The Lies we Steal (The Hollow Boys Book 1)

Alistair

“Harder.” 

“Harder!” 

“Come on, man, I said harder! That’s all you’ve got? No fucking wonder you’re the spare.” His spit lands on my bare chest, the redness in his face is the color of a fire hydrant. From yelling, from the fighting. 

My wrapped hands jab into his exposed stomach, my eyes can’t help but notice the deep lacerated scars that lay there and on his chest. I tuck my head into his shoulder, my left hooked around his neck to hold him still as I deliver punch after punch into his gut. 

The spare. 

I hate that godforsaken name. 

I’d rather Thatcher call me Ali every day for the rest of my life than hear someone speak that word to me again. 

It’s all they see me as, it’s all anyone has ever seen me as. 

Sickly blows come from my fist, made to shatter bone. I don’t know many people who could handle hits like these. I’d guess after years of abuse, he’d gotten used to it. It was a warped sense of bonding between friends. 

Old wounds I love to bury with explosive rage, unearth in this basement. They are split wide open, leaving me to bleed out all the reasons why I wish I were never born. 

Whether on purpose or by accident, my parents had named me after the chief executioner and torturer from Hell. Before I was even able to cognitively think, I’d been given a name that predestined who’d I’d become. 

Someone who brought pain to souls. A name given to evil spirits and foul tempered individuals. 

It couldn’t have been more perfect. 

Rook propels my temper with his words, just like I knew he would. Just like I need him to. 

“You’re weak, Alistair.” He groans, even though I’m causing enough damage to break him, he still wants more. 

My head thumps with all the blood rushing to it, “Shut the fuck up, Rook.” 

This is where we transformed years of pain into moments of freedom, we were beating the torment from each other’s bones. 

Using the arm around his neck, I pull his face down towards my chest, connecting my hands at the base of his head. Plunging my kneecap into the soft spot right below his rib cage. A receptive move that has my legs stinging from exhaustion. Welts begin to appear on his skin. 

Our bodies stick together from the perspiration dripping from our bodies. Using each other as the outlets we never had as children.

Sweat, smoke, and the lingering scent of rubber from the mat plug my nose. Just not enough to forget that exotic floral aroma that stuck to my skin like leeches. It penetrated the chlorine, even after my shower, I could still smell it. I could still smell her. 

The vigor I felt after leaving her there, soaked to the core, knowing how badly she throbbed for an orgasm. I could feel the heat, the juices that poured from her cunt, even in the water. Knowing I’d twisted her little mind into knots. 

I’d showed her that she was no better than us. A dirty, gritty girl who enjoyed the things that crept in the night. Watching her pant and whimper in the arms of the guy she hates. 

Chasing an orgasm on the thigh of the man who was going to be her demise. It was intoxicating. I’d never felt power like that before. 

My head isn’t in the right space for this. It’s slipping further away from this fight by the second. 

In my distracted state, I give Rook the opportunity to place his hands on my chest, shoving me backwards and away from his body. He throws a sloppy left hook into my jaw, enough power behind it to clip my bottom lip. I feel the blood begin to dribble down my chin. 

We freeze for a second, both of us in shock. Rook’s eyes are opened slightly wider, and I raise my finger to my lip, pulling it away to inspect the bright red liquid left behind. 

I’d never been struck before.

I’d never allowed anyone to hit me before. 

I wasn’t sure who was in more shock, me or Rook. For the first time since we were young teenagers, he’d landed a punch that brought blood. 

She was ruining fucking everything. Her smell, the pathetic moans, over eager hips and panting were ruining my concentration. Her existence was fucking up my life. 

So consumed with her, with getting rid of her, with keeping her quiet that other women were a blur. All of them out of focus and hazy because my sights were so dialed into what she was doing, where she was, who she was talking to. 

The night in the pool, she’d done everything I’d wanted her to. A puppet on my wire. Showing her that she was nothing but a toy I could control. It wasn’t my intention to have her ride my thigh, but it was my plan to watch her find out who exactly was in charge of this situation. 

I knew she wouldn’t back down. Not even if she was pissing her pants afraid. There is something in Briar Lowell that refuses to allow her to turn away from what frightens her. 

And I want nothing more than to crush it with my bare fucking hands. 

My thoughts were tangled, I was a frenzy of infuriation. I charged harshly at Rook, in my hysteria. Steamrolling him onto the mat and hearing him land with a hard smack to the ground. 

I was sizzling beneath my skin, my core temperature skyrocketing. I was positive my skin would begin to melt soon. 

I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to consume all of it. 

I’d taken the power back after her little cockroach charade, but she would soon find something else to hit me back with. I wanted her so broken and lost, she had no choice but to submit and beg me to end her suffering. 

On her knees all breathy and fragile. 

Rook gargled for air under me, my technique sloppy as I rotate my body around his own, pulling him into a choke hold. My legs laced around his waist, my right arm circled his throat, while my left worked as a pry bar to tighten my grip on his windpipe. 

Demons, the hellions that I concealed inside me crawled out, scratching my insides to shreds in the process. I could barely see, my vision blurry and brimming red. 

There were barely shapes, only spots of light. The taste of my own blood on my tongue made me wring his neck harder. The more I hurt him, the closer I got to catching her. 

The closer I got to corrupting her completely. Until there was nothing left of who she was. When she looked in the mirror, she wouldn’t even know herself. And maybe, she would think twice about covering for her uncle and his shady business. 

Maybe then she would regret being a part of Rose’s death. Being a part of the destruction of one of my best friends. 

“Ali…Alistair, I tap! Du-dude, I…I t…tap!” Rook gurgles through my grip, snapping me back to real life. 

Reminding me that I’m ten seconds from killing him. I hadn’t even felt his hand repeatedly smacking my forearm, until right now. 

I let him go immediately, allowing him to sit up and crawl towards the benches on the other side of the room. His longish hair covered in sweat and swaying in front of his eyes. 

I fall back into the wall behind me, staying seated on my ass. Dropping my face to look at the ground below me, holding my head between my hands. I’ve got to get a grip on my shit. 

She is taking up too much space in my brain. 

Taking up all the space in my brain. 

“You alright?” I ask him as he gulps down a gallon of water in less than fifteen seconds. 

“Never better.” He says with a tired grin, the swelling and redness on his neck clear as day. 

We sit in silence, catching our breath, gathering ourselves. Letting the euphoria of the moment settle down and the adrenaline to wear out. 

It reminds me of the first time he asked me to punch him. When we were fourteen and in his backyard. His eye was already purple from the night before with his father, we were taking turns shooting his BB gun at birds that flew across the sky. 

He’d turned to me with this, this look in his eyes. Like he needed me. Like he needed my help. 

And I remember thinking how good that felt, to be needed. To be wanted as a friend and sought after for help, even if the help was something psychotic. In true Rook fashion, he made a joke of it at first, he wanted to see how hard I could really hit. 

But when I wasn’t giving it my all, that’s when I saw a side of him anyone rarely saw. Including me and the rest of the boys. The part of him that’s still a broken kid. 

“I need the pain, Alistair. I need it so I don’t forget what I did.” 

It was all I or anyone else had gotten from him. 

We never talked about it again after that. I just showed up when he called and went to work like he was my personal moving body bag. 

“When are your parents coming home?” He asks, fingering his hair back out of his face. 

I shrug, “Fuck if I know, next week maybe. They have a board meeting for the school coming up and they wouldn’t miss an opportunity to flash their accomplishments. And with the holidays coming up, my mother has to start planning her gaudy parties.” 

The holidays were always the worst. 

Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween. 

Any excuse to host a gathering where people could admire them. Any excuse to be in the spotlight, they took it. 

The house was always full of people, swarming around like hornets disguised as butterflies. Always too loud, too bright, too fake. So usually I stayed with Thatcher and his grandparents for the holidays. 

Because it wouldn’t matter if I showed up for Christmas morning or not, they wouldn’t care, nor bother to ask where I was. Plus, Thatch’s grandma makes killer pancakes in the morning. 

“Silas wouldn’t blame you, you know.” 

My eyebrows come together, “What?” 

“He wouldn’t blame you if you decided to leave before we found out what happened to Rose. He knows what you go through here. None of us would blame you.” 

It had never been said out loud till this very moment, but I already knew that. We all knew that. 

“Would you blame yourself? If you left him alone in his grief, before he got answers, would you blame yourself?” I return the question. 

“I’d fucking hate myself if I left him.” 

“Then what makes you think I feel any different?” 

He nods, accepting my answer. It’s not like he doubted it, but I think he felt like he needed to say it, to make sure I wasn’t here because I had to be. 

This town may have been cursed with lies and trash parents, but in it I found the people I’d tear down the gates of Hell for. 

Family wasn’t who you were born with. It was who you’d bleed for. 

Thatcher. Silas. Rook. 

They are the only people who mattered. 

We make our way to the upper level of the house, both of us splitting up to shower, taking just enough time to clean up before my front door opened and by the click of the Oxford shoes, I knew it was Thatcher. 

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Rook comments from my kitchen where he is inhaling a sandwich with only a towel around his waist. 

I tug my shirt over my head, looking at Thatcher who is wearing a brownish, cream colored sweater thing that looks like it was shaved straight off a lamb’s body. 

“Italian luxury, honey. Cost more than your left testicle.” 

I blow out a laugh, seeing Silas walking in behind him, folders tucked beneath his arm. We’d all planned to meet here earlier today. Silas hadn’t been at school and neither had Rook because the two of them had stayed up all night while Silas hacked into the security cameras. 

He’d texted early that he had found something that would be of interest to us. 

Rook stayed with him most of the time. Partly to keep an eye on him, the other part to make sure he was taking his meds. The last thing we needed was for him to be vengeful and unmedicated from his schizo drugs. 

I follow both of them into the kitchen, slapping Silas on the back in greeting, before he lays out the folder on the marble island. 

“Thomas and Briar aren’t involved.” Is the first thing out of his mouth, before even opening what’s inside. 

The sound of her name makes my toes curl and the urge to bare my teeth hits me abruptly. I don’t like the way other people say her name. Something about it rubs my gears the wrong direction. 

“Sorry, what?” I say, shock evident in my tone. 

Opening the white binder he pulls out sheets of what looks like times, along with black and gray still photos. 

“I finally got into the security cameras and I found these,” He spreads them out for all of us to look at. 

My fingers grab one of the photos, seeing a teacher that isn’t Thomas walking out of the labs. Which could mean anything at this point. 

“It just looks like Mr. West, he’s my organic chem teacher. What does he have to do with anything?” Rook asks. 

“Greg West has been using Thomas’s badge to swipe in and out of the labs. I’m not sure how he got it, but he’s switched them. Look,” He slides the sheet of times to the middle pointing to log ins and log outs. 

“All the times Greg swipes in, it registers Thomas’s ID number and vice versa. Greg is the one sneaking into the lab after midnight. This was his way of covering his ass in case someone found out about the drugs.” Content is © by NôvelDrama.Org.

My stomach churns. 

The excuse to beat Thomas Reid’s face in until he hemorrhages to death has now flown out the window. Now he’s just a teacher with a giant stick up his ass and a hard-on for pissing me off. 

“Weeks of surveillance on the wrong goddamn people.” I curse. 

Thatch cuts his eyes to me, “Ah, ah,” He clicks his tongue, “Let’s not pretend you haven’t enjoyed spying on Thomas’s darling niece, Ali.” 

“You could always switch places with me. I’d tail a hot chick around rather than go through Thomas’s office and apartment. He color coordinates his underwear.” Rook jokes, talking around a mouth full of food. 

I grind my molars, ignoring Rook. “You want them to snitch? Someone has to keep an eye on them while you polish your fucking shoes, Thatch.” 

With a cunning smirk, he holds his hands up in the air, letting Silas continue to tell us what he’d been able to find. 

“I went back a few months and you can see a few hours after Greg leaves, Chris shows up, swipes in and leaves with a duffle bag and goes to make whatever drop he needs to.” 

“So, Greg is the teacher who texted Chris about planting the body, which would mean he either did it or he knows who did. That’s what we are saying?” 

Silas nods, his fists clenching at the mention of her death, “He’s the only person we’ve been able to connect to Chris. And why would he steal Thomas’s badge, why not just use his own? Unless…” 

“Unless he has something to hide.” I finish. 

We let the new information settle in. I run my fingers through my hair, pressing my palms into the sides of my head.

Knowing we’ve wasted an entire month on looking at the wrong person, but we also knew this wouldn’t be easy. We talked about this before it started. Knowing it could be years before we found out what happened to her, if anything. 

But this, this felt like something closer to a lead. I could feel the end of this creeping up, knowing when we found the evidence we needed to, we would confront Greg and we’d find out exactly what happened that night. 

We’d be able to let Rose rest in peace knowing whoever took her life met the same fate.