tw: gore, blood, bodies, fires (the author lied, this shit is trauma 101 for Arlene)]

ALLOW ME TO EXPLAIN, this shit is deep. Where to start... the jumpscare kiss, the memories, the fire, or the clown? Probably should get the whole murder-amnesiac-dolly thing out of the way... after I tell you about my momentary enlightenment via losing braincells. 

Blame it on Ezra.

·······•✦•······

FIVE HOURS EARLIER

"What?" The first reaction to getting to know that your sister has had her body pierced involuntarily by a bullet at the speed of well over a thousand miles per hour... is uttering a single word in the most threatening way known to human existence, from me, I guess.

"Avery Kylie Grambs," Ezra dared not look into the gold daggers my eyes morphed into, "has been shot. But," He quickly added, "The bullet managed to barely graze her skin. It was more of the barks, really. Oren was there, Jameson was too."

"What was Jameson doing there?"
"What was Jameson doing there?"

The Hawthorne went in synch with me. For different reasons, perhaps. But the results were an overly exasperated Martin, "Well, I'm sorry, I was a little too focussed on the part where the second heiress was shot, to care what her 'not-boyfriend' was doing there with her."

"God..." I dragged a palm over my face. Everything was falling apart. People were getting murdered, burnt, and stabbed here, and all I could think about was how stupid of a person I was to ever leave the Hawthorne house.

To ever leave Avery and Libby alone in a place I was almost poisoned at.

I won't hesitate to admit it,  I don't trust anyone but Oren in that house. Sure, Nash, Xander, and Jameson might be nice. But their devotees—sorry, house workers were nowhere near as nice to either me or Avery. I wonder how many curtains I could macrame from their tendons for almost making Libby cry.

Stop it, myself chided myself, think of the problems at hand. Macrame tendons later.

A locked-away breath was let out from my lips, "You sure she's okay?" I sounded so tired. I needed to get a grip on myself.

"The gash was shallow," The Martin boy said, "And the bleeding was a little longer than expected. No splinters. She isn't okay, but she will be fine." I wanted to pass out so bad. Wouldn't it be amazing? Just to close your eyes and never open them again. No worries, no goals, no nothing.

But then who will light up at the sight of my two angels? "Alright," I said, my eyes focusing on the wall beside me, "Okay, we're stuck here. We can't leave and there is a psycho clown on the loose. The paparazzi going wild and only half of this godforsaken event is over." Not looking good, "Any ideas on the table?"

Silence. So no then.

The second tick by as we swim in the stillness of the room. Everyone is lost. Even the ones who were supposed to know everything. Grayson Hawthorne being lost, as much as I hate to admit, scared me. 

"We proceed with the event," And my fear just multiplied thirty times, "We play along. Only this time, we catch the mime. A central aspect of the mime is that it has only ever shown itself in front of Ms. Grambs. The bombing in the dining hall was done anonymously, but we have a main suspect. It's fast. Very fast, I could barely catch it seconds before it dropped you that gift, Ms. Grambs."

Gift. My hands went to the blood-red weapon of a fan, lying as still as a deceased, on the table. 

"So we use Leena as sacrificial bait?" Ezra blinked, "Cool. Sure. Fine by me."

I was about to nod my head in agreement. It was a valid plan. I draw out the clown thing, cue epic battle sequence between a murder mime and Sofia the last, and the last one standing gets the gold. Please see the obvious sarcasm, if you already have not.

Before I could move an inch to protest, I froze. 

"Utter another word like that, Martin," Grayson's voice was low. Warning. Dangerous. His shoulders were sculpted marble and his eyes were silver swords just waiting to plunge through Ezra. His fists were clenched and his face remained calm as the morning sky, just listening to him was enough to make shivers sprint down the length of your spine. "And I will make sure your job will not be the only thing you will have lost in your more than miserable existence."

Uh oh. 

Ezra blinked again, and for a moment seemed jarred, before that fire of defiance blazed in his golden eyes, "All that posh-ass vocabulary but no word such as sarcasm in your dictionary, huh, Hawthorne?"

I do not get paid for this. "Cut it out you two—"

Grayson adjusted the cuff of his tailored sleeve, his lips curling into the faintest semblance of a scowl. His silvery eyes cold and unyielding. "Sarcasm, Martin?" he said, his voice calm but cutting. Sharp enough to slice through glass. Clean. "How pedestrian. If you spent half as much effort protecting her as you do running your mouth, we might actually get somewhere."

Ezra's eyes flashed, his irritation barely masked. He leaned in, his voice low but laced with sarcasm. "Pedestrian? You've got to be kidding me." He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "I guess you've got such a high opinion of yourself, anything less than worship seems beneath you."

The Martin boy straightened, keeping the tension alive. "Though, I suppose if you're done with your little lecture, we could actually get to the part where you do something useful."

I don't exist, I leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms and wondering should the psycho clown gift me poisoned popcorn for this soap opera, I would totally be wooed, I'm a hallucination, baby.

Grayson's eyes narrowed, his voice low, dripping with barely hidden annoyance. "Right. Because that's what we need right now—more of your acerbic nonsense." He leaned in slightly, his gaze assessing, almost pitying. "Funny, I thought a bodyguard's first priority was keeping his charge alive. But maybe I'm incorrect." 

He tilted his head, the edge of his words cutting deeper. "Tell, Martin, when exactly did being a nuisance become part of the job description?"

"Oh, you little—what have you been doing, Hawthorne? Aside from going kissy-kissy with the ladies and old-ass men around you, how have you been even helping in Leena's case? At least I'm there with her when she needs me."

Surprise surprise. This shit is about me and yet no one seems to give a damn about the subject. Kezia, my love, where are you? I need a non-alcoholic drink.

"She is not my responsibility, Martin."

"Yeah, but she is your date, now isn't she?" The spite in his every word was very noticeable, "And if all of this is for show, why the fuck do you care so much?" 

Now I was interested. Why did he care so much? Right when I get invested, Grayson goes answerless. Those grey eyes darkened so much they looked closer to ash. His lips were ready to pounce into words but his jaw held them back by reign. His blonde eyebrows are knit together. He wants to answer Ezra right back.

But he doesn't. 

Instead, he fixed the collar of his jet-black shirt and he fit his overcoat around his torso perfectly. His once agitated expression immediately dissolved into one of bored, simple, and blank control. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne never lost anything. 

The argument, "On the contrary, you seem to care about Ms. Grambs much more than a mere bodyguard should." His every word was the sharpest, coldest icicle wrapped up in venom, shot at the brunette, "Honestly, it seems you forget. Ms. Grambs is your employer, not your friend." Or control.

Grayson was halfway out of the room in seconds.

Pricks of anger pierced into my skin. He didn't have to go so far. Pushing off of the wall, my lips molded into the shape of a word. His name. A warning. But before any sound could escape, he stopped right in front of the door. Turned barely a degree to glance at me, just for a moment so brief I thought I imagined it, and then glared at Ezra.

 "Oh, and Mr. Martin?" His voice was soft but laced with the sharp edge of restrained venom. "You mistake strategy for sentiment. I care for Ms. Grambs as much as a chess player cares for a pawn—enough to know its value, but never enough to cry when it's sacrificed."

That... hurt. That weird feeling in my chest when he said that. My eyes stung. I didn't like that. I didn't like it at all. I didn't like the sting of offense and pain. I didn't like the way my heart shriveled up in disappointment. For no reason at all. 

"Grayson."

I didn't like the way that simple noun ripped itself out of me. Out of my throat, away from my teeth. The way it hit me like a harsh slap of reality. I never called him his real name often. It was always some excuse for a petty nickname. I never felt the way it seemed to slice the air in half, leaving no oxygen for me to breathe.

Or him.

He paused. His back turned against me and I knew, just by seeing it, it took more tension to keep his muscles relaxed than to tense. It took more effort to keep his head from facing me than holding his breath steady. Composed, in control. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne always had to be in control.

"It would be wise," His voice was a low rumble. Softer than a whisper. Words harsher than a whip. "If you would take those words to be meant for you as well,  Arlene."

·······•✦•······

So... that happened.

The silence between Ezra and me was even more awkward than my 2019 Gacha Life phase. Trust me... that shit was embarrassing as hell.

Seconds were sweet sweet rotten honey, oozing out of the comb. Every drip taking an eternity. And yet I couldn't do much to keep it in my hold. 

A strangled coughing sort of noise erupted from Ezra. If sounding like a dying rat on cocaine was his attempt at clearing his throat, I really should consider politely threatening him to never do that again.

The judgment in my eyes would not have been mistaken if taken for scrutinizing.

And yet that was what brought that curve to his lips. That soft sound of amusement and soon mirth. His boyish grin returned to his face and the relief returned to mine. "Come on," his voice was a teasing high pitch, "I had to break the silence somehow."

"Never again," My mouth matched the wavy grin plastered on his face, "Please."

A moment passed, "What he was saying—"

"Was wrong," I say. "He was wrong, Ez. I've known you for less than a few hours or so, and I can say with full confidence that I am your employer and friend. Maybe even the best."

Something about the way his lips would turn up into that soft arch. It reminded me of a girl I saw in the mirror on a particularly less troublesome day.

Silence. This silence was different. It was free and breathable, but the earlier suffocation still lurked around in the shadows of silent words.

"You should probably go after him."

"Sorry?" I raised a singular eyebrow initially, but the second one decided to tag along. 

"You know what I mean, Leena." Of course, I did. But that didn't mean I agreed. The wavy curve that once so briefly adorned my face tunneled into an aimless, defiant pursed shape. He walked away with the attitude of a feline diva after spurting targetless insults, throwing a fit so close to a tantrum and I'm supposed to go after the guy?

How is this justice?

I think guys around me found some sort of pleasure in cutting my words off because before I could even form the 'N' of 'No' with my lips, or even try the sound of the syllable, Ezra was already speaking, "I mean I get it, I'm much better company, ya know? Handsome, all the ladies love me and shit."

So humble, am I right?

"But, seriously, Lee," Gold seemed to unite in gold, "You should probably stick with him. Something's wrong." 

"With Grayson?"

"With everything, Arlene." He said, "The clown, the shooting, and the bombings. Something is going on, if you already haven't figured that out. I think we shouldn't separate and sure," He rolls his eyes, "If Ice Queen Elsa wants to let it go, let him. But I wasn't kidding about you being the cute, chubby, sacrificial lamb." 

I let the silence prompt him for a moment.

"...Mostly. No offense." 

"All taken," I walked towards the door, "So what do need me to do?"

"Well, kinda simple really," Ezra's hand twisted the door knob, opening it for me, "We give the clown a big audience, a really really red target. A Hawthorne and a heiress. And the rest is on me." His crooked grin, his pearly white teeth and his singular dimple on his left cheek did not much to reassure me.

"Your trust, good-looking, charming, and amazing bodyguard has your back, Boss Lady."

·······•✦•······

The event was in full swing even after the murder of four children. It only made me wonder what inhumane degrees would one have to go to get a reaction out of these rich assholes.

Just looking at them made me sick to my stomach. Dancing, laughing, and existing so lavishly. So entitled to every luxury in this universe while the poor go fetch leftovers.

Maybe—just maybe—if one would look behind the cameras and falsified sympathy of social media, one would realize that we are not so different as we were two hundred years ago.

After all, humans never truly could let go of one hand as they grabbed for more with the other.

Speaking of rich assholes, woe and behold.

Dear old Mr. Handsome leaned with half his weight on his back and forearm against the counter, staring off into the sea of blurs, colors, and people. A glass, triangular sculpted—whiskey, I believed, embellished the coat of his hand like a prize of the highest honor. As if not a holder of liquid intoxication, but a golden trophy. 

It appeared to be confused. Whether to stay down at par with the joining of his overcoat or to go up and give his lips a kiss of taste.

It decided on the latter.

At least it decided something. Meanwhile, I was here, still debating whether to tentatively approach the Hawthorne or to turn one-eighty degrees and sprint off to heaven.

I decided on the former.

It felt awfully easy. Slipping beside him, mimicking his masculine pose that nowhere near suited a lady in a red ball dress like me—but comfort mattered more, so it would be. The bartender had changed. I'd hope to see Lyra again, but I guess not. The man asked me what I'd like and I wondered if I should try something for once.

Old, not-so-welcomed memories made me choose otherwise.

"Water, please." My apple cheeks that masked a smile, let no sign of discomfort loose. The man nodded and went to fetch me a glass of water, leaving me to deal with a suddenly mute Pretty Boy.

Now to google how to small talk with a freshly grey painted wall.

"So..." I cleared my throat—not as disgracefully as Ezra did, mind you, "Uhm... Nice night, huh?" I resist the urge to close my eyes and pray for my demise.

Even more so when I get the most unimpressed side eye known to mortal wisdom. I almost felt guilty for giving Ezra one of my own before. 

Screw you, Ezra, I gratefully take the glass of water from the counter, mentally praising the second-lasting distraction. Right, people exploding and psychos on the loose. Nice night, Arlene.

Oh, how I would rather have the air be filled with poison gas instead of this asthmatic quiet.

Thankfully I found my inhaler when he spoke, "Not a fan of drinking, are we, Ms. Grambs?" The only problem was, my inhaler was faulty.

"Oh." My eyes seemed suddenly very interested in enjoying the sight of air ahead, "Uh, yeah." So much for conversational hopes. He let the silence play, coaxing out more from below my esophagus and out into the air for his ears to grab and store away into that supercomputer of a mind of his.

I gave in.

"Libby does not like alcohol." Only a little albeit. Truth was, me, Ave, and Lib... we had less than pleasant encounters with bottles, stench, and a drunkard, deadbeat, wasted excuse of a father. Grayson got the hint. He showed no sympathy, no pity. Nothing.

And that was better than anything he could have done or said to me.

The asthmatic silence walked in again. Awkward, it giggled, enjoying every moment of my misery. 

"Hey, on the topic of alcohol and drinking," I snapped my head towards him, my eyes gleaming with a sudden surge of curiosity and admonishment, "You're nineteen, you can't be drinking anywhere near till twenty-one."

"Oh so, you think I'm not supposed to be drinking, Ms. Grambs?" Grayson questioned it in such a way as if he found it amusing.

"Well, yes, you little delinquent." I narrowed my eyes at the blonde, my hands shooting up in a futile attempt to grab the glass away from him, "Gimme that!"

His stoic face broke into an annoying smirk as he held the glass further away from me. "Such manners, Ms. Grambs. You are fully capable of acquiring your own liquor, are you not?"

"I don't want your stupid beverage," I was on my toes, looking ridiculous, trying to reach for the object just out of spite at this point, "I'm trying to save your royal ass from getting in trouble. And drop it."

"Hm?" Grayson arched an eyebrow, "Sure, if you must, although I highly doubt the staff would appreciate the muddle on the counter."

"Not the glass, Hawthorne," I forfeit from the imaginary tug of war for the said article, "The 'Ms. Grambs' thing. It makes me feel like an English teacher or a very old person."

Before waiting in line to inherit the fortune of the billionaire grandpa, Grayson inherited the fortune of the billionaire worthy audacity. 

The grey-eyed boy simply blessed me with a glance.
Before swinging the entire half-filled glass down in one go.

"You—"

"I meant," He said to the empty crystal utensil, sparkling in the light, "what I said earlier, Ms. Grambs. You are a mere—"

"Chess piece, pawn," I shook my hand at nothing, "Worth of value, still could be fucked over and sacrificed, blah blah blah. I've heard that all a hundred times before, kid." My eyes bore into his side, "You're not special just because you don't want to be my friend." Most of the time. 

Something was off with Grayson Hawthorne. At times he would be more than willing to laugh, smile with, and tease me, and then he would want nothing to do with me. At times he would look at me as if he was a different person. Or maybe I was.

He tensed his jaw. He had a bit, I noticed, of holding words back by the flex of his facial muscles. Flexing that could rival a katana cut. 

"All that aside," I shrugged, "I had no clue you loathed me this much, Hawthorne. Do you really want me to call you Professor Hawthorne The Second, or is Pretty Boy still up for debate? Because trust me, I can make it worse, Professor Hawthorne The—"

"Very well, I shall refrain from addressing you as Ms. Grambs again." His lips did that thing again, that small twitch up that could excuse for a smile, "Doll."

And you say I'm just a chess pawn, huh?

"Cool."

"Indeed."

"You seriously are gonna get caught drinking again, Pretty Boy."

"And?"

"And," I twirled the ice around in my glass, forming a mini whirlpool for me to play with, "That, your Highness is illegal. You know law and stuff exists, right?"

Grayson chuckled a humorless scoff, "Right. My