Page 100 of Endless Anger
No one except Asher and Foxe, that is.
But they won’t tell. The only one who has to live with the guilt is me, and if I could just figure out what happened with Celeste and who killed her and why, maybe my silence wouldn’t feel so suffocating.
Rain drenchesme as I run across campus with nothing but the clothes on my back. The exercise helps calm my nerves a bit, but chaos still reigns in my veins.
Red dye drips down my chest with each step I take; I stop outside the revolving glass door at the entrance to the Obeliskos, wringing out the ends of my hair before making my way to the thirteenth floor.
Kicking open the girls’ bathroom door, I veer toward the back stall where all my stuff is stashed, crossing my fingers that nothing’s been disturbed.
Bending down, I unwrap a hand towel from my backpack, patting my face lightly, and then scream into the fabric.
The sound is muffled, but I’m sure if there really are ghosts in this building, they hear.
Failure and shame circulate through my nervous system, coagulating near my heart. God, I’m such a fuckup. Maybe Ishoulddrop?—
“Why are you keeping your shit where anyone can take off with it?”
I jump at the sudden voice, whirling around to face the intruder.
Asher leans against the sinks, a hood pulled up over his head. His clothes are wet, his hair hanging limp against his forehead—just like it did in the forest that night.
His brown eyes, usually so warm and evocative, lack any emotion. He just stares at me blankly, his jaw squared, shoulders stiff.
“Are you stalking me or something?” I quip, hugging my bag to my chest.
“Yes. But I was here first.”
My mouth drops with his brazen admission, but when he turns, I see a tear in his black jacket, slicing all the way through to mangled flesh beneath. Blood drips from the wound, coating his clothes and hands.
Running a balled-up brown paper towel under the sink, he carefully rubs it against the site, letting out a shaky breath.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Got caught on the fence leaving campus,” he deadpans, not bothering to look at me when he speaks. “Wrought iron’s a bitch.”
I drop my bag and walk over, peering closer at the cut. It’s a nasty gash, jagged and several layers of skin deep.
“The fence did this?”
“That’s what I said.”
Liar.
God, I can’t stand this man.
He chuckles when I tell him as much. “Are you afraid of a little blood, pup?”
“No, but I’m concerned you’re going to bleed out because you’re not treating this wound correctly.” Irritated, I snatch the towel and bat his hands away, pressing both of mine onto the laceration. “Your dad’s a doctor, for God’s sake.”
“It’s cute that you care—” Asher’s breath hitches, and he cuts off abruptly.
My eyebrows draw inward, knitting above my nose as I concentrate. “That hurt?”
“Obviously.”
“Good.”
Blood quickly soaks through the paper, so Asher yanks some more from the dispenser, holding the new pieces out to me. I take them, not bothering to smooth anything before holding them to his side.
