Page 81 of Gravehouse

Slipping out of my bedroom, I try to remember where Atlas said the gym was as I tiptoe through the kitchen.

Ah, outside. That’s right.

I slide open the doors that lead onto the patio and step out into the cold snap of a Veilarath morning. Warmer clothes would have been ideal, sure, but I’d be lying if I said my blood wasn’t still hot from last night.

I’ve never lacked verbal stamina and can spar with about anyone, but who I decide to step into the ring with is the real question. For one? I have to care about you, or about what the conversation is about, or, on the rare occasion, I’m starved of endorphins from not being put out on a job in a while. All but one was true last night.

Toward the landing of the slope, a smaller building of glass sits almost buried beneath snow. There. That has to be what Atlas was talking about.

I crack the door open. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, treadmills lining one wall, weight machines crowdingthe other. A punching bag hangs in the corner by itself, and I drop my phone and water beside the nearest table, climbing onto the treadmill.

Opening Spotify, I hit play on whatever song and start with a jog, goosebumps breaking over my skin as my body warms into its rhythm.

I showed too many cards last night. Too much emotion. Emeric would be disgusted. I jack the treadmill up to ten and run like I’m being hunted, sweat gathering at my collarbone before dripping onto the belt.

The miles fall away into the nothingness, and I let the music swallow me whole until it’s just stride, warmth, and that deep burn in my lungs. When my muscles start to wobble with fatigue, I hit the red button, and the machine eases down into silence.

I jump off, snatch up my phone, and stalk toward the bag, an old D12 track pounding through my ears as I work the glove over one hand.

My phone lights with an Instagram notification.

I stop cold.

My Instagram has never been private, but I only turned notifications back on this morning after Khloe tagged me in every photo from last night.

I tap the screen and the app opens.

Punk handled my social media in those first years with Asher. We were never that worried. Even if people went digging, they wouldn’t get far. Not that I ever hid who I was, because that’s not how Playhouse works. You’re yourself the whole time. It’s the foundation life that gets the fake name. Yourso-calledreal life.

I close the app after I lose track of the comments. I need research. I need to be Punk, Leon, and Luce crammed into one body if I’m going to survive whatever the hell I’ve landed in. If I didn’t have family, I probably wouldn’t care. I took outParker. That was my mission, the single thing my whole life had narrowed to. But I can’t let the people I love get buried in the fallout because my stupid heart ran after a boy with a pretty smile and eyes that see into my soul.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. May as well play the game.

I’ll feed the fandom since they’ve probably seen the crazy party photos, the wild dinner from last night, and whatever else Camille has planted there.

ASHVY is over. I swear it.

Anyone see that reel of dude being tossed onto a balcony?

She is fucking Atlas not Asher.

With a smirk, I lift my hand and snap a shot.

I study the photo. It’ll do. My hair’s pulled into a high ponytail, dark waves spilling down my back. My tanned skin is slick with sweat, and the lighting above cuts enough shadow beneath my cheekbones to hide the lack of sleep.

What was the last thing I ate? God. Probably the small slice of lamb last night before I lost my fucking appetite.

I type out a caption but then scrub it. It doesn’t need one.

I hit post, shove the glove on, and turn back to the bag.

An hour later, I fall to the ground, dragging in heavy breaths as the morning sun pours through the glass.

My ringtone cuts through Eminem and Dr. Dre rapping about Guns Blazing.

I hit answer. “What?”

“Damn. Cranky, much?” Lucinda slurs from sleep.