Page 169 of Bitter’s Sweet

I brush my hair, wash my face, and use enough cold water to make my skin hurt. The marks Bitter left do not disappear.

I stare at the one on my throat.

For one ugly second, I want to cover it.

No.

He does not get to make me embarrassed about something I consented to because he decided to become an asshole afterward.

I leave it.

When I go downstairs, Mercy is waiting by the door in black slacks, boots, red lipstick, and an expression suggesting she has already decided where to hide Bitter’s body.

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Good enough.”

We leave.

The morning air is cold enough to bite.

The Grave Prowlers property looks almost innocent beneath pale sunlight. Vendor tents wait half-open. Festival workers drag coolers across gravel. A hearse decorated with fake spiderwebs crawls toward the main lot. Two prospects wrestle with a coffin-shaped sign near the gate.

For a place built around death, everybody is annoyingly alive.

I keep my eyes forward.

Mercy does not ask if I am looking for him.

I am.

Of course I am.

I hate that too.

He is not at the south gate, outside the workshop, or near the School of the Dead. Every empty place where I expect him feels like another tiny rejection.

We cross toward the garage.

That is when I see the bikes.

Too many.

The big bay doors are open, and half the club appears to be inside.

Fantastic.

I stop.

Mercy stops beside me.

“No.”

“That is a complete sentence.”

“I’m not going in there.”