Page 47 of Fragile Facade
GAME OF CHICKEN
RIOT
This guy Auggiebrought to our attention, Brady, is a fucking douche. Not the frat bro kind of douche he tries to appear as, but the fake, pretending to be a tourist kind of douche who can’t hide the creep in his eyes. He’s smug and obvious about it, which makes him stupid, and I already want to kill him. I’m not sure if he’s Reaper Corp, but he’s up to something. Maybe someone they trained and sent in. We’ve been following him around Moros for two hours now. He’s done nothing except tour the city and take pictures of random shit, plotting out the lay ofourland. He’s been with a friend, but not even the friend seems to understand why they’re just walking around.
Now it’s almost midnight, and instead of heading back to the Umbra Inn for the night, he stops for a change of clothes, fancies himself up a bit, ditches his buddy, and heads straight for Neon Demon.
… Because Ghost left him a calling card, inviting him out, and he was dumb enough to take the offer. Which means he either knows what Vile House calling cards are or he’s just an idiot.
We walk in unmasked. Tonight, we’re just three local boys out to have some fun with the tourists who came to town early for next weekend’s music festival. We were going to cancel it, but Director thinks it’s a good idea to keep it going because he wants to see who tries to sneak into town under the ruse of music. Remi and Cain help run the festival, and we’ll be around to keep an eye on everything. Plus, the entirety of Moros knows to be alert now, so our bases are covered.
Monster points up, indicating that he’s going to the balcony to watch from above. I head straight for the bar to order a drink because fuck, I’ve earned one.
Soren looks good tonight. Dark outfit in case his wounds bleed, top buttons of his shirt undone, tattooed chest hinted at, and a wild head of hair that sticks up in all directions like he purposefully commanded it to. He pairs the look with slip-on matte black boots and rolled-up sleeves, showing off the veins in his forearms that bulge through his tattoos—tattoos he’s already asked Menace to cover because some are associated with The Misfits. His blue eyes strobe with the lights, and I know because he’s looking at me. He never gives me his back, not trusting what I’ll do if he turns away from me for a second.
But he’s Ghost. He never gives his back to anyone.
“Gotta say,” I shout over the thumping electric music, “your necklace is the best part of your outfit.”
“What neck—” He rubs the red skin created by my noose and glares at me. “You look like a fucking wannabe biker.”
Dark jeans over black boots with a band t-shirt and a thin leather jacket, sure, I can see it. My hand is bandaged, and I’ve been trying to grow my hair out long enough to tie it back, too, but it’s not there yet. “Thanks.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sure.” I grin, giving my attention to the redhead behind the bar. “Hey, pretty. Whiskey, please.” My charming smile works wonders because she smiles back, and Soren rolls his eyes. “Make that two.” I wonder if she’d smile back if my true self showed. Would she recognize me, or am I too disfigured from all these masks I’ve perfected?
Soren slaps a few bills on the counter and takes both drinks, leaving me with nothing. The bartender laughs, whipping up a double in a glass, winking at me as I hand her the money. With my back to the bar, I scan the club. Since it’s the pre-music festival, tonight’s theme is instrumental dubstep or something. I can make out the instruments, but there’s a thick distortion, a lot of bass, and heavy drops layered in with them, all matched with a horror vibe. Horror dubstep, maybe. Haunted EDM. I don’t hate it.
Monster is stoically watching from above, looking miserable about it, but Soren is in the middle of the dance floor, both whiskey shots already gone. He grins at me and starts dancing, and I’m so transfixed by it that I forget I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on this Brady guy until I see him bump and grind against Soren’s body.
Oh, fuck no. That ghostly fuck is mine.
I don’t hate the way rage feels, so I keep watching, letting myself become consumed by jealousy and anger. They swirl within me, morphing into something that turns me impious but also boosts my ego. Because I’m fucking hotter than that guy. That prick can’t read Soren like I can. He can’t give him what he needs, push his buttons the right way, or goad him into reactions his reasonable self would never make. Soren has one red button, and I’m the only one capable of pushing it.
He looks at me, eyes on fire, tempting me from across the club. His smirk is so subtle that I almost miss it, but I see it. I see it when he grabs Brady and pulls him against his chest. I see that smirk widen when he drapes his arms over Brady’s shoulders, grinding his hips in time with the music. He winces slightly when his injured shoulder moves painfully, but he won’t let something like pain stop him from starting this game.
And now I’m smirking for my own reason. This is the first time he’s initiated anything. My training is already paying off. I’ve got him right where I want him, and the best part about it is that he thinks it’s all his idea. Gaslighting is usually his forte, but fuck, I’ve got it in the bag.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. The thing never rings because no one ever calls people in Moros. You wanna talk, you go find the person you wanna say something to. That’s how it works. But I pull it from my pocket and see Monster’s name flash across the screen. I look up at him as I answer it.
“You gonna speak?” I say, surprised he didn’t just text me or walk down here.
He simply glares at me, breathing through the static to convey his message before hanging up.
Laughing, I nod at him. Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re here on a mission, and that mission is to keep tabs on Brady and take him back to Axel once we’ve gotten everything we can out of him.Alive.Director’s orders.
Soren’s way ahead of the game because Brady, that city fuckboy, is whispering sweet nothings in his ear, and mysweetheartis playing along. Well, two’s company but three’s a party. I slam my drink, toss my jacket over the bar, and head to the dance floor.
The haunted dance music is pounding in my chest, amping me up, filling my blood with adrenaline that promises no good outcomes for the clubgoers. The bodies on the dance floor are jumping up and down, the club turning into a rave as the lights strobe in time with the bass. Faces morph into nightmares and inhibitions are left on the floor as the magic of the music takes effect.
It’s the start of a horror story in here, and I’m fucking brimming with the need to be the villain. Soren’s eyes are on mine as I make my way through the sea of nobodies, heading straight for him with one goal: Look. At. Me.
My eyes shift with his hands as they weave into Brady’s hair, giving the guy’s head a little tug. Brady throws his head back, clearly into it, revelling in how it feels to be a pawn in a game that makes him feel so deceitfully powerful. He’s the prey tonight. The bait in a game of chicken. He just doesn’t know it yet. His toned body is shorter than both of us, so it’s not hard to look over his head and mock the hell out of Soren for being so predictable.
The crowd barely gets in my way, knowing I’m stronger and more dangerous than they are. They bounce, jump, bump, and grind, but they do it in a way that leaves a path straight to Soren, like they just fucking know that’s where I’m headed.
I come up behind Brady, the idiot having no idea he’s a sheep between two wolves. Soren’s body might be bumping against his, but his attention is all mine. His eyes dare me to try, and my grin meets his dare with a challenge of my own. I’ve never been afraid of a game of chicken.
