Page 22 of Save Me
“Got something for me?” Leonard asks, a vile smirk playing on his lips as he looks up.
“More than you bargained for,” I reply through gritted teeth.
In one swift motion, I yank the knife free and drive it into his upper arm to get him to move back. Leonard howls in pain, recoiling from the unexpected attack. He tries to grab me, but I’m already moving, fuelled by desperation and the will to survive as I pull it out of his flesh.
“Fuck!” he screams, blood seeping between his fingers. “You fucking bitch! You’re going to pay for that.”
“Not the same Vogue you used to know,” I snarl, watching him stagger back. I don’t wait to see if he’ll recover. I lunge, aiming for his guts. The sharp blade eases into his flesh like a hot knife through butter.
He squeals and staggers back. I twist it and let go as he falls, his hand clutching the handle. He’s dead before his head hits the floor. I can see it in his glassy eyes as he bleeds out all over. I must’ve hit an artery or something.
Bending down to grab his phone from his jeans, I shove it into my pocket.
I muffle my scream as the door crashes open. Cal, Quen, Thayer, and Harry burst in, their faces twisted with worry and anger. They take in the scene – the dead, bloodied man crumpled on the floor, the knife still twisted in his guts, my top off, my bra slightly askew.
“Jesus Christ,” Quen breathes out, his eyes darting between me and the body. “Vogue, what the fuck?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except a strangled sob. My legs give way, and I collapse onto the cold floor as I see the devastation in their eyes.
“Get her out of here,” Thayer growls, stepping over Leonard’s motionless form. He reaches down, yanks the knife out and hauls me to my feet.
“Vogue,” Cal says, his voice hard, trying to cut through the chaos. But I can’t lift my eyes, can’t bear to see the judgement, the disgust I’m sure is there.
“This isn’t what it looks like?—”
“Shut up,” Cal growls, taking my arm.
Harry swears under his breath, pacing the room like a caged animal. “We need to clean this up now.”
“Get Vogue out of here,” Thayer snaps back at him.
They’re talking around me, over me, but I’m lost in the sea of my guilt and shame.
Quen shoves my tee back over my head, and it takes everything I have to move my arms. “Move,” he barks, guiding us towards the door, away from the nightmare that’s unfolded in this dingy flat.
“Please, listen?—”
“Get in the van,” Harry snaps, throwing one last glance at the man on the floor before following us out.
Quen’s painful grip as he ushers me into the van is nothing compared to the pain in my chest. Their voices are a distant echo, the words indiscernible. All I can think about is how everything has changed in a single, violent moment. How the truth I fought so hard to bury has come back to haunt me in the most horrific way possible.
I fall into the back of the van. Thayer slides in next to me, his presence like a wall of heat, though he doesn’t touch me. The engine roars to life, and we pull away from the curb, leaving the dead man behind.
“Wait—”
The silence in the van is suffocating. Every glance they throw at me is a knife turning in my gut. They don’t understand andcan’t possibly grasp the depth of what’s happened. I want to explain, to spill every sordid detail of my past, but the words are like shards of glass in my mouth. I swallow them down with a bitter taste. I have nothing but the raw, ugly truth that I was a prostitute, that I’ve sold myself to survive, and that it’s a stain I can never wash clean.
“Vogue,” Harry’s voice cuts through the thick atmosphere, laced with anger and something else, maybe concern. But I can’t meet his gaze; I’m too choked up with guilt.
“Shit,” Cal mutters from the front seat, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. We speed down the highway, Crestmont a refuge in the distance, promising safety but also judgement.
I lean my head against the side of the van. A tear escapes, tracing a hot path down my cheek. I’ve got to come clean, lay it all out for them. It’s the only way to keep some semblance of trust, even if it means they might turn their backs on me. Even if it means losing them.
But worse than their potential disgust is the gnawing fear that once I confess, I won’t just lose them—I’ll lose myself, too.
“Stop the car,” I choke out, desperate for air, for space. Cal ignores me, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead. We barrel toward Crestmont, toward reckoning.
“Guys, please.” My voice breaks. “You need to know—who I am, what I’ve done.”
