Page 7 of Jayson
He feels like danger wrapped in heat. And for one terrifying second, I don’t know if I want to scream—or kiss him. I must be in shock. It’s the only explanation.
He sees it in my eyes. That flicker. His jaw tightens again.
“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” he says.
Then he hauls me to my feet like I weigh nothing, and thistime when he drags me, I don’t fight. Not because I trust him, but because fear wears many faces.
And tonight, it wears his.
I don’t knowwhere I am anymore.
Not just physically. Mentally, emotionally—whatever thread of reality I was clinging to has long since snapped. I’m stumbling across wet grass, barefoot and aching, with a stranger’s hand clamped around my arm like a chain.
The man who killed my father.
His grip doesn’t loosen, even as the black truck comes into view. Parked under a tree like it’s part of the night. The engine’s still running. A shadow leans against the hood, cigarette glowing like a warning flare.
He sees us. Straightens.
The second his eyes land on me, something in his expression changes. The man doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t speak. He just pulls the gun from his waistband and raises it like it weighs nothing and aims it straight at my head.
“Who the fuck is this?” he screams.
“A hiccup,” my father’s killer says.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” The other man’s voice is sandpaper and madness as he cocks his gun.
My father’s killer steps in front of me so fast I don’t realize what he’s doing until I’m staring at the back of his head instead of the barrel of a gun. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there—solid, still, a wall of silence between me and the other man’s bullet.
For a second, the world shrinks. It’s just the three of us. One gun. And a storm of tension thick enough to drown in.
The other man’s arm trembles slightly. It’s nothing to do with hesitation or reluctance and everything to do with rage.
I can’t see the killer’s face, but I feel the shift in him. The way his body tenses. The way his head tips, just enough to meet the other man’s eyes. A silent exchange passes between them—fast, sharp, deadly.
I don’t understand it, but I feel it.
Whatever their code is, I’m on the edge of it. One wrong word, one misstep, and I’m gone. The thought hits me like ice water. They’re not arguing about my life. They’re negotiating the terms of my death.
The man with the gun spits on the ground, low and furious, before finally lowering the gun. “You better know what the hell you’re doing,” he mutters, venom laced through every syllable.
The killer doesn’t respond. He turns and grabs me again, rough this time—like punishment for being here. Like it’s my fault any of this happened. I stumble forward, chest heaving, heart a wrecking ball against my ribs. He shoves me toward the back seat, opens the door and pushes me forward.
I hesitate. Because getting in means I’m not just a witness anymore. I’m a secret. An obligation. A problem they’ll have to get rid of. My life may be a shitshow, but I’m not quite ready to die yet.
“Move,” the killer says, voice low. Deadly.
So I move. I slide into the back seat, my body rigid, eyes locked on the two men outside. The man with the gun lights another cigarette like he didn’t just try to kill me. The killer stands with his back to me, spine straight, shoulders tight, like he’s still deciding whether or not to regret what he just did.
The door slams shut beside me, and I flinch.
I think of my father’s blood soaking into his sheets. How it pooled—thick and hot and final—as though trying to saysomething even in death. The smell of it clings to my skin, clogs my throat, seeps into places soap will never reach.
I blink, but the image of his unmoving body doesn’t leave me. It burns behind my eyes like a curse.
And somewhere in the back of this car, tucked between the silence and the storm, I understand something I didn’t before: whatever I thought fear was—whatever I thought survival looked like—I was wrong.
This? This is what the fall feels like. And I’ve already been pushed.
