3:30pm

49: hysteria

Right then, moments before the call was set to end, I made up my mind that if Cleo didn't answer her phone before the call cut, or if I went to Mikayla's so we could talk because she refused to pick up her call, and she still refuses to speak to me then I would move on.

Yeah, it wasn't going to be easy and it'll probably take months but no way in hell was I going to keep feening over one girl, subjecting my mental health to her motions, literally dancing to her every fucking tune for the past three years now. Bullshit. I was sick of that.

Just when the call was about to end, right at that second before it was timed to stop, she picked up. She actually did pick up the call. On realizing, I snapped my gaze back to the screen of my phone, my heart already doing a 90 miles per minute race.

"Cleo," I said slowly, making sure my voice was free of any emotion that'd give away the fact that I was glad, more than glad, that she answered.

I wiped the sweat that'd gathered above my upper lip away with the back of my hand, holding back a relieved chuckle. "Hey, Cleo."

"Stephen."

At first, my mind didn't register the thought the sound of the voice brought to me, refused to actually, simply because it was absurd. Impossible. But the moment I allowed myself to believe reality, all the blood drained from my face, a sudden wave of heat washing over me from my head down to my very toes. My mouth dropped open, beads of sweat already forming on my forehead and above my upper lip—the parts of my face where sweat gathered the quickest.

"Johnny." Was all I could get out, my voice a mere whisper.

Still shell-shocked, my mind and brain feeling like they'd been doused with a numbing potion, I stared straight ahead with wide eyes at the peeling paint of the fence. Stared at the fence without really seeing it.

"You're the one that called the cops, aren't you?" Johnny's voice was calm . . . the way it always was right before he rained down hell on his victim. "Aren't you, Stephen?"

"N-no, no, Johnny, I-I didn't," I stuttered, blinking severally as I wiped off the sweat rolling down my forehead toward my eye. "It wasn't me, I swear. I don't even know what you're talking about."

How in the world does he have Cleo's phone with him? Oh, God. God, please.

"Bullshit!" Johnny exploded suddenly. That was it. Right there. The storm.

"Where the fuck are you then?" He boomed.

I could literally visualize him standing before me, spittle flying out his mouth and landing on my jacket as he shouted. "Where in the fuck are you?! And you were the one sent to get the men. ONLY YOU! The cops shouldn't know their way here unless someone led the fucking way for them and you did!"

"Johnny, wait." I tried to take hold of the situation. The fact that he had Cleo's phone meant one thing—he had Cleo too. And Johnny was a ticking time bomb. All he needed was a little push too far before he exploded. No way was I letting Cleo be the victim to that. No way in fucking hell.

"I didn't—" I continued when he cut in.

"You betrayed me, Stephen." His voice was low now, the calm. "I intentionally didn't put you in the frontlines because I didn't want a repeat of Malone, I didn't want you winding up dead like your brother. But I guess I was wrong about you." He paused. Sucked in a breath through his teeth. Let it out.

"I guess I was fucking wrong," he murmured, almost like he was contemplating it. And then his voice went up again. Not yelling, no, his calm voice, the one that ushered in the storm.

"I have a gift for you, Stephen," he said.

I clasped a hand to my mouth, suddenly feeling like I was running short of breath because my lungs were slowly collapsing.