Free How to Kill Yourself in a Small Town by eden Hudson Page A

based on a nationwide figure.
    “A
few months ago we had five castoffs zombie-ing around Halo trying to kill
themselves,” Willow said. “Mikal is brutal. A week with her would be like
forever.”
    “How
long has Colt—”
    “Thirty-four
days today.”
    I
couldn’t say anything to that. Well, maybe I could have, but it would’ve been
something that would’ve blown the rest of the stupid from the last few days out
of the water, like “Wow” or “Golly.”
    “Not
very many people around here liked Colt,” Willow said. “You saw him, so you
know he’s hot, but there was just something about him, you know? Whitneys are
natural troublemakers.” She shrugged. “I mean, their dad got all our parents
killed in that whole mess with Kathan. Tough’s just the fun kind of trouble.”
    Even
though I’d heard the generation-sweep fact from Know-It-All on the Dark Mansion
tour, I wasn’t prepared to hear someone who had lived it say the words.
    “Willow?
I’m sorry about your parents.”
    “I
was little,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t really remember them.”
    “How
did you— I mean, who took care of you?”
    Willow
pointed at the orange-haired guy she had called Owen earlier. He was racing
Tough to drink the long line of shots on the bar between them. Tough grabbed
the middle shot before Owen did, downed it, then threw up his fists in victory.
    “My
cousin and his girlfriend,” Willow said. “I think they did a pretty decent job
for a couple of sixteen-year-olds.”
    A
heavyset guy in a camo hat tapped Willow’s arm as he passed her.
    “Got
to go,” she said to me, leaving her drink on the edge of the stage and hiking
herself up beside it. “You sticking around for the last set?”
    “Sure.”
I’d paid my eight bucks. Might as well get my money’s worth.
    Willow
grinned. “Cool.”
    I
squeezed into an empty spot along the wall. Camo-Hat plugged in his bass.
Willow put on a pair of headphones and played a bored little ditty on her
snare. At the bar, Tough and Owen were doing another round of shots.
    Willow
pretended to check a wristwatch.
    Camo-Hat
leaned into his microphone and said, “Save some booze for the drunks, guys.”
    They
slammed their last shots, then weaved through the crowd swarming the dance
floor.
    I
guess I didn’t realize that they were waiting for Tough, too. He hadn’t been
playing with the band the night before, so it surprised me when he hopped up on
stage, picked up a guitar, and slipped the strap over his shoulder. He spent a
couple tipsy seconds hooking an amp cord through his belt loop and plugging it in.
Then he pulled a pick from his pocket and gave the crowd a wave and smile as if
he was apologizing for being a little drunk.
    Somebody
on the other side of the room laughed, but everyone I could see looked like
they were holding their breath.
    And
watching Tough.
    He
faced his band mates and nodded—two, three, four times—then picked out the
opening to “Streets of Bakersfield” as he turned back to the crowd. Willow
whooped and she, Owen, and Camo-Hat jumped in.
    I
don’t know how to make music, but I do love it. I appreciate it like someone
who eats five-star meals but doesn’t know how to boil water. Camo-Hat, Owen,
and Willow were good—“awesome” Mom would’ve said back when she still cared
enough to talk—but even I could tell they weren’t in the same class as Tough.
He was so good that he made the rest of the band look better. He shined like a
jarful of sunlight and the crowd worshipped him.
    For
a second, I kind of wanted to hate him. How could he be smiling like that? His
brother had been enthralled by the most vicious enforcer I’d ever heard of. If
I knew for sure that Tempie was a familiar, I wouldn’t be having fun in a bar.
    But
if Tempie was a familiar, what could I do? Suicide-proof the house and wait for
her angel to cast her off? If she was with an alpha, that could take months.
How long could I just sit around doing nothing,