Page 59 of What We Bury

“There was a party,” he continues, calmly. “Like in all the worst stories. I was pre-med at the time, thought I could be a doctor or a scientist or something that would get me out of this dead-end town.” He laughs, but it’s raw and brittle.

“Was it someone you knew?” I instantly regret asking—I should say nothing, just let him talk.

He hesitates, and I brace myself for the deflection, but it doesn’t come.

“Sort of. It was this older guy—knew him through friends. He was twenty-five, maybe. Already out of school, already failed at shit I hadn’t even started. We met at a party and he called me pretty and I wanted to believe that was a compliment. I still thought being openly bi was just another checkbox, a cool funfact, not something that could get you smashed to pieces.” He picks at a thread on my comforter. Eyes on his hands, voice gone flat. “He was huge. Like, football player huge. Massive shoulders, thick neck, those big hands that make any drink look small. He was charming. All the girls wanted him, so when he paid me attention, I thought it meant he was like me. Enjoyed it both ways and didn’t give a fuck what society thought. Or at least, I wanted to believe it meant that.”

My mouth goes dry. I want to reach out and touch his hand, but I stop myself. This isn’t about me.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear the static. “Whatever. It was the usual, a little flirting, a lot of drinking, a locked bathroom door. And then suddenly I wasn’t a person anymore. Just a thing to be used. He liked that I fought—said it made it better for him.”

I have to close my eyes. My insides are a fist. “What happened after?”

He shrugs, but the movement looks like it hurts. “I stumbled home. Puked until I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even family. I didn’t have the Hangmen to back me up back then.” His laugh is sharp, mean. “I went inside myself, blamed myself for being weak, for not being more careful. That if I’d fought harder, or screamed, or been better at reading what was a joke and what was a threat, I’d have come out the other side still whole.” He breathes out.

I watch him get control of his emotions.

“But I didn’t,” he continues. “The more I tried to forget, the more it fucked me up. I flunked out, lost my scholarship, stopped talking to my friends. I’d stare at the ceiling all night, then walk until my feet bled just so I didn’t have to be inside my own head. Therapy didn’t take. There’s not a lot of charity out there for pretty boys who fuck up their perfect future, you know?” He lifts his hands, empty, defeated. “And I’d still see himaround town. Parked like an asshole, radio blasting, a new girl in a sorority shirt every week. Sometimes he’d wink at me like we shared a secret.”

He goes quiet. I let the silence sit, trying to steady my own breathing. I know what happens next—not the details, but how it feels. The heaviness that builds and builds when everyone else’s world moves on and you’re still standing in the ruin of what they did to you.

“So, I killed him.” He says it so simply, like it’s not the most unhinged confession I’ve ever heard. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He breathes, jaw clenched, waiting for me to bolt or call him evil, to sit there quietly and judge.

But I don’t. I just look at him, both of us breathing, short and sharp. His eyes are wide and vulnerable, and something in me . . . snaps. It’s like the air turns to static and I’m crackling out of my skin. I lurch forward, grab a handful of his hoodie, and kiss him.

He makes a sound—a sharp inhale, more like shock than desire—and then his mouth is on mine. He doesn’t push, doesn’t drive it, doesn’t take over. He lets me set everything, staying exactly where I want him—like he’s waiting for me to change my mind and shove him away. His lips are soft and his breath is hot and shaky, and for a second, neither of us knows how to end it. We hover at the edge, not taking it further, not letting go.

I pull back first, forehead pressed to his, heart clattering.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t . . . I don’t know why I did that.”

He breathes out, eyelids falling closed for a second, and when he opens them again the haunted look is gone, replaced by something softer and sadder and . . . fuck, is that hope?

“Don’t apologize.” His voice is shredded, low. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

I release a shaky laugh and sit back, putting some distance between us. “That’s a dangerous thing to offer.”

He flashes me a half smile. “Not if I mean it.”

We lapse into silence, the kind that’s both tense and comfortable—a paradox that fits right into my fucked-up life. He sits next to me, knees bent, hands folded in his lap, waiting. I wonder what would happen if I just . . . told him what I wanted. If I said touch me, kiss me. Fuck me . . .

I push the thought down.

“So, that’s how you joined the Hangmen?” I ask, steering us back to the original topic. “You killed the bastard who hurt you?”

He clears his throat. “Pretty much. I don’t remember all of it. I think I blacked out after it happened. The next thing I knew, I was in my bathroom, washing blood from my hands and there was this bashing on my door. I thought, fuck, this is it. Someone saw. I opened the door to find Holden standing there in his cop uniform, and I puked on the floor.” He grins slightly. “Not my finest moment. But in my defense, I thought I was going to jail. He looked at the mess and stepped around it. Then he asked if the guy I killed was the same one who’d driven a red Silverado with college football plates.

“I said yeah, and I started shaking because I realized I’d just confessed to a cop and there was nothing left to do but wait for him to read me my rights. But Holden nodded and said ‘good job.’ Then he gave me a lecture about keeping kills clean and handed me a card with this gold logo embossed on it. On the back was a handwritten cell number. He’d said, ‘If you’re done, you never have to see me again. But if there’s something inside you that needs more, you know who to call.’ Then he left.”

“And obviously you made that call,” I say.

He snorts. “Took me about three weeks. I kept picking up the phone and putting it down again, telling myself I wasn’t that guy. That I’d done what I needed to do and now I could move on.” He shakes his head. “But I couldn’t. The thing inside me that needed more? It was still hungry. So yeah. I made the call.”

“And the rest is vigilante history.”

“Something like that.” He holds his hand out to me, palm up, and I slide my hand over his so our palms are pressed together, fingers loosely intertwined. “I wasn’t exactly their usual recruit. But I had skills they could use. I notice things. People talk to me. And I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Valuable qualities in a murder club.”