Fated Series. Book #2
"Be possessive of me, own me, keep me, because if you do then nothing and no one else can." - Maddox.
My name is Maddox Vallero, and I'm dead.
Well, that's not quite true. I'm alive in the breathing, walking, talking sense-but...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Chapter 7 To Far Away Maddox
They say New York is prettiest at night. I can tell you right now—that's bullshit. Nighttime is when the loonies come out. The ones with no pants who think it's a good idea to chase you while you're trying to have a peaceful jog with your dog. Even Alvin wasn't impressed with the psycho who came barreling after us. He didn't make it far—I'm definitely faster—but still, what the fuck? And who runs naked at three a.m.? Then again, who goes running at three a.m.? That would be me, the sleepless joker who can't bring himself to wake up Mateo. He's been fucken tired lately, and I'm the reason.
So instead of wrestling with my own mind and the chaos it's set on causing, I went for a run. Maybe if I wear myself out, I'll finally sleep. Two years in New York, two years of night runs, and that hasn't happened yet. But I keep lying to myself, hoping for it become a reality. A man can hope, right?
Three miles in, and Alvin's still panting happily beside me, keeping up like the good boy he is. He's got no problem running on my crazy schedule. Even now, as he trots alongside me off-leash, he looks like he'd rather be nowhere else. I pick up the pace, wincing at the dull ache in my back, and he glances back with this look, like he's calling me out for being slow.
"Come on, dude," I huff, pushing harder. "You've got four legs. I've only got two!"
The only good thing about nighttime in New York is the cold. It bites at your skin, makes for the perfect running conditions. It also numbs the constant ache in my back, a lovely souvenir from my kidnapping adventure. A reminder of what electrocution does to your body in the long run. Fair, I guess. I've done my own share of torturing. In case anyone's curious, electrocution messes with your muscles pretty good. It wasn't this bad before, but lately, it's been hell.
In Texas, I couldn't run. The humidity there could kill you. But when we moved here two years ago, I picked it up. Running, especially in the dead of night, became a way to burn through the sleepless hours. Don't ask me what I'm running from—Kirsan's already asked me that too many times. And like I told him, I just like running alone, without paparazzi breathing down my neck. The only time I can get that is after midnight. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Who knows.
We hit the fifth mile just as we make it back to the apartment. The usual doorman pushes the doors open, and I nod at him on my way to the stairs. I know I should take the elevator instead of climbing eleven floors, but I can't stand being trapped in that box. Alvin doesn't mind—he jogs up the stairs beside me, tail wagging. This has become our weekly ritual. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, running around the city like we're escaping something. Maybe we are.
Alvin was already waiting by the apartment door when I finally hit the top of the stairs. I unlocked it heavily, muscles aching as I pushed it open. Right now, I wished I had four legs, like him, because my two were about ready to quit. Alvin trotted straight to his water bowl, and I followed him, chugging down a glass of water—or two—at the kitchen counter. My mind felt a little calmer, maybe even a touch quieter, but the thoughts were still there, buzzing beneath the surface.
