course, when she woke up.
She lay back in her bed, heart still racing, body warm and pulsing from what might have been. It was still dark out, but she could feel morning was not far off. She was going to have to stay away from Anton Quinn for the rest of her visit.
She thought about doing something about how incredibly turned on she was but decided she didn’t even want to indulge in those sensations from a dream. It might only make the old crush resurface, and she really didn’t need that.
Taylor shifted uncomfortably in bed, feeling hot and achy. It took a lot of willpower not to touch herself and just ease the tension a little. What she wanted wasn’t a quick wank, though. What she wanted she should never, ever have.
Eventually she drifted back to a light, unpleasant sleep, full of whispers and shadows, and the sound of screams and hoofbeats in the dark.
***
At around the same time Taylor was having her odd dream and waking up more confused than when she’d gone asleep, someone who had been a kind of honorary Saint was about to have a very memorable encounter of his own.
Patrick Kelly had been drinking since the death of two of his closest friends a month before. He was essentially always drunk or hungover and he preferred it that way. He’d been with Greg and Robert and Nick when they’d…died, and he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. The way they’d screamed. How hot the fire had been. He’d told the police everything he remembered, except one little detail.
How their heads had rolled when the Rider finally cut them off.
Maybe they’d all deserved it. After what they’d done to the Coulsons, what they’d all managed to get away with calling an “accident,” maybe this was justice. But it had been so long ago. Why was someone coming after them now? And why the Deathless Rider getup?
“Fucking Quinn,” he muttered. He’d run into Anton at the bar and decided to try some good old-fashioned shit talking, like the old days. Make himself feel better. Only Quinn hadn’t felt like it and had gotten him tossed out. Like he was better than him or something. Quinns were always like that. Trash. He’d get back at him. Humiliating him like that in front of everyone, getting him thrown out of his favorite bar.
In his muddled, drunken brain, Patrick wasn’t paying much attention to where he was walking. He’d just picked a direction and gone that way. No one had tried to stop him; the rest of the bar either had been too drunk themselves or were tired of his complaining. They’d been tired of the whole lot of them, really. The Saints had stopped being popular almost the second high school had ended.
For someone like Patrick, it had been confusing to go from one of the most feared and beloved football players in Sweethollow High history, to just another guy who worked at the hardware store and had never left town. He’d been sure there were scholarships and college football in his future. Maybe even the NFL. Turned out, his grades had been too low and his skills not quite as unique as he’d thought. The rest of the Saints hadn’t fared much better, except maybe Nick and Rob. For a while. Seemed time caught up to all of them, though. Time and consequences.
They’d been out joyriding that night, like the old days. Trying to recapture some of that old glory, he guessed. It had felt…sour, somehow. Like milk that had gone off. The rest of them had been whooping it up, hitting mailboxes off their stands with bats, and he’d tried one or two. But mostly he’d just drunk his beer and pretended to be having fun.
Pat had always been more of a follower than a man of action. Even as a teen, if Rob or Nick said, “Go pick on that kid,” he’d just do it. He wanted them to like him. To think he was “cool.” And he definitely preferred being the one doing the picking than the other way around.
But lately he’d been feeling a little…bad about the stuff he’d done. Most of it was pretty
She lay back in her bed, heart still racing, body warm and pulsing from what might have been. It was still dark out, but she could feel morning was not far off. She was going to have to stay away from Anton Quinn for the rest of her visit.
She thought about doing something about how incredibly turned on she was but decided she didn’t even want to indulge in those sensations from a dream. It might only make the old crush resurface, and she really didn’t need that.
Taylor shifted uncomfortably in bed, feeling hot and achy. It took a lot of willpower not to touch herself and just ease the tension a little. What she wanted wasn’t a quick wank, though. What she wanted she should never, ever have.
Eventually she drifted back to a light, unpleasant sleep, full of whispers and shadows, and the sound of screams and hoofbeats in the dark.
***
At around the same time Taylor was having her odd dream and waking up more confused than when she’d gone asleep, someone who had been a kind of honorary Saint was about to have a very memorable encounter of his own.
Patrick Kelly had been drinking since the death of two of his closest friends a month before. He was essentially always drunk or hungover and he preferred it that way. He’d been with Greg and Robert and Nick when they’d…died, and he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. The way they’d screamed. How hot the fire had been. He’d told the police everything he remembered, except one little detail.
How their heads had rolled when the Rider finally cut them off.
Maybe they’d all deserved it. After what they’d done to the Coulsons, what they’d all managed to get away with calling an “accident,” maybe this was justice. But it had been so long ago. Why was someone coming after them now? And why the Deathless Rider getup?
“Fucking Quinn,” he muttered. He’d run into Anton at the bar and decided to try some good old-fashioned shit talking, like the old days. Make himself feel better. Only Quinn hadn’t felt like it and had gotten him tossed out. Like he was better than him or something. Quinns were always like that. Trash. He’d get back at him. Humiliating him like that in front of everyone, getting him thrown out of his favorite bar.
In his muddled, drunken brain, Patrick wasn’t paying much attention to where he was walking. He’d just picked a direction and gone that way. No one had tried to stop him; the rest of the bar either had been too drunk themselves or were tired of his complaining. They’d been tired of the whole lot of them, really. The Saints had stopped being popular almost the second high school had ended.
For someone like Patrick, it had been confusing to go from one of the most feared and beloved football players in Sweethollow High history, to just another guy who worked at the hardware store and had never left town. He’d been sure there were scholarships and college football in his future. Maybe even the NFL. Turned out, his grades had been too low and his skills not quite as unique as he’d thought. The rest of the Saints hadn’t fared much better, except maybe Nick and Rob. For a while. Seemed time caught up to all of them, though. Time and consequences.
They’d been out joyriding that night, like the old days. Trying to recapture some of that old glory, he guessed. It had felt…sour, somehow. Like milk that had gone off. The rest of them had been whooping it up, hitting mailboxes off their stands with bats, and he’d tried one or two. But mostly he’d just drunk his beer and pretended to be having fun.
Pat had always been more of a follower than a man of action. Even as a teen, if Rob or Nick said, “Go pick on that kid,” he’d just do it. He wanted them to like him. To think he was “cool.” And he definitely preferred being the one doing the picking than the other way around.
But lately he’d been feeling a little…bad about the stuff he’d done. Most of it was pretty
Similar Books
