CHAPTER 4
MIDNIGHT AT THE OLD QUARRY
POV: Aiden Hart
I should've stayed in bed.
But my sneakers were already on, and the moonlight through the study window felt like a dare. I slipped the note into my back pocket, Old Quarry, 11 PM. Your future depends on it.—and crept down the marble staircase, every step echoing louder than it should.
The Hart house was silent, polished to perfection. The only sound was the low mechanical hum of the security system my dad had installed last summer. Always watching. Just like him.
I paused at the front door, hand on the knob, breath steady. I wasn't scared. Not really. The fear had died somewhere between all those early morning drills and Friday night game. What kept me moving tonight wasn't fear; the fire in my chest that refused to let a challenge go unanswered.
Dad had drilled it into me: You finish what you start. You never back down.
So I didn't.
The door clicked shut behind me, louder than I wanted. The Charger sat under the streetlamp like it had been waiting, the red paint gleaming like oil under moonlight. I slid behind the wheel, the engine growling to life with a sound that made something inside me settle.
Ten minutes to the quarry. Ten minutes of empty roads, sleepy storefronts, and Kingswood shadows. The diner's neon sign buzzed as I passed, casting flickers over the windshield like ghosts. I didn't slow. I knew where I was going.
The turn-off was just a break in the trees without signs or lights, a dirt path, and a feeling. My headlights carved the way forward, catching branches like claws and rocks like bones.
The quarry opened up, jagged, wide, ancient. Moonlight poured into the pit, turning the broken stones silver. For a second, I almost smiled.
Then I saw them.
Figures near the ledge. Five, maybe six. One leaned against a rock like he owned the place, broad shoulders, varsity jacket, smug stance. Brandon Holt.
Of course, it was him.
I killed the engine, stepped out, and shut the door softly.
"Didn't think the mayor's boy would show," Brandon called, voice echoing across stone.
"Didn't think you knew how to write," I shot back.
A few of the guys chuckled, not students. Older. Rough around the edges. I recognized two from around the Hollows, always lurking near garages with Black Vulture patches. My jaw tensed.
Brandon stepped forward. "Still got that smart mouth, huh? Maybe being captain's gone to your head."
I didn't move. "This is why you dragged me out here? To cry about a title you didn't earn?"
He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You think this town's yours, just 'cause your daddy's got a seat in that big house?"
"I think I earned my spot," I said calmly. "Unlike you."
His smile dropped.
Behind him, the other guys shifted. One cracked his knuckles. Another flicked a lighter open and closed.
Brandon looked at me with something that wasn't just anger. It was deeper. Shame, maybe. Jealousy. I could almost see it. He didn't just hate that I was captain. He hated that I fit in this town better than he ever would.
"Let's see how you hold up without Daddy's cameras," he muttered.
He lunged.
I braced. His fist caught my shoulder, but I twisted, shoved him back, stumbled a little. Then the others surged forward. My instincts kicked in, footwork from drills, balance from years of training. I ducked, blocked, and swung once connected. My knuckles screamed.
They didn't fight clean, but neither did I.
Still, I was outnumbered.
A punch to my ribs knocked the wind from me. I gasped, doubled over, shoved the nearest guy off, but they kept coming.
Then
BANG.
Everything stopped.
The sound echoed through the pit like a cannon blast. Dust trembled off the quarry walls. My ears rang.
The guys froze, eyes darting to the tree line.
BANG. Another shot.
Panic.
Brandon cursed under his breath. "Screw this."
They ran.
Just like that.
I stood there, chest heaving, heart racing. Sweat dripped down my spine. My knuckles were bleeding. My lip, too, probably.
I turned, limped toward the Charger.
Halfway there, I paused.
A figure?
No… just trees. Maybe.
I kept walking, opened the car door, and slid inside.
Then, off in the distance, a soft rumble. Low, steady, fading fast.
Motorcycle?
I wasn't sure.
I sat there, gripping the steering wheel, staring into the dark.
Who fired the shots?
Why did it feel like someone was still watching me?
I turned the key. The engine roared to life. I didn't look back.
But I felt it.
Someone was out there.
And this wasn't over.