The Lies we Steal (The Hollow Boys Book 1)

Briar

The roar of engines vibrated the concrete stadium I walked into. The smell of burnt rubber and weed. I’d been amazed when we walked up from the parking lot at the bottom of a small hill to see the towering lights still worked for this place. Assuming it had been someone’s parents’ money that got them powered up again. Underground rap to death metal, the music that clamored into the night. 

People who looked no older than fourteen smoked cigarettes by the center of the track, even people who looked close to thirty huddled together placing bets on the lunatics that raced around the cracked and broken track. 

The Graveyard was everything I expected it to be. 

Chaos. Mayhem. Rebellion. 

“How have the police not shut this place down?” I yell over the craziness to Lyra who is leading me to a row of concrete seats that are open. They aren’t too far up, so we can see everything pretty clearly. 

Including the makeshift boxing ring that sits in the center of the stadium. A large patch of dirt in the middle of the grass from where the green refused to grow after it had been stepped on too many times. 

I cringed as I watched a kid my age crumble to the ground after a knee to the face. 

If something like this was in my small town in Texas, the sheriff and half the county cops would be on it like white on rice. 

“They know they won’t be able to do anything about it. You can’t arrest all of us that are here, and even if you do, most of the people here have enough money to be out of the handcuffs before they are even booked. It’s pointless.” 

The night air is chilly and I’m thanking myself for wearing layers. The soft material of the hoodie paired with the large button up coat I’d thrown over it was doing the perfect job of keeping me warm. 

My uninsulated Converse were a different story, I was pretty sure my feet might freeze off before the night was over. 

Shoving my hands into my pockets to heat my fingers, as I watched two cars line up at the starting line. 

“Ladies, gentlemen, whores and bastards, welcome, to The Graveyard!!” 

Well that’s pleasant, I think as the surrounding crowd begins to rumble and scream. Clapping hands, hoots and chants make my stomach bubble with excitement. Lyra bumps my shoulder as she joins in on the clapping, encouraging me. 

“As always, if you’re racing you should already be waiting in one of the pits. Please, no one walk on the track during the action, I don’t feel like scraping brains of the asphalt tonight.” He announces with a joking tone that makes the crowd cheer louder. 

That should have scared them, it only ignited their exhilaration. Content is © by NôvelDrama.Org.

The first heat of cars rev their engines, the motors purring. We spend the first thirty minutes applauding as vehicles from Mustangs to Ferraris tear down the track. We weren’t even sure who we were rooting for but we knew it was fun. 

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking over between races for Alistair. The signature leather jacket was nowhere to be found and neither were his friends, not yet at least. 

My curiosity wouldn’t let me leave it be. Leave him be. 

I showed up to his dorm with a plan. Thank him for not killing my rat and returning her unharmed, she actually looked a little chunkier which meant he was feeding her a little too much, but I thought that was kinda cute. 

I’d return the ring and we’d go our separate ways. 

He knew I wasn’t involved in Rose’s death, he ensured I wouldn’t talk about Chris, and we’d cured whatever sexual tension had sizzled between us. There was no reason for us keep in contact. 

I was supposed to be done with him. 

Then he did what Alistair does best. He pushed me. He tempted me. 

My brain wanted nothing to do with him. It knew that everything Alistair would be nothing but trouble and pain for me. But my curiosity, my body, they wanted just a little bit more. 

Secretly, I also wanted to know about what they were up to. I wanted to understand why they were looking so hard into Rose’s death and how it landed them in Mr. West’s office. And if they didn’t plan on saying anything, I would, because there were more missing girls out there apparently and we couldn’t just let them be sold. 

With timing I couldn’t have planned any better myself, I saw Thatcher’s blond hair reflect in the moonlight appearing from the entrance of the stadium. Silas in step behind him, wearing his hood down for the first time that I’ve seen. 

Girls took immediate notice of this just as I had. 

The gray skullcap beanie, paired with a sliver nose ring hoop that I had just noticed, a cigarette tucked into his lips and a skintight white workout shirt that did little to hide what he has beneath it. 

I thought about that video, I thought about how terrible the pain he keeps inside must be. And even though they’d given me no reason to feel sorry for them, even though they’d been a living hell, I felt sorry for Silas. 

They take a minute to scan the crowd, looking for where they are going to sit I think, when Thatcher’s eyes land on me. 

It would take a lot for me to feel sorry for him. Even if I was civil with Alistair, I couldn’t stand Thatcher Pierson. Maybe it was because of his father, maybe it was because he allowed the reputation of his father to rub off on him. Like the fact his dad took lives didn’t even phase him. 

And even though he didn’t know who Lyra was to him, I still hated the way he looked at her. 

He begins the incline up the stairs, heading straight for our direction. My spine stiffens, preparing for an inevitable insult war that is coming for me. 

“Ladies,” He coos, sliding into the row behind us and rubbing his hands together with excitement, “Who is ready for a little blood bath?” 

“I think you’re out of luck, Dahmer. I haven’t seen much blood since I got here.” I sneer, looking over my shoulder and giving him a sarcastic smile. 

He returns the same smile, matching my energy, “That’s just because Alistair hasn’t fought yet. There is always blood when he gets into the ring.” 

Silas sits beside him quietly, puffing the brown end of his cigarette, my eyes making eye contact with him for longer than I would have liked. We sit there staring at each other, until he reaches into his pocket pulling out the pack of cancer sticks and leaning them towards me. 

I think he thought I wanted one since I was looking at him so hard. 

Shaking my head, “I don’t smoke, thanks though.” 

“The only thing we seem to have in common.” Thatcher adds. 

“You don’t smoke?” Lyra asked Thatcher, making conversation with the wolf in sheep’s clothing as if he wasn’t the scary kind of handsome that all successful serial killers had.

He looked over at her, tilting his head as if admiring a child so I automatically leaned closer to her. Feeling the need to protect her from him. 

“I don’t believe in killing yourself slowly, Lyra, darling. If you’re going to do it, I say,” He runs his thumb across his throat, licking his canine teeth because the thought of blood probably made him hungry. “Do it quickly.” 

“Like father like son I guess,” I say with a razor-sharp tone. 

He moves his eyes off her, cutting them in my direction. Like it kills him to pull his attention from her. All of them had a different soft spot, something that sent them over the edge and Thatcher’s was his dad. 

An icy glare slices through my hardened exterior and for a split moment I think he might kill me. My blood runs cold as his lips turn up into a vicious smile that rivaled Heath Ledger’s in the Dark Knight. 

He struck fear in me because of what I knew he was capable of outside the gates of Hollow Heights. He’d graduate from here, inherit a company, marry a dull, pretty woman, and have three kids. He would live an essentially normal life, wealthy friends, golf on Saturday, and brunch on Sunday. Except at night, in his basement where his wife thinks he’s working on small projects, he’ll be torturing innocent people. He will never be suspected, the man everyone adored, but he has a vile personality trait.

They won’t ever catch him either. Because he’s stunning but twice as bright. 

“No, sweets. My father didn’t have a type, he just wanted to end as many female lives as possible. Ya know, mommy issues and all.” He jokes.

He leans towards me, his face close to mine. My heart pounds into my chest, over and over again, he elevates his index finger to wrap around a strand of my golden hair. The urge to vomit hits me hard. 

“I prefer dark hair, and I like to take my time with them. Bleed them slowly, cut them up. The dismemberment just,” He inhales deeply, shivering as he does, “gets me going.” 

I can smell his oaky scent at this distance, like the forest after it rains. 

His eyes darken and he has wound my hair around his finger so tight it’s starting to pull at the roots of my scalp. 

 “I’ll look over your tasteless, moronic comments because Alistair likes handling you himself and he’s made it very clear no one else can touch you, but if you get in my way, I’ll kill you and dye your hair after.”

Revving of bike engines drowns out the sound of anything else as he leans back into his seat, my throat dries with anxiety. It took all the strength in my muscles to swallow. It would seem Thatcher was over our banter, I’d crossed one too many lines with him. 

I turn back around to face the track, uncomfortable with having him behind me. I had no idea what he could be doing back there. Planning to cut my hair with scissors, slice my back up.

“Van Doren better not lose. I have hella money on that fucker.” Some guy in front of us complains to his girlfriend, and I look harder towards the racer’s lining up. 

Both of them are sitting on top of sport bikes, their feet planted firmly on the ground on either side as they wait for their green light. I recognize Rook’s black on black bike almost immediately. I hear it pulling into the school parking lot most mornings when I’m sitting in class, turning my head and looking out the window to see him arriving late. 

“How does he even see out of that thing?” Lyra asks me, taking in his appearance of black jeans, black hoodie with orange flames drawn on the sleeves. His helmet is matte, the face shield reflects in the night, and I’m not sure any light is even allowed through that visor. 

“Luck?” I answer, unsure myself. 

The Christmas tree shaped light that dangles between them begin blinking from red, to yellow, I hold my breath a little as I watch Rook rotate his wrists to rev his engine, the sound making my ear drums buzz. 

When the light drops to green, he releases his clutch propelling him forward at an insanely quick speed, both feet coming up to rest on the pedals as his tires eat the pavement beneath. 

The whining of the motor blends perfectly with everyone’s cheers, and as my eyes begin to follow him around the track I catch the sight of a large skull tattoo on someone’s back in the middle of the stadium. 

Standing in the grassy center, where fights had taken place all night is Alistair. A small circle of people gathered around him and his opponent. I take in his shirtless stature, the way his muscles tensed with every breath and sweat made him glisten in the night. 

My attention had shifted completely from Rook to him. 

Even as I heard the bikes whizzing around and around in circles creating this tornado effect in my mind. 

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from him. There was something electrifying about watching him. 

Alistair’s opponent towered over him in both height and weight. A man with tree trunks as arms and buildings as legs, the difference in bodies seemed unfair to me. One punch to the face and Alistair would have his jaw shattered. 

But the way he moved didn’t allow for anything to even skim his body. Agile and quick as he ducked underneath monster punches, countering with lower body strikes that had to have broken ribs. 

They rotated around one another, like animals ready to strike, always keeping their eyes on each other, never allowing them to circle behind them. Alistair’s face came into view just before he launched a right hook that made the entire crowd around him cringe. 

I didn’t even watch as the other guy fell. I could barely see anything as he took the opportunity to slam fist after fist into his opponent’s face, burying his skull into the dirt beneath both of them. 

Blood speckled his naked chest. The people watching, couldn’t look away but their faces all stared with horror in their eyes. If he continued this pace he would kill this man. 

Yet, all I could focus on was the curves of this face, the bend in his brow, and the curl of his upper lip. 

I’d never seen anyone so wrathful, but he made it look, beautiful. 

This sort of molten anger rolled through his body, leaking from all his pores so it was all you could see. A cruel volcano of human rage that incinerated anyone he touched, yet you still stood there rivaling how nature could be so incredible, even when it was wreaking havoc. 

A god of wrath. 

This was the reason I’d shown up. 

So that Alistair could remind me of the bits of me I’d left back in Texas, pieces I thought had to die there in order to make it in a place like Ponderosa Springs. 

The parts of myself that loved the way my stomach tightened and my core ached while I watched him hurt someone. Someone who thrived in the trouble most wouldn’t even attempt. 

I didn’t need to be a thief anymore, but that didn’t mean I had to leave the lifestyle behind. It didn’t mean I had to settle for a boring life without adventure. 

Hands tear him away from the man on the ground, pulling him up, it took seven people just to get him to stop. Even then it still looked like he allowed them to stop him, if he wanted he could’ve kept going until that entire crowd was yanking at his skin. 

Rook steals the attention from mostly everyone though, his winning lap consisting of him lifting the front tire of his bike up off the ground riding a wheelie up and down the track. Lyra hides her face as he places both his feet at the back of his seat, standing straight up and down on the motorcycle continuing to ride it around. 

When I look back for Alistair, he’s nowhere to be found. 

The night becomes frigid as we sit out here for another thirty minutes, watching the races, the fights. Most everyone is wasted of their asses at this point. Just as Lyra and I stand up to leave, Thatcher and Silas do the same. 

“Following us?” I arch an eyebrow suspiciously. 

“Coincidence.” Thatcher replies. 

The four of us make our way out of the stadium, them heading a separate direction as us. Stopping to use the bathroom before we start the walk to Lyra’s car. The walk is short, filled with us talking to keep our bodies warm. 

I see her car a few feet away in one of the grass parking spots and a few spots over I see Alistair leaning against the hood of his vehicle, talking to his friends. I notice the extreme redness on his knuckles, a few of them bleeding. He’s still shirtless from the fight, making it hard not to stare. 

Knowing I should ignore him and just get in the car with Lyra, I know I should just leave, but I can’t. Something inside of me just will not let me leave until I say something to him. 

“I’ll be right back.” I say to Lyra, as I walk around her car and head in his direction. 

Rook is the first to notice me, the smirk on his face making me want to slap him. A blush tints my cheeks as I begin to think, has he told them what we did? Oh my God, do they all know what we did? 

I suddenly feel exposed even more in this night air and the urge to tuck tail and cut my losses is strong, but I can’t do that now that one of them has noticed me. 

They all begin to shift, turning to face me, it’s the most awkward fifteen seconds of my life as we all stand there staring at one another. My eyes refusing to even look in Alistair’s direction because I know he’s probably smirking. 

“Well, that’s our cue boys.” Rook slaps them on the back, looking at Alistair, “Happy birthday, dude.” 

Birthday? 

They begin to walk away as I tuck my arm behind my back, holding onto my shirt nervously, 

“Today’s your birthday?” It seems to be the best way to segue into conversation with him. I can’t exactly start out by saying, hey watching you bash someone’s face it got me hot and bothered because I think I’m attracted to dangerous things. 

He nods, clicking a button on his phone to display the time, “As of three minutes ago, anyway.” 

“You’re not having a party with you friends and half the town tonight?” It’s a joke, one that was supposed to lighten his mood, but apparently it failed. 

Grabbing his shirt off the hood, pulling it over his head before looking at me in the eyes, “I don’t celebrate it.” 

Seriousness weighs down his shoulders, his tone flat. 

“Come on, you’re what, nineteen? It’s a law that you’re not supposed to start hating your birthday until at least forty.” 

He scoffs, a short laugh falling from his lips, “Birthday are about celebrating the day you were brought into the world, right?” 

I nod. 

“Why would I celebrate that, when I didn’t want to be brought into the world?” 

The riddle of who Alistair Caldwell really is beneath all of his bravado continues. I only had sections of him, ones I’d got from watching him and being on his bad side. 

I knew he was angry. That he was loyal until death to those three boys. And anytime his family was spoken about, he avoided it. 

Growing up my life was shit, it was tough, but I never wanted to end my life. I never wanted to not be here. For someone to want that, they’d need a reason and a damn good one. 

He was a mystery and to a girl who is curious, he’s kryptonite. 

“The tattoo on your hip. I’ve seen it before, Silas has one too, doesn’t he?” I change the topic, hoping to gather another piece of his puzzle. 

Slowly, he lifts just the bottom of his t-shirt up, exposing the coin with a skeleton on the front. I squint, reading the words written across the top and bottom, 

“Admit one, Styx Ferryman.” I read out loud. 

Without thinking, my fingers extend on their own, grazing the ink on his skin. 

“It’s Charon’s obol. There are myths in many cultures about how you must have a coin to pay the ferryman who takes souls from the land of the living to the land of the dead. It’s why some people put coins over people’s eyes when they die.” 

“Like the river Styx in Greek mythology,” pulling my hand away, “So why do you two have one? I doubt either of you are short on coins for when the time comes.” 

His shirt drops, covering the tattoo again, “We all have one. That way we can bribe our way back to each other. Even in death.” 

I’d never seen loyalty like theirs before. I’d heard of it, when people talked about being loyal this is how they would explain it but none of them would actually do it. Not the way they did. 

They would die for each other in a heartbeat and it was evident in everything they did. Like all the broken pieces of themselves lined up perfectly with each other. They could cultivate together in the dark, protecting each other there where no one would attempt to hurt them. 

I thought about how sad it was he wasn’t doing anything for his birthday. Someone young and with opportunities. My parents threw me a party every year in the trailer park, everyone would come together for potlucks. There would be music and a Slip ‘N Slide. It wasn’t Disney World, but it was special to me. 

No one deserved to hate the day they were born. 

Not even Alistair. 

“Let’s go do something.” I propose, looking up at him as he gives me a you’re kidding look. 

“Do what?” He runs his tongue across his teeth, smirking like he’s up to no good and I allow the excitement to course through me as he does, instead of trying to stop it. 

“Whatever you want. It’s your birthday, you should enjoy at least one of them before you need to use that coin.” 

“I told you I don’t celebrate.” His breath fanning across my face as I step in front of him. 

“Yeah and I don’t care. Plus you owe me.” A grin finds its way to my face, taking over. I wasn’t sure what we would get into, but I knew I would enjoy it. 

“What could I possibly owe you, Briar?” The way he says my name is smooth and I like the sound of it on his tongue, especially as he raises both his eyebrows baiting me. 

Slowly, I lift my middle finger up showing off the initials that mark my skin, flipping him off. 

“You owe me for stealing my first tattoo experience from me. So really this isn’t even about your birthday, it’s about you making it up to me.” 

A laugh that felt like thunder escaped from his mouth. My breath hitched at the abrupt sound and my stomach fluttered because of how much I liked it. 

And it was a sound that I wanted more of.