If it weren’t for the damp earth smell, I wouldn’t know where I am. I’m lying in complete and utter darkness, the stone floor ice-cold through my thin nightgown. I keep waiting for my eyes to adjust so that I can see something—anything—but they don’t. I can’t even see my hand when I hold it up in front of my face; light doesn’t penetrate the room.
Something drips from deep within the cave, but otherwise it’s completely silent. The witch is gone, and more important, so are her painkillers. My head throbs like it has its own heartbeat.
A realization strikes: the witch didn’t expect me to make it back.
Thanks a lot, lady.
Anger fires up inside me at her complete lack of confidence in me, but then I realize I’m being unfair. Even I didn’t think I’d make it.
Cruz flashes into my head. His sexy smile. His fingers through my hair. And in the same flash, I think of Bishop. My gut throbs with guilt.
Nothing happened, I remind myself. You haven’t done anything wrong. But I know it’s not the truth. One more minute in that place and we would have kissed. I can’t lie to myself that I wanted it then. That I want it even now.
I’m suddenly desperate to see Bishop again.
I try to get up, but my limbs feel like they’ve been strapped with weights and my head pounds in such intense waves that I think I’m going to puke. I sink back to the ground, gasping for air.
Do it, Blackwood. Get up.
Biting down hard on my lip, I push past the unbearable pain and force myself to my feet. I have to fight the urge to let myself fall back to the ground as I put one foot in front of the other, my hands reaching out in front of me. It feels like I’ve walked forever when my fingers finally bump into the cool, pebbly surface of a wall, and I almost cry with relief.
Keeping one hand against the wall, I move forward on shaky feet, following invisible twists and turns in the cave. My head brushes against the low ceiling at times when the path narrows. I’m thinking I can’t keep myself upright any longer when finally, mercifully, a faint outline of light appears above my head, so pale that at first I think I’ve imagined it. But when I get closer, my feet run into something I realize are stairs: I’m back at the entrance to the witch’s shop.
I fall onto the stairs, the last of my strength finally draining out of me.
“Help!” I call feebly.
There’s no way I’m going to make it up these stairs. I won’t make it a few more minutes unless I can get the witch to hear me. I swallow, then take a big breath.
“Help!”
A long moment passes. And then the door at the top of the stairs opens. The witch looks down at me like I might be a specter come to haunt her.
“Surprise,” I say flatly. “I’m not dead.”
I know I should go straight home, but I need to see Bishop right now.
My head still thumps with the ghost of a headache as I drive. All the lights are off inside his house, but as soon as I pull into the driveway, he appears on the doorstep. I can’t see his face, but I don’t have to see it to know that he’s angry. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he leans against the doorframe, waiting for me to come to him instead of meeting me halfway. My stomach clenches. He knows—somehow he knows about Cruz.
But that’s impossible, I remind myself. There’s no way.
I slip my keys into my purse and get out of the car, approaching Bishop slowly, like he’s a wild animal instead of my boyfriend. He watches me almost clinically, and he doesn’t look shocked that I’ve shown up to his house in the night, pale and bruised and wearing a strange nightgown. It makes me unbearably sad.
“Where were you?” he asks.
His lifeless tone hits me hard. I stop in front of him, but I can’t look at his eyes.
“And don’t say you were at work,” he adds. “I talked to your aunt.”
“Look, it’s complicated—” I start.
“It’s not complicated,” he interrupts. “It’s simple. You lied to me again. Why?”
I look up. His forehead is creased with wrinkles, and his mouth is set in a hard line. It’s not the Bishop I know—the smiling, carefree, joking boyfriend I fell for. The worst part is it’s my fault.
Desperation overwhelms me, and I grab hold of his wrists, tugging his hands away from his chest. He resists, but I pull his head down and kiss him hard. At first his mouth is rigid against mine, but before I can get too embarrassed, his lips soften and match mine, moving urgently until we’re both short of breath and clutching at each other. I press myself against him, relishing his warmth, the feel of his body against mine, his apple-and-clean-laundry scent. Being with him feels so right it’s overwhelming, and I fight the urge to let out a maniacal laugh. To push him to the ground and climb on top of him.
Cruz flashes into my head then, and the guilt of it is like a knife to my gut. I push him back out and kiss Bishop like it can erase the bad thoughts from my mind. The thoughts that I’ve turned into a terrible person. That I always was and am only just now realizing it.
Bishop stops suddenly and grabs me roughly by my wrists. I heave for breath.
“What’s wrong?” I try to pull him closer but he’s resistant.
“You have to tell me what’s going on with you. You have to stop lying.” His voice wavers, and I can’t be sure in the dark, but I think his eyes might be brighter than usual.
I drop my gaze, studying the lettering on his Sex Pistols T-shirt. The water fountain in the driveway splashes quietly, and crickets chirp in the grassy hills around his home.
I know I can’t lie anymore. And I don’t want to.
“I’ve been going to Los Demonios,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t respond, and for a moment I worry he hasn’t heard me. But when I look up, his face is hard and impassive.
“I’m sorry,” I add. It sounds so insignificant.
His throat moves up and down as he swallows, his nostrils flaring. “More than once?” he asks. His voice cuts like glass.