Hot Love

The summer air clung to their skin like sin.

It was the kind of night that whispered trouble. The sky was painted with burnt orange and wine-dark purple, the sun bleeding into the horizon like it had been shot down. Cicadas hummed in the trees, and waves crashed softly behind the dunes of Hawthorn Beach, the only quiet thing in the chaos that had become their lives.

Lena Moretti stretched out across the hood of her stepfather's stolen Corvette, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, the other dragging down the edge of her too-short denim shorts. The hem teased her thighs, riding up further with every slow shift of her hips. Her eyes, lined in black and fire, stared up at the first stars piercing through dusk.

"They're gonna catch us one day," Ivy murmured.

Lena turned her head lazily. "Let them."

Ivy Sung sat cross-legged on the sand, sketchpad open, charcoal smudged on her fingers like bruises. She never looked at Lena directly when she spoke-just stared at her hands, or the paper, or the waves. Ivy's art was dangerous in its honesty. She drew what others refused to say out loud.

Tonight, she was drawing Lena.

"Don't move," Ivy whispered, sketching the curve of Lena's lips.

"I'm always moving," Lena said with a smirk. "That's what makes me interesting."

From the brush line, footsteps approached. Three more shadows joined them-Cameron Blake in a crisp, unwrinkled shirt even in this humidity, Mira Caldwell still in her Catholic school uniform despite it being June, and Jaxon Rivera, trailing behind, cigarette tucked behind his ear, hands in the pockets of his stolen leather jacket.

"Thought we agreed not to come back here," Cameron said, his voice low but cutting.

"Yeah, well," Jaxon said, slouching into the driver's side of the Corvette, "Lena doesn't do rules."

"She doesn't do most things safely," Mira added softly.

Lena laughed, full and reckless. "That's rich coming from the preacher's daughter."

Mira looked down, her long lashes hiding whatever burned behind her eyes.

They were five bodies drawn together by gravity and secrets. They didn't belong together-not in this town, not in this world-but somehow, they were all each other had.

Tonight, they'd returned to the place where it had started. Where lines had blurred. Where something wicked had begun.

Two weeks ago, before blood stained the floor of that club, before the news screamed murder, it had just been about sex and secrets.

Lena and Viktor D'Angelo had met in shadows. He was twice her age, dangerous in a way that thrilled her, and powerful in ways no teenager should flirt with. He owned The Crimson Vault, the town's underground club, where the music was sin and the liquor was fake IDs and glances that lasted too long.

"He watched me like I was a weapon," Lena once told Ivy.

Ivy never answered. She just drew him, tall and cruel, with Lena in his lap, her expression unreadable.

Lena hadn't known then that Viktor was the kingpin of the East Coast Mafia. She only knew he made her feel seen-and used. That paradox lit her on fire.

Now, he was dead.

Murdered.

And one of them had pulled the trigger.

Earlier that evening...

Cameron stood on the cliff's edge overlooking the sea, fingers wrapped around a bottle of stolen whiskey, shirt open, hair windblown. He was too pretty to be here, too polished to be guilty.

But guilt was a twisted thing-it wore suits, drove Mercedes, smiled with perfect teeth.

He stared down at the town lights flickering below. He could almost see the Vault, the crimson glow that used to feel like heat now pulsing like a warning.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from an unknown number.

"We know what you did. Tick tock."

He didn't react.

He'd been raised to play politics, to keep his mask on. Even now, when the game was life or death.

Behind him, a figure emerged.

Jaxon.

"You gonna pretend it's not falling apart?" Jaxon asked.

Cameron didn't turn. "It's not the first time I've buried a truth."

"But this one has teeth," Jaxon said, lighting his cigarette. The flame lit his eyes for a moment. "And the mafia doesn't bury things. They dig."

Back at the beach, Mira shivered despite the heat. She pulled her knees to her chest, toes sinking into the sand.

She could still feel the gun in her hand.

Heavy.

Warm.

She had aimed it.

Pulled the trigger.

Because he wouldn't stop. Because Lena screamed. Because Viktor D'Angelo had a hand on her best friend's throat and called her a pet.

Bang.

One sound.

One second.

One death.

She hadn't told the others.

Not yet.

They all assumed it was Jaxon. He was closest. He had the gun. He had motive.

Mira let them think it.

Because she was the quiet one.

The good one.

The one no one ever suspects.

As night settled in like a lover slipping beneath the sheets, Lena lay back on the car, eyes closed, lips parted.

"Ivy," she said softly.

"Yeah?"

"If you draw me the way I really am, will you still want me?"

Ivy's charcoal stopped. Her heart pounded too loudly in her ears.

"Yes," she whispered.

And she meant it.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

The group went silent.

Then Jaxon's voice-casual but sharp.

"We need a plan."

Cameron stepped forward. "No. We need an alibi."

"No," Mira said, voice small but firm. "We need to disappear."

They looked at her then-really looked at her.

Mira Caldwell, all innocence and white skirts and trembling hands.

She met their eyes without blinking.

"I don't want to kill again."