saw on the news …” She starts crying again. “Blaine’s car was found in the lake this morning. He wasn’t in it, but the police are searching the lake for him, because they think he’s dead.”
Blaine is dead?
“No … There’s no way …” My mind drifts back to the call and messages I received from his last night.
He seemed off and sounded strange—
A messages buzzes through.
“Hold on just a sec,” I tell Masie then glance at the message.
It’s from Unknown.
Dread pinches the pit of my stomach. “Masie … I have to call you back.”
I hang up before she can respond and, with trembling fingers, I open the text.
That dread builds as I see a video attachment, and even though I don’t want to, I press play.
The video starts with Blaine and West fighting.
This must have been recorded yesterday.
Then the video shifts to Blaine getting into West’s car. Then it changes over to them parked in the woods and sitting in the car.
All of this West told me happened yesterday, but the video isn’t done yet. It contains one more scene of Blaine’s car driving into the lake. Someone is standing on the shore, watching it happen, but it’s at night and too dark to see their face.
A message pops through.
Unknown: Look at what West did.
Me: West didn’t do that.
Unknown: You sure about that?
Another clip pops through of West sitting in a house and talking to some sketchy-looking men, along with Holden and Ellis.
The person taking the video is clearly peeking in the window, and there’s no sound, but I get the gist of what’s going on as I watch the men put cocaine on the table. Then everyone snorts lines, including West. At the end, Holden, Ellis, and West carry out bags that I’m guessing have drugs in them.
What is this?
Why is West dealing drugs?
Me: This doesn’t prove West put Blaine’s car in the lake. He doesn’t even have a reason to. You’re the one who’s blackmailing Blaine and me and taking all these videos.
Unknown: Now Alexis, that’s not how we play this game. You don’t get to accuse me of anything. Besides, you’re the one who’s guilty.
Me: The stuff I’m guilty of is mild compared to … whatever you’ve done to Blaine.
Unknown: I haven’t done anything to him yet, and I won’t as long as you play the game correctly.
Me: What damn game?
Unknown: The game where you find the guy you wish was your lover. It’s actually a pretty simple game. I give you clues, and if you solve them, you’ll find Blaine. You have a week to do it.
Me: And what if I can’t find him?
Unknown: Then everyone loses.
I grit my teeth from side to side until my jaw pops. This is such bullshit. I just need to go to the cops.
Unknown: And don’t even think of going to the police. Remember the dirt I have on you. On West. Think about what happened in the alley. How easy it was for us to get to you. How easy it is for us to watch you. We’ll know if you go to the police, and the moment you do, you’ll lose the game. And so will Blaine.
That dread I’ve felt since I saw the messages from Masie this morning spreads and nausea rises inside me. I swallow down the urge to vomit, though, and try to focus on fixing this.
Us? They’ve thrown out a hint, I think, without meaning to.
This is more than one person.
It kind of makes sense. With everything that’s happened, all the videos taken …
But, just when I think I’m getting somewhere, another video pings through.
Shaking my head in frustration, I push play.
Nothing could prepare me for what I see.
Because the video is of my parents, burying something that looks a lot like a body. They’re in the middle of the forest, it’s late, but the headlights of a vehicle shine on their faces, so I know it’s them.
My chest constricts, both panic and anger pounding through me.
Me: This video is edited.
Unknown: Think what you want. It’s not.
Me: Go to hell!
Unknown: Tsk. Tsk. That’s no way to talk to someone who has enough dirt to destroy everyone in your life. Now go to school and act like the good girl you’ve been pretending to be lately. But before you leave, look in the top nightstand of your drawer. I left your first clue there.
Vomit burns in my throat as I reach over and open the drawer. Lying inside is a photo of what looks like room located in a basement. In the middle of the room is a chair and on the chair is...
I swallow hard.
Blaine’s letterman jacket.
I flip over the photo and on the back is written: you want to find Blaine, figure out where this is.
My mind is racing a million miles a minute as I try to figure out how this photo got into the drawer. Then it dawns on me. The power briefly flickered on and off yesterday. Whenever we have power shortage, the house alarm turns off for a few seconds before switching over to the backup battery. But that barely leaves someone enough time to get into the house. Still, if they moved quickly enough, they might be able to get in. But what about getting out?
This doesn’t make any sense. Well, unless this person is either smart enough to shut down the house alarm or they know the code.
Panic rushes through me and I have to focus on breathing or else I’m going to have a panic attack.
Air in. Air out. Air in. Air out. Air in. Air out.
As my heart rate settles down, I look at the photo of my parents again.
This can’t be real. This person is lying.
My parents didn’t bury a body in the middle of the woods.
The video has to be edited.
It has to be.
Still, in the midst of my panic, I start saving the videos, knowing that this blackmailer might erase all the message. And I begin taking screenshots of the messages too. But they only give me time to save one video—the one of my parents—and only one screenshot—the one that basically said West did this to Blaine, so it’s not very useful.
From now on, I need to take screens
hots as they text me. I make a mental note to do that and also find a way to make this house safer since this person seems to be able to get in and out of it. Then I set down the phone and drag my fingers through my hair.
I want to scream. I want to tell them to go to hell. I want to say I won’t play. But deep down, I know I don’t have a choice.
Needing to talk to someone, I call West. He doesn’t answer and, moments later, sends me a text.
West: Hey, something came up this morning, and I can’t make it to school. Sorry I can’t drive you, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay?
Me: What came up?
West: Just some stuff.
Wow, talk about vague. I can’t help thinking that perhaps this has to do with what I saw on the video. Not the part with Blaine, but with the drugs.
It annoys me that he won’t be straight with me, but I guess I should’ve known better. Everyone lies. Blaine, Masie, me. My parents.
I look down at my phone, at the file icon.
What did they do?
I’m not sure, but I’m going to figure it out.
And I’m going to save Blaine.
I’m going to play this game and win, no matter what it takes.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader!
Thanks for reading Signed with a Kiss: Accepting the Deal (Alexis Honeyton, #1). Please note that this is a serial series that follows the life of Alexis. There are also stories available that follow the lives of her siblings, so make sure to check those out.
Thanks for reading!
Jessica Sorensen
About the Author
Jessica Sorensen is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in the snowy mountains of Wyoming. When she’s not writing, she spends her time reading and hanging out with her family.
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