Runs with Scissors

Riley woke up groggily, her eyelids thick and sticky like they'd been glued shut. The ceiling above her was off-white, stippled, yellow at the corners—like it had seen too much smoke and regret. Her mouth tasted

like something sour and stale, the kind of aftertaste that came from bottom-shelf booze and the cigarette she hadn't meant to finish. Her tongue felt coated. Dry. Her head throbbed with a slow, cruel pulse behind her eyes, like her brain was trying to claw its way out.

She shifted slightly. Her skin brushed against something warm.

A body. She scooted to the left a little.

And another one.

Slowly, she turned her head to the left.

Jade. Blonde hair splayed out across the pillow like a halo gone wrong, smudged eyeliner clinging to her lashes. Her lips were parted just slightly in sleep, one arm tossed carelessly across the blankets.

To the right—Derek. Shirtless, lean, freckles dusted across his collarbones. His arm hung off the edge of the bed, hand limp, one knuckle crusted with blood. He was breathing deep, dead to the world.

And they were all—

Naked.

A sinking weight dropped into her gut.

What the hell happened last night?

Her brain scrambled for a timeline. Last thing she remembered was laughing—too loud, too long—on someone's back porch. A bottle passed between them. Someone dared someone else to jump into the pool. She couldn't even remember if she had. Her memory cut out like static after that. Just feelings. Heat. Movement. Laughter. Then black.

What did I do?

She sucked in a breath and moved slowly. Her legs slid off the bed first. The blanket clung to her bare skin like it wanted to hold her accountable. She peeled it away, eyes scanning the floor.

Clothes. A tangle of them. Her ripped black jeans, inside-out tank top, Derek's boxers. Someone's bra—maybe hers.

She dressed quickly, tugging on the faded t-shirt she always wore when she wanted to feel like herself. Runs with Scissors, it read across the chest. A thrift store find she'd always thought was funny. Now it felt like

a warning.

She tiptoed out of the room, socks in hand, shoes nowhere to be seen. The hallway was narrow and smelled like weed, mildew, and Febreze trying too hard. Wallpaper curled at the edges, and the carpet had a sticky

spot she carefully avoided.

She would've wanted to go home, but nowhere felt like home anymore. She didn't even have her phone. No keys. No plan. Just panic tightening like a noose.

A few minutes later, she eased back into the room. Derek stirred, groaning.

"Hey," she said quietly, kneeling beside him. "I need to use your phone."

He groaned again and made a vague swatting motion in her direction. Typical.

She turned to Jade and gently touched her shoulder. "Good morning, beautiful," she whispered, fake cheer stitched into her voice. "Can I borrow your phone?"

Jade grunted something and reached toward the side table, handing Riley a phone without opening her eyes. Riley exhaled in relief.

She angled the screen toward Jade's face, but it didn't unlock.

"Jade, love… what's your code?"

"Four-three-one-zero," Jade mumbled into the pillow.

Riley typed it in.

And froze.

The screen lit up. Dozens—no, hundreds—of notifications exploded across the screen.

Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts.

Her name was in half of them.

Her chest tightened as she opened the first message.

"Jade, Riley's dad is on a rampage and he's going to fucking kill people to get her back. Dump that girl before something happens. Call me."

She blinked.

The next one:

"I know you know where my daughter is. If I don't get her back, I'll bring my bat to your boyfriend's house. It won't be fun for you."

There was a voicemail from Logan—her brother. She didn'tlisten. She already knew what it would say. His voice in her memory was always too loud, too angry, too familiar.

They're looking for me. He's threatening people. I didn't think it would get this bad.

She was already moving. Hoodie. Shoes. No hesitation. She wasn't going to drag anyone else into this mess.

When Derek emerged, she was waiting.

"I need a ride."

He looked at her, bleary-eyed. "Where?"

"Marathon on Brower."

"That's far."

"I know."

His brow furrowed. "You in trouble?"

"Not yet," she said. "But if I stay, you will be."

The truck was old. A red Ford with rust around the doors and the stale reek of old cigarettes baked into every crack of the upholstery. The bench seat creaked under their weight. Riley pulled her hood low and stared at the dashboard like it could explain her life.

She opened Jade's phone again. She shouldn't call. She knew better. But she needed a lifeline.

She tapped Evan's name.

It rang.

And rang.

Then—"Hello?"

"Evan, it's me. Riley."

A pause. "You okay?"

"No," she whispered. "Can you meet me at the Marathon off

Brower?"

Another pause, then "Twenty minutes."

She hung up and leaned against the cold glass of the window. It didn't help the burn rising in her chest.

When they reached the gas station, Derek parked on the side and went inside. Riley stayed in the truck, hugging her arms around herself. The lights overhead buzzed like they were short-circuiting. She stared straight ahead.

Just wait. Don't think. Just wait.

But something felt off.

Derek was talking to two guys by the coolers. One of them glanced at the truck. Then again.

What are you doing, Derek?

She watched him return, plastic bottle in hand, expression unreadable. He opened the water like nothing happened.

"We're good," he said.

She didn't believe him.

And then—movement in the mirror.

Her stomach dropped.

Logan.

Charging across the lot like a freight train, fists balled. Behind him, Savannah—his pit-bull of a girlfriend—stormed forward like backup, lips moving a mile a minute, arms crossed like a judgment she'd already passed.

Her pulse jumped to her throat.

No. No. No. Not here. Not now.

She ducked. "They're here," she hissed. "Start the truck."

"What?"

"Now, Derek!"

I can't let them catch me here. Not in this truck. Not like this.

But Derek hesitated. Logan's boots pounded closer.

He's going to lose it. He's going to hurt Derek. Or worse. What if he sees me and drags me out? What if Savannah calls Mom? What if this ends in someone bleeding out on the asphalt?

Riley crawled to the ground and reached across, slamming her palm on the gas. The truck jerked backward. Savannah yelped, jumping out of the way.

Logan reached the driver's window and ripped Derek halfway out of it.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Nothing—she asked for a ride!"

Riley tried to shrink away, but Derek's foot hit the brake and the truck jerked to a stop. Her head cracked the glove box. Static rang in her ears.

Voices blurred—Savannah's screech, Logan's roar, Derek's groan.

It was unraveling. Fast.

I caused this. I'm the match. The gasoline. All of it.

She opened the door and stepped out. Hands up. Barely steady.

"Stop," she said, voice hoarse. "I'll go."

Everything froze.

"Logan!" she shouted. "I'm turning myself in. Just stop."

He let Derek go, chest heaving.

Riley stood straighter. Her legs wanted to fold. Her heart wanted to run. But she stayed.

"I'm not running anymore."

And for the first time, Logan didn't yell.

He just stared.