Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Joy!” I hiss, grabbing her face and slamming my hand over her mouth. “You can’t go around saying that!” I whisper-scream. “It’s a secret.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes me off. “Duh, obviously.” But as she wipes her mouth, she asks, “Why do you care? I thought you hated him.”
“I do?”
I don’t. Joy’s not the only one who’s been devouring Midnight Destruction videos. I started because I wanted to find the clues that I missed so I wouldn’t repeat those mistakes. But I haven’t found any clues.
What I’ve found is video after video of Ben leading the band, conducting the audience, and pouring himself out onstage. But it’s never Ben. It’s the character, like he said. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t touch anyone. It’s vulnerability in a calculated, careful way that protects him.
But while that part of what he said is true, there’s still the issue of his lying. I haven’t forgiven him for that. Even though that’s getting harder to remember, and when it’s dark and quiet and I’m journaling in bed by flashlight, I wonder if I reacted too harshly, too quickly. But when the sun comes up, those wonderings feel like weakness.
“Oh, then you wouldn’t be interested in hearing the rest of what I found out by researching your guy?” Joy taunts.
In an instant, I’ve dragged her to the living room couch and sat down nearly on top of her, crossing my legs in front of me like I’m ready for story time. I shake her shoulders as I demand, “Tell me everything.”
She chuckles, throwing my hands off her shoulders. “That’s what I thought.” But she doesn’t give in that easily. Instead, she taps her chin, looks up to the ceiling, and hums. “Where to start? Where. To. Start?”
“Joy!”
“Fine, so first things first . . . background check. His has been professionally scrubbed, that’s for sure. I do these things a lot, especially on athletes coming into the leagues, and usually see property, driving history, credit history, stuff like that,” Joy says, ticking the items off on her fingers like it’s nothing. “Ben’s a ghost. He has no educational history, so did he go to school, did he graduate, did he drop out? Who knows. He owns no property, at least not in his name, and that includes a car, which he’d definitely need in LA, so that’s weird. Honestly, I was pretty disappointed there weren’t any jump-scare skeletons, but it only confirmed my professional-scrubbing theory.”
“So, nothing?”
“Sooo . . . I went a different route,” she answers with a proud grin. “I found his mom’s criminal record because her background hasn’t been cleaned. She did a short stint for being involved in a theft ring, so that part of his story seems true. It also gave me a case number, so I could find the other defendants named in the case, including one male minor, age sixteen, who served time in juvie. That has to be Ben, right?” She pauses and I stare, gobsmacked at my sister’s amazing ingenuity. She grins bigger, not done. “His record’s sealed, though if you want it, I could probably sweet-talk it out of a source I have at the sheriff’s department because we both know Sheriff Laurier got it.” She snarls at that in distaste, like the sheriff’s overstep is too far despite her own deep dive.
“You’re saying he didn’t lie about that?” I ask carefully, not sure I can take it if she says no but also not sure I can handle it if she says yes.
“Nope, that part seems legit,” she summarizes. “Now, on to the band sitch.”
I look around to see if anyone’s inside to hear, but Dad’s out back, babysitting his grill and drinking a beer while singing Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” to his pork butt. Mom’s upstairs and Shepherd’s not here yet.
I nod eagerly, interested to see how her notes compare to my own obsessive stalking.
“It’s hard to tell what’s real, what’s been manufactured, and what’s pure fan fiction because your man’s got some seriously wackadoodle fans. Like, I read a whole smutty fantasy scene about him pulling a woman onstage during a show, her licking his mask and sucking the sweat and spit out of it while he choked her, fucking her in front of the audience. The best part? Somehow, he also sang the whole time. Except when he was screaming her name in his trademark screech while splashing all over her.” She mimes jacking off and come going everywhere, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“Blech,” I gag.
“I know, right? I mean, I’m all for role-playing, a little hand necklace, and some exhibitionism if the place is right, but that’s a bit . . .” Wow. She mouths the last word silently. “Seriously, though, the lore is pretty out there—ranging from they were born from a pit of inky darkness under a blood moon to they got their start at a shitty hole-in-the-wall club in LA. I think the latter is more likely true. You?”