Toxic// Jason McCann

c h a p t e r 1

Spencer's POV

The rain pelted down upon the street, swift and cold. I hugged myself, pulling my army green jacket closer around me.

My footsteps plunged into the muddy puddles and I thought about how freakishly soggy my shoes would be after this. But why should I care? My entire outfit was wet and I was freezing cold.

I had no place to go to now. Little over two hours ago, I had been kicked out of my apartment by the owner because I had failed to pay the rent. Again.

I had nothing with me save a backpack that held a few essential items.

Tears cascaded down my cheeks, mingling with the pouring rain, the saltiness disappearing in the constant downpour. My footsteps became faster.

I shouldn't be crying right now, goddammit! Crying wouldn't somehow summon up a roof above my head, now would it? I rubbed my eyes and gulped. The New York streetlights were bright, a stark contrast to the stormy night sky.

I had to find shelter. Soon. I kept a lookout for any such place. I had no idea what I was searching for, though. I doubted I had enough money for a motel. As people passed me by, I kept my head down, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

Bad things happened in this part of the city; when better a time for the demons to strike than now, late at night, in the shadows and solitude?

Up ahead came an alley. It was poorly lit and narrow. The constant stream of passerbys had now diminished. I was practically alone.

A gasping, strangled sort of scream sounded. I jumped back in alarm. Holy fuck, what was that?

I cautiously peered into the alley. A dark shadow was holding something, no, someone, to the wall. With one hand. There were two others behind him, their posture upright and tall.

The person on the wall gasped out "I don't have anymore! I swear! I'll pay you back as soon as I get the cash. Please!"

His tone was desperate. I couldn't move, rooted to the spot. The scene unfolding in front of my eyes screamed danger and logic commanded me to run and not to give a single glance back, but, for some blasted reason, I didn't.

A cold, unfeeling laugh erupted from the man who held the victim up. He spoke in a deep, icy tone. One that sent a shiver down my spine.

"You should've known better than to fuck with my gang, Ricardo. You were supposed to have it by today, and you don't."

He held out a hand to one of his cronies behind him. They had yet to speak a word. He was handed an object, I couldn't distinguish what it was, exactly. But as he held it up and the faint moonlight shone on it, it suddenly came into sharp focus.

It was a gun.

The bullet clicked into place.

My heart fell. It couldn't happen, no. He couldn't just kill him. No!

Ricardo started fruitlessly squirming and shouting, trying his level best to get out of the death grip his apparent executioner had on him. He was held too tightly yet he still attempted to escape. They were the actions of a man desperate for his life.

A loud, echoing shot sounded. Ricardo stopped squirming, stopped moving, stopped breathing. He was limp.

Dead.

My breath caught in my throat.

His killer, of whom I could only see platinum blonde hair, casually put the gun into his pocket, turning around casually as if he had not just fucking murdered a man in cold blood.

I felt sick, my head spun. This all felt unreal, contents of a nightmare.

The last thing I saw before blacking out completely and toppling into the alleyway were the stunned figures of the murderers watching me.

I was good as dead now.