Deadly Kiss

I never thought it would happen to me.

Not to me.

That was the kind of thing that happened to other girls. Girls who flirted too much. Girls who made bad decisions. Girls who were careless with their lives. Not the ones who followed rules like gospel.

I did everything right. Ate my vegetables. Kept curfews. Walked home before dark. Wore ankle-length skirts and kept my eyes on the pavement. Aunt Marie always said, “Bad things don’t happen to good girls.”

Well.

I guess she was wrong.

Because good girls do get kidnapped.

And sometimes, they never come back.

I remember the day it started with a clarity that feels like punishment. The kind of memory that clings to your skin like smoke—unshakable, suffocating. It was spring. Mid-April. One of those sun-warm afternoons that pretends winter never existed. Students lounged across the lawn like stray cats, textbooks forgotten, sunglasses on, half-heartedly pretending to study.

I was sitting cross-legged outside the Humanities building, my history textbook spread open across my lap, knees tucked neatly beneath me. The wind kept flipping the pages, playfully ignoring my attempts to pin them down. I squinted into the sun, highlighter poised mid-air. Civil War dates blurred into the glint of sunlight on grass, the lazy hum of bees, the gentle rush of wind through freshly budding trees.

And then I looked up.

And saw him.

God.

He was the kind of beautiful that doesn’t belong in the real world. The kind that makes you forget your name. He looked like he’d walked out of a dream—or maybe a nightmare, depending on how closely you looked.

Tall. Lean. Broad shoulders under a Nirvana T-shirt that looked like it had survived a hundred washing machines and a few bar fights. Blond hair fell over his forehead in messy waves, brushing the tops of his shoulders like it had never once obeyed a comb. Ripped jeans, fraying at the knees. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, smoke curling around his silhouette like something sacred and profane all at once.

He leaned against a dying tree like he owned it. Like he owned the whole damn campus.

But it was his eyes that stopped me.

Green. Not soft green. Not earthy or kind.

Sharp. Cold. Distant.

The color of bottle glass just before it shatters.

He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at anything. His gaze was fixed somewhere above us all, like he was watching a world none of us could see—and silently judging it.

And I—

I was staring. Wide-eyed. Pathetic. Some tragic girl from a Taylor Swift song.

“See something you like?”

The words sliced the air. Casual, amused, and low enough to make my stomach drop.

I blinked, startled. My textbook nearly fell off my lap. He was suddenly closer—far too close. The kind of close that steals your breath before you realize it’s gone.

I hadn’t even seen him move.

His presence rolled over me like smoke. Dangerous and deliberate. He smelled like leather and cedarwood and the kind of cologne you only wear when you want to leave damage behind. My heart kicked against my ribs like it wanted out.

“Uh…” I swallowed, my throat dry. My voice betrayed me, small and unsure.

He grinned.

God, that grin.

It was lazy, wicked, almost cruel—like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he enjoyed the effect he had on people. On me.

“Elan,” he said, offering his hand. His fingers were long, veined, the knuckles tattooed with something delicate and unreadable.

I should have hesitated. Should’ve stood up and walked away. But my hand was already in his before I knew what I was doing.

“Jamie,” I said. “Jamie Moore.”

“Jamie.” He rolled it off his tongue like he was tasting it. “Pretty name.”

There was a long pause.

“You always sit alone out here, Jamie?”

I nodded. Words were too hard. Too risky.

“You shouldn’t.” His thumb grazed my wrist, slow and intentional. “People might get ideas.”

My pulse stuttered.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“You a student here?” he asked, still holding my hand like it belonged to him.

“Freshman.” I winced as soon as I said it. I sounded twelve.

He tilted his head like I’d told him a secret. “You look like you need rescuing,” he murmured. “Ever skipped class for pizza?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, backing up a step, gesturing toward the parking lot with his chin. “Just one slice. You’ll be back before anyone even knows you’re gone. Unless…” He smirked. “You’re scared of a little fun?”

My heart screamed no.

But my body stood anyway.

And followed him.

Elan’s truck was the kind of vehicle that had stories. Faded blue paint, sun-peeled at the edges. Dents along the sides that looked suspiciously like fists. A spiderweb crack in the windshield and a bumper sticker that read No Gods, No Masters.

He opened the door for me. It groaned like an old man with bad knees. Inside, it smelled like old leather, burnt rubber, and something darker. Like smoke that had sunk too deep into the upholstery. Like the memory of fire.

Still, I got in.

Because I wanted to be seen.

Because I was tired of being invisible, tired of being the girl nobody noticed unless she dropped something.

He climbed in beside me and reached across to fasten my seatbelt. His chest brushed mine. His fingers lingered on the buckle.

I forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t kiss me. But his eyes flicked to my mouth, then to my throat. And that was worse. So much worse.

“You okay?” he asked, voice like velvet dipped in heat.

“Yeah,” I lied, clutching the sleeves of my sweater. It was canary yellow. Hideous. A gift from my grandmother. Right now it felt like a child's security blanket, a shield made of innocence.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s ninety degrees.”

Still, he reached forward and twisted the A/C knob off with two fingers.

Then he popped the glove compartment open and pulled out a brown glass bottle. No label. No hesitation.

“Drink?”

I blinked. “I don’t really…”

“There’s a first time for everything.” He held it out to me like it was a test. A key. A loaded gun. “Or are you one of those girls?”

“What girls?”

“The ones who always do what they’re told.”

That made something inside me snap. Maybe pride. Maybe loneliness.

I took the bottle.

The beer was warm and bitter, and it tasted like metal. Like rust. Like something that didn’t want to be swallowed. But I swallowed anyway.

Because I didn’t want him to see me as weak.

Because I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at the world—like it mattered.

Even if it meant becoming someone I wasn’t.

“What’s in this?” I asked after a few sips. My vision was already starting to shimmer around the edges.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Just something to help you relax.”

And then the world tilted.

Not gently. Not like sleep.

Like the ground had been pulled from under me.

My arms felt heavy. My legs refused to move. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I blinked, trying to focus, trying to think, but every thought slipped like sand through wet fingers.

“Elan…” I whispered, head slumping to the side. “What…did you…”

He leaned in, brushing the hair from my face with fingers that were suddenly far too cold.

“Shhh,” he said. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You won’t feel a thing.”

Panic surged—but my body refused to obey. I tried to scream. Open the door. Move.

Nothing.

I was underwater. Trapped in my own skin.

A tear slid down my cheek. And then another. Silent. Useless.

I saw the knife in the rearview mirror. Just a glint. A flash of metal.

He didn’t even look at me when he spoke. “I didn’t want it to be you,” he said. “But you just had to follow me, didn’t you?”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to fight.

But all I could do was fall.

Down, down, down into darkness.