Red: Fiery Finale (Spectrum Series Book 8) Read online

  RED:

  FIERY FINALE

  By Allison White

  Red: Fiery Finale

  Copyright © 2019 by Allison White.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: March 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-563-8

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-563-9

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my readers who stuck around for the rollercoaster.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter One

  Noah

  I can’t feel my legs or the rest of my limbs. I focus on the only thing I could feel: the sharp thrumming underneath my skin. Each long stride on the machine took a part of my lungs, and I stomped over them with ease. I can barely feel my fingers as I pump my arms to the beat of my erratic heartbeat.

  But after three months of doing this every single day, I’ve grown accustomed to the shortness of breath and the numbness in my body, all except for my pounding heart. I was used to feeling nothing during my intensive workout until the sun went down. That was the only time I felt anything except the throbbing pain I tried so hard to avoid.

  When I look into the mirror, I don’t see myself looking back. I see broader shoulders, more toned and expanding muscle. Sweat drips from my overgrown curls, down my narrow nose, between my green eyes. They used to be bright as the galaxy, I noted, but now they’re as dull as the knife that twists tortuously slow through my limbs, letting me marinate in the pain.

  How did I get here? How did I let the pain of losing the girl I loved shape me into a completely different person? These questions plague my mind day and night without any breaks. I’m constantly overthinking everything that went down in the past, wondering how I couldn’t see the obvious signs.

  When the voices and questions become too much, I stop running and lean against the mirror-wall, gulping down my water. I run a hand through my damp hair and push the poisonous thoughts away. They always come clustered and prepared to dig at my already gutted mind.

  She left. Why couldn’t she take the fucking lingering feelings away, too?

  Deciding working out isn’t doing it today, I walk out of the room. I turn down the hallway and push my fingers through my hair. I pull and clamp my long fingers around the back of my neck.

  I glance at my paintings as I walk through my condo. I got the apartment after she left. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. It was like a switch snapped, and I became harsher, sharper…darker. So I had to distance myself and focus on repairing the damage.

  What I didn’t know was how much shit she broke and how long it’d take to sort out.

  Breaching into the wide area, I look into my massive living room. I step over a few Solo cups, wondering what time it is. Daisy, from the maid service I receive twice a week, should be here around nine. I try to leave before she gets here. I also clean up as much as I can before she arrives, and I usually leave her a gracious tip. Lord knows the snobby people living in this building don’t.

  I walk over to the blonde snoring on my red leather L-shaped couch. I gently shake her shoulders. “You have to go. Party’s out.”

  Last night, as usual, I threw a party here. I do it almost every night. And despite struggling with school, people came for the liquor and music and lavishness of my place. I threw each one in hopes of waking up so high from the party that she’d finally leave my brain.

  I wake up disappointed each morning.

  The girl mumbles in her sleep and shifts. “Wha…huh?”

  I nudge her leg hanging over the couch. “The party’s over. It’s…” I glance at the oversized modern wall clock to my right, between the expanding windows that displayed the city of Boston below. “Eight-fifteen, and I have someplace to be.”

  I don’t.

  She finally peeks through her ratty hair before leaning on her long arms. “Whaaaaat?” she drawls then proceeds to cough. I take three steps back, lean down for the tissue box, and pluck out a few squares. I hand them to her, and she hesitantly rubs her face. Her makeup is basically a Halloween mask now.

  “I’ll go get you some Advil and water, but be by the elevator when I get back. Please.” I smile softly. I rarely do, but if it’ll get her out…

  “That’ll be…nice.” She grins with a wonky blue eye, thrusting out a thumbs up.

  After I guide her to the elevator outside of my apartment, I fall on my couch where she slept moments ago, but not before wiping up her drool—people can be disgusting nowadays—and start up my PlayStation. Funny, just a few months ago I was making fun of the guys that played video games almost 24/7 in the frat house, and now look at me: playing games because I have freaking voices in my head.

  I am pathetic.

  Halfway through my tenth round of playing with online strangers, my pocket buzzes. My phone. Either my parents—even though they gave me my daily lecture yesterday—Mike, Ty, Rachel, or Ellis.

  Ellis was sort of my father’s shadow, learning the business ropes under his wing. He was the son of one of my father’s closest colleagues and friends. But Ellis and I were actually friends; he and I would play as children and grew a little closer to almost brotherhood when we got older. But nowadays he’s checking on me to make sure I don’t become a total partying hermit.

  He goes to another school in the area. When he’s not at school, he’s learning how to tie ties or whatever the hell businessmen
do.

  Anyway, I let my phone ring. I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone right now. But I can listen to a twelve year old brag about how many kills he has. I kill him with ease right before I hear a knock at my door.

  Groaning, I set the remote down and listen to him retaliate and curse at me. I just shake my head with a small smile as I wrap my hand around the doorknob. The minute I open it, Mike reaches forward and punches me in the shoulder.

  “Ow?”

  “Why didn’t you answer my phone call?” He brushes past me into the condo. “I thought you tried to hang yourself or something.” He walks over to the couch, skillfully dodging the cups and other shit people left behind. I really should clean up a bit before Daisy comes.

  “Nah. Your mama’s pantyhose didn’t hold me up last time,” I joke, and he growls at me. “Sorry.” I hold my hands up in mock defense, falling onto the couch.

  “You rather listen to this baby than me?” He points to the TV, referring to the little boy talking crap about me and my mother.

  “He has such a soothing voice,” I mumble.

  I quickly kill him without batting an eye before leaving the game. I turn off the game, and regular TV switches onto a cooking show. I turn to him with an expectant eyebrow raise. He’s here to lecture me, so why is he stalling?

  “Don’t you look at me like that, assbutt,” he warns with a small smile, and I shrug. He takes the same cautious look around like he always does when he’s over. “You know you can’t just stay in your apartment for the rest of your life, right? Believe it or not, there is a life outside of working out and partying twenty-four-seven.”

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Or how everyone else does. Like I’m some sad, pathetic boy that should already be over the girl who robbed him blind. She stole my heart too, not just some fucking watch I didn’t even care for. And she’s left me cut open like a wound that just won’t close, no matter how much pressure I apply.

  But I should stop thinking about her, my head’s starting to hurt again.

  “I’m okay, Mike. I don’t need you coming over to lecture me,” I tell him in a lightened tone, and he gives me a pointed look. Chuckling with raised palms, I say, “I’m serious. I’m not wasting my life away or anything.” I pause and sweep my eyes across the littered floor then back to his eyes with a grin. “I’m just your average college boy.”

  He scoffs, kicking a leg over the other. “Yeah, right. You’re pissing away money on booze and DJs to lure people over here so you don’t have to be alone and rot in the pain Re—” My jaw hardens, and he quickly corrects himself. “When she left you. And that’s fine. Grieve, but don’t do this—”

  “If you don’t like it, then go. Leave me alone.” I jump to my feet and stop in front of the plasma screen. “I’m sure you have a lot more friends, all of whom are doing the same shit I’m doing. Partying and hiding their stress and whatnot.” I whirl around on my feet and shout, “So why the hell is it so wrong for me to be like them?”

  He stands, head shaking. “Because you aren’t them, Noah,” he claims, and I run my hands over my damp hair. “Look, I get what she did, leaving you and everything—”

  “After she robbed me,” I interrupt him, nearly seething.

  His eyes are churning with so much sympathy that I have to look away. “After everything, I get it. You’re pissed and sad and confused, but you shouldn’t just put your life on hold because of her.”

  “What do you want me to do, Mike?” I ask. Who knows, maybe he has the cure for heartbreak in his pocket.

  He shrugs. “Join the lacrosse team for one.”

  I roll my eyes and look at the ceiling. “Because throwing around some ball will instantly lift my spirits.” I get that he’s a super athletic guy, but I don’t feel sports will fix everything.

  “It’ll help,” he says. “And tagging onto study groups would also work in your favor.” I look at him and quickly avoid his eyes. “You’ve been dodging us lately. And I get it, I do…but call me crazy, I think your friends can be by your side as you go through this.”

  I take a moment to think. What he says makes…sense. About partying and shielding my real feelings, but it’s the only way I know how to mask the crippling pain I feel seemingly every second of every day. Without them, I am in constant agonizing torture. At least I get to numb myself a little with alcohol. It doesn’t usually do anything to minimize the misery, but it’s better than doing absolutely nothing.

  To sum it up, I won’t stop the parties; they help, in my opinion. As for lacrosse…I’ve admittedly been feeling static. I’m full of energy, so full that I kick a shoe of mine around as if it were a soccer ball and imitate tossing crumpled papers in garbage bins like basketballs. So I guess I’ll think about it.

  “I’m guessing your long silence means you’re up for the lacrosse?” he infers with a knowing smile. He is such a cocky wise-owl. If he doesn’t make it as an architect—his dream job—he should know he has a place next in line to be the Cheshire cat, giving out sound advice, high on fumes of the great American hope that everything will work itself out in the end.

  I cock a grin. “Possibly. I don’t know, yet. Let me think about it.”

  I’m lying. I want back in. But…I’m a bit terrified of returning to myself. What if I come crashing down? What if I haven’t fully escaped her tremors, and I become myself again just to end up hurt, or worse?

  I’m eternally scared.

  “Great. Take your time; tryouts are tomorrow.” Today’s Friday, so I don’t have plenty of time to think it over, to figure out if staying in the shadow of Red is worse than braving myself for failure…

  “In the meantime.” He drops onto the couch, grabbing a PS4 controller off the glass coffee table. “How ’bout I kick your ass in Mortal Combat?”

  “You wish.” I plop beside him and grab my own controller. I queue up the game and, as we’re picking out our characters, my phone buzzes in my pants. I slide it out and stare at the screen.

  Ty: Up for some bootylicious action tnite?

  I frown and type a hesitate reply.

  Noah: R U trying to tell me smthing Ty?

  Ty: Nice try. I wouldn’t go after U if I were gay, bro.

  I laugh, and Mike reads the message, chuckling.

  “Bootylicious? I’m surprised he isn’t strutting around in tight pink shorts and a glittery headband,” he says, grinning.

  “Funny. Your mom was wearing that last night,” I joke, and he growls warningly. “Got it. Enough with the mom jokes. Geez. Why so touchy, Michael?”

  “Just wait till I beat your ass in this game. Just. You. Wait.”

  I shiver in mock fright and laugh before facing my buzzing phone.

  Ty: New club opening up tnight. Down?

  Noah: Not on you, but the club…sign me up. Text me the deets.

  I set my phone down beside my leg.

  “What was he asking for?” Mike asks as he slams his thumbs on his controller.

  “Some club opening tonight…you in, or should I bring over some tea bags for your granny party?” I tease him and his modest mindset. But I can’t tease him too much; he grew up in a household of women, with his sister and mother, and his grandmother in their basement. He couldn’t help but pick up some sensitivity and understanding and nurturing traits.

  “Fuck you and take that, motherfucker!” he screams out loud as he slams his character into me, chopping me in half.

  “Ah, shit. Round two?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

  “Didn’t even have to ask.” The round starts, and for a few minutes, I forget about everything. Well, mostly everything…she always remains in my mind. No matter how many times pixelated characters slice me in half and pierce my heart.

  Chapter Two

  The second the door to the massive translucent-glass building opened, I could sense the headache I would be carrying home tonight. Our group moved inside and were greeted with a packed club. Green and red and purple lights shone overhead, ro
tating and illuminating the skins of the partygoers. Bits of smoke snake around high-heels and is stomped on by heavy feet. The music is of a breakout pop-star; I forgot her name, but the song is catchy, and I find myself bobbing my head to the beat.

  Beside me, Tyler nods to a group of girls passing by. “How y’all doin’?” he croons and nods at them. They merely giggle and scamper away. I chuckle and wonder if he gets his flirting skills from Joey Tribbiani. And if so, why can’t he get any girls? He was my favorite character on Friends and would have made those girls swoon. Maybe it’s Ty’s nauseating attempt at winking.

  I throw an arm around his shoulder, and we all move toward the bar. “Maybe try again without the weird blinking thing,” I suggest.

  “I don’t need any suggestions,” he scoffs and flips his imaginative long hair. I’m guessing it would have slapped my face dramatically. I chuckle, and he squints his eyes. “What do you mean weird blinking?”

  “You’re totally just blinking, dude.” I sit on one of the tall black stools. I lift my fingers, signaling the male bartender. Getting his nod in acknowledgment, I return my gaze to my puzzled, offended friend.

  “I am not blinking—I’m winking!” he claims with a theatrical gasp.

  “Oh, yeah?” I turn to him after ordering several shots. “Then wink for me.” I raise my palms, grinning jokingly. “And don’t worry, I won’t fall for your boyish charms, Casanova, just like those girls we saw a while ago.”

  “Dick,” he spits, but then he leans back. Blinks rapidly, clears his throat—basically acts like he’s about to audition for the Titanic—and finally “winks.” Really, he’s just blinking, but it’s not just his eyes. His whole face scrunches up and his tongue juts out a little as if to peek out and laugh at the rest of his face.

  I burst into laughter, clapping my hands. “That…was…tragic!”