Page 48 of Hunting Ground

“The audacity,” I breathe, my hand going to his throat. “How dare you use that against me?”

Adrien’s grin grows sly, and he pulls me in for one last kiss before turning the car off for us both to hurry inside to escape the morning chill.

18

Nine Years Ago

Wonderlight Pier is creepy in the dark, when the lights are off and the wind blowing off the ocean feels cutting.

I stride through my place of employment with my heart pounding in my chest and my hands clenched at my sides. A year–a fucking year–of planning this and then dropping my intentions, only to end up right here anyway.

I’m relieved Ansel and Ronan aren’t here anymore to see me do this.

I don’t know what they’d think, or how they’d look at me. I don’t know if they could look at me, honestly, after this. And even though the pain of them leaving and me choosing to stay is still ripping me open, this is the one time I can say that I’d rather them not be here.

“I miss you guys,” I whisper into the cold air that stings my lips. It steals away the words, but I find I prefer that to the alternative.

I’d promised them I wouldn’t miss them too terribly. That I could find my own meaning and a better job than working at the pier before the year is up.

Though I guess that I hadn’t lied.

I won’t be working here after the place sells.

And certainly not after tonight.

I pass the carousel and my stomach twists, causing my steps to slow. I’ve never liked it here, for all that I’ve tried throughout the past few years. But tonight, it feels different.

It feels cold in a way I can’t explain, even to myself.

Finally, my feet bring me to the outside of the manager’s office, where the light from the window burns as the only thing alive on all of Wonderlight Pier.

It didn’t used to be like this.

Before Ansel and Ronan had left, this place hadn’t been quite so bad. There hadn’t been so many nights where our hours had been cut, or so many nights where the number of guests had been less than half of what any of us expected.

It’s starting to show, I can’t help but notice. The repairs aren’t quite so frequent, and the decorations are starting to look raggedy. My heart twists in my chest and I stare blankly around me at the place that used to be a local treasure and tourist trap.

Nothing feels the same as it once did.

From where I’m standing, no one inside the small trailer that encompasses the tiny manager’s office will be able to see me. The light pours from a few feet to my left, and I’m careful not to get close enough to be spotted.

“Yeah. Sure.” A snort, then a disgustingly slimy laugh that makes my nerves recoil. I hear this voice every single day, and it’s never once stopped giving me the heebie jeebies.

My manager, Carl, laughs again. “Oh, I know, Marcus. Uh huh.” His chair squeaks and when I turn to finally face the window, it’s to see him spinning in the chair that’s seen way better days. Secretly, I hope that it gives out under him, impaling him against the floor with a chair pole up his ass. That would bring me the utmost joy.

For a few minutes after he hangs up the phone, I don’t move. My confidence falters, and I sag back against the side of the building. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe quitting will be quicker, easier, and more worth it.

“Fuck,” I whisper, deciding against my bolder plans that would definitely get me in a worse situation than I’m already in. But I’m not leaving here tonight without doing something.

I bang open the door before I can stop myself, then freeze when Carl jumps, one hand grasping a syringe in his chubby fingers, the other arm stretched out with his hand resting on the desk.

“What the fuck?” I breathe, my eyes wide.

“Sable?” His hand jerks and he hisses in pain, his attention going back to the depressing plunger and the syringe sticking out of his arm.

The sight of it makes my nose curl in disgust and I take a step back before forcing myself not to retreat further. "Pretty sure Mr. Mahoney wouldn’t really approve of you doing that here,” I breathe at last, digging in my pocket and pulling my phone up and out. I’m quick to take a few pictures as Carl scrambles, panicking to rip the needle out and unwrap the makeshift tourniquet from his arm.

All I can do is watch him. Now that I’m seeing him without the long sleeves that he wears no matter the weather, I can see that his arms are littered with track marks, and his veins are shot to hell from the abuse.