Hunt Me! I Crave the Chase (Spooky Boys #3)

“Martha’s over by the stairs.”

“By the stairs,” I repeated, squinting and looking around. Trevor latched onto my other shoulder and spun me, pointing me in the correct direction. “Just don’t fuck on Becky’s bed,” he said cheerfully before shoving me off.

I stumbled a little.

“Where are my shoes?” I frowned down at my bare feet, and where the sticky tile clung to them. “And my socks.” I frowned even more, wandering the direction Trevor had pointed me. “Someone stole my socks,” I muttered to myself, annoyed. “Who does that?”

“Who does what?” Seth, our shortstop, asked me as I squeezed by him. He had his hand on his phone, and the other was holding a half-empty beer. I wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the bottle. No one had given me a bottle. I’d just had cups. I frowned at my cup next, betrayed.

“Uhhh shit,” I hit the corner of the door and Seth laughed, smacking me on the ass and causing me to stumble. “I dunno. I forgot.”

That was true.

I had.

By the time I reached the stairs I’d been slapped, prodded, and pushed by half the baseball team. I couldn’t remember why I’d come to the stairs in the first place—and when I discovered they were empty, I felt kinda…relieved if I’m being honest.

So I sat down, heavily, on my ass.

“Oof.” My cup spilled, and I stared at it—flabbergasted. Could’ve sworn the fucking thing was empty—but, hey. Maybe someone had filled it for me? In fact…I was pretty sure Seth had. Or maybe that had been Rodney? Fuck.

Didn’t matter anyway.

This was my party.

If I wanted to get fucked up, I’d get fucked up.

I deserved this.

I deserved this.

I just wanted…

I just wanted to forget.

Let me forget.

Please, please, please.

Let me just?—

I downed the cup in a few, painful sips. The acrid alcohol burned on its way down, lighting my veins up from the inside out as the room spun and spun and spun. I pressed my forehead to the bannister, trying to catch my breath.

And when I closed my eyes all I saw was it.

The thing.

The big, bulbous thing—with warts and—fuck. The way it’d popped. The wheezing hiss sound it’d made when I’d sunk my knife into its neck and blood had spilled up my forearm. It’d scratched at me, scratched, and scratched, and scratched. Its claws tore into my arms but still, I pushed. Pushed deep past the fat layer beneath its skin. Into muscle. Into warm, slippery heat.

Its heart had bumped my fingers as my knife slid inside it.

And it’d gasped—this awful-awful-awful-awful sound as it died.

As it died beneath my hand.

And I just?—

“Need more…drink.”