Chapter Text
Coach blew the whistle. Practice ended. The gym emptied out in a wave of sweaty boys and slamming lockers. I lingered on the bottom bleacher like a complete idiot, pretending to tie shoes that were already tied.
Earlier, Steve walked into the gym. His expression said everything: That “talk” with Nancy didn’t go well. At all.
He didn’t even look at me long enough to offer a ride home. No head tilt. No “you coming?” Nothing. Just heartbreak and hair gel.
He spotted me, gave a tight nod that said “I’m alive but barely,” then disappeared into the locker room without a word.
Great. Walking it is.
I was halfway to the exit when a hand clamped around my wrist—hot, rough, impossible to ignore.
Billy tugged me back under the shadow of the bleachers, still shirtless, skin gleaming like he’d been dipped in sin and left to dry.
“You’re still here,” he murmured, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist where my heartbeat was trying to stage a prison break. “Means you want something.”
“I want a ride home.”
His grin was slow, sharp, all teeth. “I can do that.”
I stepped outside. The late afternoon air was warm, soft, calm.
A few minutes later, Billy pushed the door open with his shoulder and tossed his bag into his Camaro.
He opened the passenger door for me—gentlemanly, almost—and then ruined it by sliding his hand across the small of my back as I ducked in, fingers splaying wide, claiming.
The second his door slammed shut the car felt half the size.
He cranked the engine and Metallica exploded through the speakers—Ride the Lightning, of course. He caught me mouthing the words and his eyebrows shot up.
“Didn’t peg you for a metal girl, church mouse.”
“What do you expect me to listen to?” I asked. “Hymns?”
“Yes,” he said instantly.
I shoved his shoulder. “Shut up.”
He smirked. “Didn’t know you had good taste.”
“I always had good taste.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes flicking over me, “I’m starting to notice.”
My cheeks burned.
Windows down, cold wind whipping my hair across my face. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift—except every time he shifted, his knuckles grazed my bare knee. Once. Twice. Third time his fingers stayed, curling just under the hem of my skirt, thumb stroking slow circles.
I should’ve slapped his hand away.
I didn’t.
“You know,” he said suddenly, eyes on the road but every other part of him focused on me. “I don’t want Harrington driving you anymore.”
My head snapped toward him. “What? Why?”
“He’s distracted,” Billy said. “Not good for you.”
“That’s… not your decision.”
He smirked. “Guess you’ll just have to let me handle it.”
“Handle what?”
“You.”
I blinked. “Billy—”
“So,” he said casually—too casually. “You busy Sunday?”
“Sunday?” I repeated. “I have church.”
“After you do your little communion thing. You’re mine.”
I snorted. “Pretty sure God doesn’t schedule around your libido, Hargrove.”
He downshifted hard, engine snarling, and turned onto my street way too fast. “Doesn’t have to. I’m asking nice.” His hand slid an inch higher, callouses dragging over sensitive skin. “Say yes, Maggie.”
My mouth went dry. “This is you asking nice?”
“This is me giving you the chance to pretend you have a choice.” His voice dropped, velvet and venom. “We both know you’re gonna be in this car Sunday night wearing something pretty and sitting a lot closer than you are right now.”
Heat pooled low in my stomach—anger, want, terror, all mixed up.
I tried for bravado. “And if I say no?”
He pulled up in front of my house, killed the engine, and turned to face me fully.
“Then I’ll just keep showing up,” he said softly. “Every Mass. Every Sunday. Leaning against my car, smoking, waiting for you to stop pretending you don’t think about my mouth on you every time you close your eyes.”
Jesus Christ.
I fumbled for the door handle. He caught my chin before I could escape, thumb pressing against my bottom lip—not quite inside my mouth, but close enough that I felt the threat of it.
“Say yes, angel.”
My voice came out shaky. “Yes.”
His smile was slow and victorious and terrifying. “Good girl.”
I didn’t move. So he closed the distance himself.
It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. His mouth hovered a whisper away, warm breath mixing with mine, the tip of his nose nudging mine. Teasing. Punishing. Making me lean in the last millimeter before he gave me anything.
“Billy—”
“Shh.” His free hand slid into my hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt my head exactly where he wanted it.
My whole body lit up like a live wire. I could feel his heartbeat through the tiny space between us—fast, hungry.
Headlights swept across the driveway.
Billy jerked back—not guilty, but annoyed—and my dad’s police cruiser pulled in behind us.
Perfect. Kill me now.
Dad stepped out like he’d been waiting his whole life to catch me doing something scandalous.
“Margaret Powell, get your ass in the house right now!”
I jerked back so hard my head smacked the window. Billy didn’t flinch, just laughed under his breath, low and filthy.
I wanted to melt into the car floor.
Billy sat back, smirk returning like he found the whole thing entertaining. “This oughta be good.”
“Shut up,” I hissed.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Billy said. “This is the best show I’ve had all week.”
Dad marched to the passenger side, knocking on the window. Billy lowered it as slowly and disrespectfully as possible, resting his arm on the door like he owned the house and the neighborhood and me.
“Officer,” Billy said sweetly. Fake sweet. Toxic sweet. “Just bringing your daughter home safe.”
Dad glared. “I don’t want you anywhere near her.”
Billy smiled wider. “Yeah. I’m getting that vibe.”
“Dad,” I hissed, mortified. “Stop—”
“No,” Dad snapped. “Guys like him only want one thing.”
Billy’s smirk sharpened. “Two things, actually.”
I elbowed him so hard he grunted.
Dad looked like he was about to pass out. “Get inside. Now.”
I scrambled out of the car, desperate to escape both men.
At the porch I made the mistake of looking back.
He cranked the stereo until the bass rattled my ribs from twenty feet away, revved the engine once—filthy, promising—and mouthed a single word I had no trouble reading.
Sunday.
Then he was gone, taillights bleeding red down the street.
Dad grabbed my arm and marched me inside like I was twelve and caught shoplifting.
The second the door slammed he started in.
“That boy is trouble in tight jeans, Maggie. Trouble with a capital T and a side of herpes—”
“Dad!”
“Guys like that only want one thing and once they get it they’re gone faster than you can say ‘teenage pregnancy’—”
I slammed my door so hard the walls rattled.
Dad groaned. “We’re not done talking!”
I paced my room, face hot, heart pounding.
Then the room folded in half.
I got a headache.
Not the normal kind. Not even the bad kind.
This one stabbed behind my eyes like something was clawing its way out.
I squeezed them shut—just for a second—and when I opened them…
I wasn’t in my room anymore.
I was in the Upside Down.
Cold air. Floating ash. Silence so thick it felt alive.
I looked down and saw Will.
Tiny, terrified Will.
He stared up at me like I was the thing hunting him.
“Go away.” His voice trembled
I froze. My stomach dropped.
I took a step toward him. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. No sound. Just cold air that tasted like rot.
“Go away!” Will repeated, louder, more desperate. He backed up like I was the monster.
And then I understood.
He wasn’t yelling at something behind me.
He was yelling at me.
I took a step toward him anyway—instinct, panic, something—and his eyes went wide with pure terror.
A mass of black shadow slid into view like smoke with teeth. The same creature from my nightmare.
Before I could react, it plunged into Will’s body—swallowed him whole—and then—
I snapped back into my bedroom with a violent jerk.
I gasped, gripping my sheets. My body shook so hard it rattled the mattress. My limbs felt numb, like I’d been pulled back through layers of ice.
Whiskers jumped onto my bed immediately, meowing with concern. He pressed his small, warm body against my side, purring softly—like he was trying to ground me, anchor me back in reality.
I stayed like that for hours.
The sun went down. The house creaked. Dad knocked once, gruff and worried.
“Mags? You coming down for dinner or you still mad at me?”
I couldn’t answer.
He waited a long time, then sighed and shuffled away.
I wanted to scream that I wasn’t mad, that something terrified Will, that I thought I was becoming the thing we’d spent a year trying to forget.
But my body wouldn’t obey.
At some point the paralysis loosened enough that tears could leak out the corners of my eyes.
I didn’t sleep again that night.
I just lay there, paralyzed in every way that mattered, while Will screamed over and over inside my skull.
Go away.
Go away.
Go away.