Addicted After All

One

Loren Hale

In the pitch-black of night, I run as fast as rage will carry me. Gravel from the suburban road digs into my bare feet, February's cold biting my flesh. I had no time to slip on shoes, a shirt, or even grab a coat.

"Motherfuckers," Ryke growls through gritted teeth, using his full power, endurance-everything that made him a collegiate track star-to chase after dark-clothed figures that bolt down the street. I never thought I'd be able to match my brother's speed. No longer weighed down by self-pity and hatred, I can go farther than I dreamed.

And I do.

My legs pump forward in sync with his, our muscles sharpening in the same way. Our veins bursting and heating with blood-red fury. Because we thought these stupid fucking guys shot one of the girls through the window.

A minute ago, Ryke and I were upstairs and heard a few loud bangs, followed by Lily's and Daisy's panicked screams. As we rushed to the main floor, Daisy was ghostly pale. Lily was holding her little sister's hand, and my gaze dropped to Lil's stomach, a noticeable bump at eighteen weeks pregnant.

I fucking ran on instinct. Only this time, I'm not the one being chased.

Ryke was right by my side, no hesitation, no questions asked. He took one look at Daisy's horror-stricken face, and he just lost it. Our fame and notoriety shouldn't put either of the girls in harm's way. It's complete bullshit.

All six of us-Ryke, Daisy, Connor, Rose, Lily, and me-now live in a rich, gated Philadelphia neighborhood. Only these so-called "gates" surround the neighborhood, not our eight-bedroom house. Sometimes, the real shits are the ones right down the street, and for the past two weeks, they've egged our door, toilet papered the yard, and forked the grass.

This is the first time we've heard them scamper away, and so this is the first time we've ever tried to catch them.

We gain on them, and their muffled cursing becomes louder, their panic clearer in their hurried steps,

Krista and Becca Ritchie