The Old Wheel, page 18
part #2 of The Adventures of Holloway Holmes Series
“Move back, Paxton.”
“Luv.” He said it with so much tenderness that a feral part of me raised its head to sniff the air. “Don’t make this hard. It’s a game; when it’s over, we’ll go back to the way things were, the way we always do.”
Holmes’s laugh startled me. “Do you believe that? Oh God, I think you do.” Even under all that poshness, his voice annealed, hot and cold like the best steel. The next words were almost a shout. “You left me. There’s no going back—”
“Hol—”
“You left me!” This time it was a shout. “You knew, and you left anyway.” Paxton’s silence had a strangely miserable quality that made counterpoint to Holmes’s snuffly breathing. After a few moments, Holmes sounded more under control. “Move away from Jack.”
“Sorry, luv. I am sorry. And one day, if you let me explain…” He trailed off, the words wistful. “But right now, we’re both going to play the game. Because that’s how it has to be.”
Holmes breathed steadily. “Very well. I will try not to cause permanent damage—”
“If you take another step, I’m going to forward this one to the whole school.”
Holmes stopped breathing—at least, that’s what it sounded like. And then I remembered: my phone.
“It’s a nice one, innit? That gorgeous cock in his hand? How big do you think he is?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, even though it made no difference in the hood. Blood rushed to my face until the skin was hot enough to crackle. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. How stupid was I? How incredibly fucking stupid had I been?
Sometimes I didn’t see Ariana all week.
Sometimes, we messaged.
Her parents wouldn’t let her have Snapchat.
I thought I’d deleted them but—
“Or this one,” Paxton said, and his voice changed as he read from the phone. “‘What were you thinking about the last time you jerked off?’ Do you want to know what he told her?”
“Enough,” Holmes said, the word gravelly, almost inarticulate.
“H, don’t do it,” I said, but tears filled my eyes and wet the hood, making the fabric cling to my face. The humiliation. Not just of the pictures and the things I’d said, but that Holmes, of all people, had to know. “It’s—it’s stupid. It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to do anything. Let him send that stuff; I don’t care.”
“He’s sweet,” Paxton said and nudged my foot again. “Not much of a liar, and doesn’t know you at all, but sweet.”
“What is the game?” Holmes asked. His voice wasn’t much clearer.
“No, H—”
“Shut up!” Holmes snapped.
My face stung. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to swallow the noise in my throat.
In a more normal voice, although still marked by that unfamiliar huskiness, he asked, “What is the game?”
“Truth or dare,” Paxton said quietly.
There was a strange sound I didn’t recognize, and then I realized it was Holmes laughing—barely audible, nothing more than a breath.
“Which is it, luv?”
“Truth.”
“Is he your friend?”
The hesitation lasted only a beat. “Yes.”
“Is he your best friend?”
His silence drew out longer this time, and the word was frayed when he finally said, “Yes.”
“Good job. You’re doing so well.”
Holmes’s voice shook as he said, “I will never forgive you for this.”
Paxton made a soft, distressed sound, but his voice was as easy as ever when he asked, “Did you miss me?”
The silence was a wound. I knew Holmes. I’d slept with him (only slept). I’d eaten with him. I’d watched him skate on addies, and I’d watched him come down. I knew when he was pissed off, when he was tired, when he was hungry because he always forgot to eat. I knew he liked Double-Doubles from In-N-Out more than any human being should. I knew that he was something more than me, something vast and wonderful that I could only touch the edges of. But for someone like me, the edge was enough—just a glimpse was enough. And, more importantly for right now, I knew what he sounded like when he’d been hurt, the quality of his breathing, because I’d hurt him in a way few people ever had. Which was why, in those rare midnight hours when I could be honest with myself, I knew it was better this way, as friends. Because I didn’t deserve him.
All that passed through my mind in a heartbeat. And then, the decision to kill Paxton Adler crystallized in my head.
“Or you can ask for a dare,” Paxton said, the words approximating kindness.
Holmes’s labored breathing continued.
It was like someone had flipped a switch in my head. The tidal flow of adrenaline surged through me, and my brain lit up. This ancient bunk, the broken springs, the zip ties. Of course Paxton had used zip ties; he was easy breezy, he was chill, he was all gritty savoir-faire with a huge swinging dick (we’d learned savoir-faire in Mr. Scholz’s unit on world lit).
But the thing about zip ties? If you work custodial, you use a lot of them—they’re amazing for all sorts of fixes; you can use them for pretty much anything. And if you use a lot of them, then you know they’re only plastic. And you know that if they’re too tight, and if you put pressure on them—especially with something sharp—they’ll snap.
“It’s too much, Hol,” Paxton asked—sympathy with the bottom dropped out. “Say you want a dare.”
Clothing swished; I pictured Holmes shaking his head savagely. I knew that sound, that movement, that look.
“Every day,” Holmes said, the words thick but clear. “Until I wanted to die.”
Paxton breathed out slowly; it was the only sound in the room.
When he started to speak again, I moved—shifting my position on the bed, trying to find the broken spring that had been jabbing me in the back. The rotting mattress slipped under me, and the springs let out a muffled noise. But whatever messed-up game Holmes and Paxton were in, they were too deep now to notice. Fine. Let them mind-fuck the shit out of each other. They could keep on doing it right up to the point where I bashed in the back of Paxton’s skull.
“Do you love him?” Paxton asked.
The noise Holmes made wasn’t a laugh, but it sounded like one. It was despair tinged with something else—the void of something bottomless. “Dare.”
Paxton made a tiny noise—that bullshit compassion, with a hint of understanding, maybe even acknowledgment.
I found the spring. It sliced the heel of my hand, but I barely felt it. Forcing my wrists apart, I made the zip ties tighten until the plastic was stretched as far as it would go. Then I bore down on the broken spring, forcing the rigid plastic against the edge.
“All right,” Paxton said. “How about a kiss?”
Holmes’s silence had a stuttered shock to it. “What is this? Who put you up to this?”
“Answer the question, then.”
“You were always selfish, but never cruel.”
“It’s a kiss, that’s all.”
Holmes was silent. “I’m sorry, Paxton. I’m sorry that someone is making you do this. You will regret it for a long time.”
For the first time, Paxton’s voice took on an edge. “The only one who’s going to regret anything is your boyfriend; he won’t want his friends knowing he likes his balls sucked.”
“I will offer once to help you. Whatever they’re using against you, you don’t have to do this.”
“Fuck off, luv. Go—go fuck yourself.” His voice was barely controlled when he barked, “Either answer the question, or take the dare.”
“Very well. The dare.”
“Come on, then. And no funny business, Holloway. I know your tricks too, and whatever you try, it won’t be fast enough to keep me from hitting send.”
“No,” Holmes said. “No tricks. I am sorry, Paxton. Even after everything.”
“Do you know why you lose?” Paxton asked, his voice nasty in a way I hadn’t heard before. “Do you know why you lose every time, Holloway? You focus on the wrong thing, let yourself get distracted. Like now.”
The plastic split. The zip ties broke. My hands came free.
Another time, I wouldn’t have had a chance. It was awkward, getting up from the sagging bunk, and the springs creaked and groaned. But I had a moment of opportunity when Holmes and this psychopath were totally fixated on each other. Paxton must have realized what was happening because he started to turn.
My knee should have caught him in the balls.
Instead, the blow connected mid-thigh. Paxton grunted, more annoyance than pain, and his next move was one that I’d seen plenty of times sparring with Holmes—and that I was never fast enough to block. His elbow snapped toward my head.
Before it could connect, though, Paxton grunted and staggered and spun to bring Holmes into his field of view. The three of us made the points of a triangle: Paxton with his hands up, favoring his side where Holmes had landed a blow; Holmes in that loose, liquid stance I associated with kill mode; and me, focusing on the cans of food storage racked against the wall, wondering if I could brain Paxton with some dehydrated eggs.
Paxton lunged at me, and I saw Holmes’s mistake too late. He moved to intercept Paxton, obviously intent on protecting me, but Paxton pivoted at the last moment. Instead of the punch he’d been telegraphing, his leg came around in a tight arc and swept Holmes’s feet. Holmes crashed into me, and we both went down on the sagging bunk. Springs made a metallic racket as we tangled with each other.
With an inarticulate cry, Holmes levered himself up. Paxton’s footsteps beat a retreat, and a moment later, Holmes sprinted after him.
It took me longer to get free of the broken springs and slimy mattress.
Let’s not discuss exactly how much longer.
Paxton had dropped my phone in the fight, so I recovered it and made a solemn vow never to sext again. Or only with one of those apps that automatically deletes the photos. And only if I really, really liked the other person. I’m talking true love. That’s me, a bona fide romantic.
I took off after Holmes and Paxton, but after a minute of sprinting through the maze of corridors, I gave up. I’d lost them before the chase had even started, and there was no point pretending otherwise. The party was still going, and I dragged myself toward the sound. The phone said it was past two in the morning, and although I’d slept off some of the weed, the night had drained my reserves: Dawson, then the argument with Holmes, and the fight with Paxton. I wanted to find Ariana and get the fuck out of here.
But I couldn’t find her. I stumbled through the party, the multicolored lights making the room spin, the music hammering at me so hard that I felt each pulse like it was pushing me off balance. I recognized faces, some of them; a lot, though, I didn’t. I thought I spotted Glo, and a wave of drunk white boys broke over me as I tried to fight my way to her, but by the time I got through the crowd, she was gone. Or hadn’t been there before.
Ok. I tried to think through the haze. Where would they go? Emma and Glo and Ariana. The athletic center, so Ariana could brush up on how to beat the shit out of me? Or had she gone home; it’d been hours since I’d seen her. Maybe she’d tried to find me, discovered I was even more worthless than she’d realized, and called it a night. But this was Ariana we were talking about. She loved parties, and she’d been excited to see how the other half did it—even though that meant grudgingly forgiving me for being a shitty boyfriend. She wouldn’t have gone home, not until the party burned itself out. But she wasn’t at the party. Which meant she was somewhere else.
Elementary, my dear shithead.
The best I could come up with was the possibility that they’d gone back to Emma and Glo’s residence. I knew the tunnels connected to Butters Hall, where the girls lived, but I wasn’t sure exactly how to get there. I started in what I hoped was the right direction.
The sounds of the party faded behind me—first to a muted roar, and then to a buzz that settled at the base of my skull, the same high-wire tension as the sound of ballast in fluorescent lights. And then it seemed like that sound was enormous, so loud it was blocking everything else out. I tried to focus on finding my route and not having one of my infamous green-out panic attacks. Slow breaths, I told myself. Hand on the wall. Yes, your legs are definitely still attached to your—um, I wanted to say knees? On the walls, people had scribbled cryptic directions and, occasionally, even drawn arrows. My fogged-up brain did its best to decipher the instructions as I shambled toward (I hoped) Butters Hall.
At first, I thought the noise was a variation on that high-pitched static in my head. But then part of me recognized that it was too different, too irregular. High-pitched, yes. But unsteady. Broken. And filled with something that the animal part of me recognized, even stoned, as terror. The sounds were coming from ahead of me; if I’d been going in the right direction, which was a big if, then I was close to Butters Hall. Maybe a girl had snuck down here to get some privacy to cry herself out. Maybe the best thing to do would be to ignore it, to get into the residence hall and—I hadn’t thought this part through yet—find Emma or Glo without waking up every other girl and getting myself arrested, expelled, and possibly murdered in the process.
But, my brain said.
I cocked my head, trying to detect where the noises were coming from. Then I turned and started toward them.
When I came around the corner, following those high, terrified sounds, I stopped. It was a small room, with what looked like an out-of-service antique boiler with a soggy plywood barrier crumbling around it. Aston leaned up against the wall; his eyes were half open, and although he was the one making the noises I had followed, he didn’t look conscious. Dawson lay on the floor, blood pooling around his head. I went to him first: no breathing, no pulse. I checked Aston next—broken fingernails, marks on his face and neck, one eye a constellation of broken blood vessels. He’d been in a fight, and it had been nasty, but he was breathing.
Digging out my phone, I stumbled to the closest stairs to get service and call the police.
Chapter 16
Stuff
The representatives of the Utah County Sheriff’s Department interviewed me at home. As a courtesy, I guess. After all, Detectives Rivera and Yazzie and I were good friends.
At four in the morning, Rivera wore a Dodgers t-shirt under a shearling-lined trucker jacket, which was so unreal that the whole thing felt like a dream. Yazzie wore jeans and a tee too, but she managed to make it look professional. She was one of those white ladies with a sharp chin and a no-nonsense bob, the kind you didn’t want to mess around with even if they were wearing jeans and a tee. Her square glasses looked like they needed cleaning.
“Let’s try it a different way,” Rivera said.
I groaned. My head was killing me, every inch of my body ached, and being seriously stoned was clearly giving way to an epic hangover. Plus, I’d been through this a million times already—first with the deputies who’d responded to the call, and then with Rivera and Yazzie after they’d gotten there. Now we were doing it again, after they’d done whatever it was detectives were supposed to do at a murder. Look at things, I guess. Talk to other people. And then do it all again. They’d been kind enough to assure me that Ariana was ok and had gone home, but my gratitude was wearing thin.
Dad gave me a warning look, but he ruined it by yawning and scratching his buzzed gray hair.
“When did you meet up with Dawson and his friends?” Rivera asked.
“I didn’t meet up with them. I was talking to Aston, and Dawson and the other guys showed up.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Eleven? Eleven-thirty? We hadn’t been there long.”
“And how long after that did you and Dawson go off together?”
“We didn’t go somewhere together.” My face heated, and I tried not to look at Dad. “We just, you know, were walking, and we ended up somewhere.”
“Walking,” Yazzie said. “And talking.”
The silence sharpened to a point.
“Jack,” Rivera said, and his tone added, Come on.
“We already went over this!” The words came out louder than I intended. “That’s the last time I saw Dawson. Then Holmes and I hung out; he didn’t want to be around anybody because he doesn’t like parties. Or people, actually. Then he left, and I went to find Ariana. Instead, I found Dawson. I called you. That’s all.”
“But you placed that call at two thirty-seven,” Yazzie said. “That’s a lot of time between when you met up with Dawson and his buddies.
The prickling in my face intensified. “I told you: I fell asleep.”
“You fell asleep,” Rivera repeated. “With Holloway Holmes.”
“Not with him.”
Dad rubbed his eyes.
“We were fucking,” I said. I didn’t know where the words came from, but they had a kind of gut-punch quality, like someone had knocked the wind out of me and the words came with it. “How about that?”
“Jack,” Dad said.
“Were you having sex with him?” Rivera asked.
I met his eyes. “What if I was?”
“Jack!” Dad barked.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Rivera said.
“I fell asleep.” I enunciated each word clearly. “That’s all.”
“Are you sexually involved with Holloway Holmes?” Yazzie asked.
“Excuse me?” Dad asked. “That’s my son you’re talking to.”
“Mr. Moreno—” Rivera began
“No. If you want to ask him questions, fine. But I don’t need you coming in here, trying to scare him or—or whatever you’re doing.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not. We’re not.”
“Jack,” Dad said, “they know that. They’re trying to rile you.”
Rivera’s dark eyes fastened on me. It was like someone closing a hand around my throat. He knew; he’d been with me, those days after Holmes had been shot. He’d driven me to the hospital. He’d waited while I’d sat with Holmes, held his hand. How could he not know?
