"Don't you want to hurt me as much as I hurt you?"
"I want to rip your heart out."
"Do it, then. Fuck me like you hate me. And rip my heart out."
***
Everyone at Fairmont High School knows that Cleo Fitzgerald is to blame for putting her boyfriend...
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CLEO AGE 18
SHOCK SLAPS ME UPSIDE THE HEAD. For a moment, all I can do is gawk, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, at the tall, dark-haired figure in front of me.
I gasp, "Dax?"
Brookes didn't tell me that his best friend and my ex would be coming to this stupid Halloween party. I wasn't prepared to have my heart ripped to shreds tonight.
But it's him.
It's really him.
The one boy I've ever loved.
The only boy I've ever broken.
Dax's heated gaze is burning into me, so much so that I'm afraid his eyes might singe my skin. Or maybe he's trying to incinerate my hoodie. It's like he can't stand the sight of the sweatshirt on me. Because, technically, the sweatshirt isn't mine. It's his sweatshirt. Dax offered it to me one night, not so long ago, when I was shivering from the cold. The same night we drove out to Malibu and camped on a private beach. Under the stars. Next to the waves. Before everything went to shit between us. I never gave back his hoodie.
This worn, frayed, precious black hoodie is all I have left of us.
Judging from the pissed off scowl on his mouth, I'm certain Dax recognizes the damn thing, and the hatred in his eyes makes me want to crawl into a cave and disappear forever. I try to tear my gaze away from him and look elsewhere, but I'm frozen in place.
Why can't I stop looking at him?
God, he makes me weak.
Dax's dark hair is perfectly disheveled. Black. Like his soul. Unruly. Like his demons. Tonight his eyes seem lighter and bluer than I remembered. Or maybe it's the lighting playing tricks on me.
Frowning, my eyes sweep over the fresh cuts and bruises scattered across his face. Dax looks beautifully broken. Like he just got into another fight for all the right reasons. His abrasions appear to be as nasty as the ones on my face. Unlike him, though, only half of mine are real.
Trav's self-control has been slipping lately. He's not as careful as he used to be.
Right before the party, I applied some costume makeup next to my injuries to hide them in plain sight. Not even my family could tell the difference between my very real black eye, the very real gash on my lip, and the fake wounds. Brookes even complimented me on my "kickass zombie getup."
My brother's an idiot.
Long story short, I've become a zombie in more ways than one—deadened in mind, body, and soul—thanks to Trav. Everyone around us is still questioning my sanity, and Trav is doing everything he can to make me look crazier and crazier. I think he wants to make it seem like I'm too unstable to make any important financial or legal decisions on my own. So he can eventually have complete agency over me.
