“Come with me,” he says.

It's not a request.

With a sigh, I swipe my hands down the front of my jeans and follow Vic over to his ride.

I have no idea where he's taking me, but if it isn't to collect on his end of the bargain, I'll be shocked.

I'm starting to feel like my payment is past due.

We take all these crazy back roads over to the abandoned jailhouse on Campground Road. It's like way, way out there, and a part of me feels a jolt of fear when we pull into the empty parking lot, dotted with crows and bits of broken cement.

If Vic wanted to kill me out here, he could. Nobody gives a shit about me, so he'd probably get away with it, too. What does it say about me that I'm not sure I care?

He climbs off the bike and stalks across the lot and up the front steps, not bothering to see if I'll follow. He knows I will. With a sigh, I move along after him, my leather jacket just barely enough to ward off the winter chill. Fall is on the way out, winter is incoming, each day one step closer to my eighteenth birthday, to graduation, to a freedom that seems falsified. When I turn eighteen, I'm not suddenly going to have job prospects, and an apartment, and a future to look forward to. I have to make those things happen.

And if I don’t neutralize the Thing before my birthday, he could kick me out of the house. He could separate me from Heather. He could hurt her like he did Penelope. And there’s not a damn thing I could do about it.

There's a padlock and a heavy chain on the front door, but it's been snipped, probably by the Havoc Boys. Vic simply waltzes past it and inside.

“Come on,” he says, pausing with one boot on the bottom step of the interior staircase before he turns away and starts up it. The steps are covered in leaf litter, but there's at least a skylight above them that gives a little light. The rest of the place is bathed in shadow.

“Gotta be ghosts in here,” I murmur, following after him and taking the steps two at a time. Five stories later, I'm panting and sweating while Vic leans casually against an open door and watches me with that dark gaze of his.

He steps outside, and I follow, finding myself on the roof. The sun is setting in the distance, bathing the hills in gold light. Vic moves to the edge and stares out at the tree line, and the sinking ball of sunshine.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, but I think I already know.

He wants to fuck me here, I bet.

“Don't look so resigned,” Victor tells me, lighting up a cigarette. “I just like to come here to think. You look like you need a moment.” He passes the smoke to me without taking a drag, and I accept it, holding it between two red-nailed fingers. “What ever possessed you to date Donald Asher?” he asks me, and I cringe at the directness of the question. “He doesn’t exactly seem like your type.”

“He’s rich, a ticket out of South Prescott. What is there to figure out?” I ask, and Vic gives me this look that says that even though we're just getting started here, he's done with my bullshit.

“Don't play me like that. You play everyone else in your life. And what do you have to lose with me?” Victor laughs, the sound bitter and broken. “Fucking nothing,” he murmurs, watching the sunset.

I turn to follow his gaze as he lights up another cigarette, and we sit there smoking together for a while. All the anti-smoking ads in the world can't change my life or take away the pain. So what if I want to have one, little pleasure in my life? I don't stop anyone else from eating hamburgers that clog their arteries or driving gas-guzzling SUVs that poison the air as much or more than my smokes, so they can all get fucked. Cancer doesn’t seem like such a big deal when you don’t know if you’ll even make it through your twenties.

“You brought me here to think?” I ask, and Victor laughs again, shaking his head like I'm just too much. He rakes his fingers through that purple-dark hair and turns to look at me, his gaze so open and direct that I'm not sure how long I can put up with it. This man, he's buried in secrets, and yet he looks at me like he's an open book. What am I supposed to make of that?

“What else? You think I brought you here to fuck?”

“You read my mind,” I quip back, lifting my cigarette in salute.

The look he gives me is pure hell.

“You think if I wanted to fuck you sooner, I couldn't do it?” he asks me, and I stiffen up as he moves closer, tracing the edge of my leather jacket with a finger. “You belong to us now, Bernadette. You're a Havoc girl. There's no reason for me to drive forty minutes out of the way to have you.”

My jaw clenches and I flick my cigarette over the edge, not caring if it starts a forest fire. What does it matter? I want my whole life to burn.

“The anticipation is making me sick; I just want to get it over with.”

“No,” Vic snaps, his entire mood darkening, violence edging into that one word. “You're not just going to get it over with.” I turn to face him and find him watching me with that inexplicable gaze of his, an impossibility, a puzzle without a solution. “No. That's not how it's going to be between us, Bernadette Blackbird.” He takes another step toward me, cupping my face in a huge, inked hand. The smell of him poisons me in the best way possible, this smoky amber and musk scent that makes my body feel like a traitor. It's always been that way though, me against my body. This stupid fucking body that's only ever bought me pain. Why does it hurt to hate yourself so much?

“How is it going to be then?” I ask, realizing suddenly that I'm holding back tears. I never wanted to be pretty; it was a curse that was thrust on me. But I've suffered so much because of it, I figure why not? Why not put on mascara and lipstick and leather? Why not, why not, why not?

The monsters come anyway—whether you wear short skirts or sweats. A sob gets caught somewhere in my throat, stifled and drowned out when Vic tilts my chin up to face him, his eyes a dark impossibility, his mouth a slash of definitive heat.

“You're going to love every moment of it, Bernadette. We need each other, you and me.”

“How do you figure?” I ask, my voice rough and broken. Just like his. He's broken, too. Maybe that's it, why he thinks we need each other?

The smirk he gives me is cocksure and definite: Victor knows what he's doing to me, how wet I am, how tight my body is clenching in anticipation of his touch.

“I need a way to let my demons out, and you need a way to confront them.” He cups the back of my neck with a tattooed hand and tastes me. That's what it is, both more and less than a simple kiss.

My hands fists in the front of Vic's black wifebeater, and all the blood in my body rushes to my head, making me dizzy. Victor's kiss is exquisite torture, a moment torn from the timeline of my life that I can never get back. It both hurts and excites me, all at once.

I offered my body to get my revenge.

I didn't expect to get anything else along with it, but it feels like I'm getting more than I bargained for. Much, much more.

His tongue takes over everything, leaving me aching, reaching, wanting more. Heat sears between our slanted lips as I arch my back and press into him. It only lasts a few seconds, but it could go on for an eternity, and I wouldn't know how to process it.