Devils' Day Party: A High School Bully Romance - C.M. Stunich Page 0,88

In the drawing, Barron stands behind me, a lollipop between his lips. I flip the page again. There's me, wearing the necklace. Next page. Me, sitting on the picnic table bench next to him. Next page. A drawing of me and him, kissing while my fingers toy with the key around his neck.

Holy shit.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the car and try to process what I've just seen.

Barron draws me. He dates each piece, and, flipping back to the beginning, I see they go all the way back to freshman year.

That, and in some strange, small way, he remembers the other timelines.

My friends and family might not remember the day is going in repeat, not really, but they're here with me in heart and spirit; we're in this together. We'll get out of this together.

Barron steps around the rear of the car, crouching down beside me as he reaches up to push his mask away from his face. His beautiful eyes are red and weepy, but he doesn't say anything as he reaches out, grabs the corner of the sketchbook, and yanks it away from me.

“You remember the other timelines,” I whisper, and he gives me a look like he's fighting between fury and genuine interest.

“I'm not very happy with you right now, Karma Sartain. Why don't you explain yourself before I decide to tell Raz and Calix where you are?”

“You told them it was me?” I ask, but when Barron doesn't respond, I realize that no, he hasn't. How could he tell them? The way he draws me … It makes sense he'd keep it a secret. There's care and focus and attention in those drawings. “You deserve to be pepper sprayed, drawing me all these years while treating me like crap? That's some creepy stalker ass shit.”

“What timelines?” he grinds out, looking down at the sketchbook. All the images he's drawn that show the timelines, he must've drawn today. So he's clearly been thinking about it. Obsessively so. I wonder if he does that every day? Draws what he can remember.

“All those scenes you drew in there, like me with the butterflies. Or … at the gas station, crying? Even the one with us kissing, I know about all of that. Because I lived it.”

He narrows his eyes at me, dropping into a full crouch and pushing the sleeves of his jacket up to reveal his black and gray tattoos.

“My eyes are killing me. Explain.” He rests his elbows on his knees, watching me with trepidation and unease, like he isn't certain I'm not about to pepper spray him again. There's a bit of betrayal in his eyes, too, like I let him down tonight.

“You and Raz and Calix were planning on taking me to the cabin in the morning, the treehouse cabin where Calix and I slept together last year. Sonja and Luke were there, and you were going to surprise me with that. Today, you decided not to do it, but that's not always true. Some days, you do. And then you come and get me from the cabin after dark, lead me into the crevice in the woods with all the butterflies. We kiss, and then you run off after telling me that I'd prefer a male butterfly trapped in resin because I'd never accept a fairytale where the female was trapped like that.”

Barron stares back at me with equal parts frustration and confusion.

“Karma, you've lost your mind,” he whispers, but there's a doubt there. Something about this is rubbing him the wrong way. “If you wanted to see my sketchbook, you could've asked.”

“And you'd have shown it to me?” I ask skeptically, raising my eyebrow. “Don't act like you would have.”

He says nothing, rising to his feet and then, reluctantly, holding out a hand. I place my gloved hand in his, and he pulls me to my feet. Our bodies are too close, and his face seems raw and exposed without the red devil mask. Even with his eyes red rimmed and swollen, Barron is remarkably handsome, just as much a devil as either Raz or Calix, but in a different way. He's like black and white, light and dark, a dichotomy of errors.

“Did Calix drive you here?” I ask and Barron shrugs one, large shoulder.

“Does it matter if I have his keys?” he replies, lifting a key fob out of his pocket with a single finger. We head over to the dented Aston Martin, and I slide into the