Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Keystone," "Point of No Return," "Beardface,""Tenderize" and the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

Author's Note: Possibly triggery but vital scene toward the end of the chapter. Skip that scene, and you'll miss the crux of the story. But brace yourself for some moderately disturbing imagery.

CHAPTER 5
CRANIAL DEFORMITY

June 1, 1994

Foster City, California

Jackie's House
...

Jackie's solarium faced the Foster City Lagoon and her private boat dock. She and her friends could've sat outside by the water, either on benches or the grass. Jackie would've preferred it, but Ann-Marie had hired manicurists for their gathering today. Tables and chairs were set up in the solarium for the purpose. Her exercise equipment had been put aside.

"How was the baby shower?" Deborah said—Deborah Rutherford Harding, to be exact. Both her maiden name and married name belonged to U.S. Presidents. One of her favorite pastimes was bragging about it. "Oh, what did you get the mother? Something for when she loses the baby weight?"

"Jacqueline didn't go to a baby shower," Ann-Marie said and narrowed her eyes. She was the richest and most pretentious of Jackie's friends. Marrying the much older Harrison Wintry, owner of a luxury hotel chain, had been her ticket to high society. "A little more rounded, dear," she said to her manicurist. "I'm not a checkout girl."

Jackie remained stiff as her own manicurist manipulated each of her fingers. She was fine doing her own nails, had even gotten proficient at it. But what her friends insisted on doing, they did.

"I thought you went to your goddaughter's birthday party," June said. She'd recently left modeling to become an actress. That meant getting her breasts surgically enhanced, but her new chest seemed out of place on her slender frame.

"No, she went to the birthday party last August." That correction came from Brie Copeland, senior fashion stylist for Cosette Magazine. Of all the women, she was the only one who paid real attention to Jackie's life. "She went to a funeral—" she glanced at Jackie for confirmation—"right?"

"For my friend's sister," Jackie said.

Her manicurist tilted her head and frowned. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

The other manicurists expressed their condolences, too, but Deborah shuddered and said, "Funerals," as if this was new information to her. "Why is the word fun part of funeral? There's nothing fun about them."

"You're such a fucking blonde," June said, and Ann-Marie pursed her plump, doctor-augmented lips at her. "What?" June said. "You're just as blond as she is. Just a platinum one."

Ann-Marie tutted. It was a mild chastisement, but June's thin shoulders hunched, and she focused on her nails.

A shadow crossed the solarium. A cloud was passing over the sun, driven by the wind. The sudden shift in light made the manicurists pause and tarnished the bleach-derived halos of Jackie's friends. They all went to the same salon, had brought Jackie there years ago so François could spin her dark brown hair into gold.

She'd originally done it for her ex-husband. Ralph adored blondes, as most L.A. rockers seemed to, but her hair felt like a disguise. After their divorce, she should've let her natural color grow back in. She'd gotten this house in the settlement—as well as more money than she'd ever need, thanks to the incident that ended their relationship—but her hair stayed blond.

The color clashed against her olive skin. Though light in winter, her skin's olive tone deepened during the summer months because of the sun. Most seasons, though, she was often paler than the friends who made up the all-white but too-tan Blonde Brigade.

The solarium brightened again, too bright, and Ann-Marie nodded at Jackie. "Time for a touch up, dear. Your roots are showing. It looks cheap."

Jackie exhaled through her nose. Dark roots, let alone dark hair, were taboo among her group of Foster City socialites. Being divorced was already a huge strike against her. But at least she wasn't the only one with that strike. Brie had gotten divorced two years before Jackie; but unlike Jackie, she was dating again.

"I already have a hair appointment lined up," Jackie said, a lie.

Ann-Marie pursed her artificially plump lips again. "You should have made it earlier, darling. Going to a funeral like that? What did the mourners think?"

"What did the mourners think?" Brie repeated. She looked up at the solarium's glass roof and laughed. "Really, Ann-Marie, sometimes I wonder what planet you're from. Jackie's had more important things on her mind. Speaking of..." Her gaze fell on Jackie. "How was the service?"

"Drab, dull, and depressing, I'm sure," Deborah said. "It was a funeral, dah-ling."

June pointed her spindly, manicured left hand at her. "Okay, you can't get away with that. Only Ann-Marie has the snootiness to call people darling."

"It's called class, darling," Ann-Marie said.

"Hey, I'm plenty classy," Deborah said.

Jackie shut her eyes as the conversation devolved into bickering. Deborah boasted about her husband's top-rated stock analysis show. Ann-Marie countered that she'd lost five grand following one of his stock tips. June inserted herself into the argument by relating it to her audition for Seinfeld. But amid all this pointless squabble, Brie leaned into Jackie and whispered, "How was the service?"

"Drab, dull, and depressing," Jackie whispered back. She could've been more honest with Brie, especially in private. Brie was the rebel of their Blonde Brigade. She'd gotten a pixie-cut without consulting anyone. Remained friends with her ex-husband, despite Deborah and June's derogatory jibes. Expressed an interest in people other than herself, but that didn't make her trustworthy.

"So no Dynasty-like family drama?" she said. "Nothing you could sell to a tabloid?

Jackie shook her head. Brie might've been rebellious, but in truth she was like the rest of the Blonde Brigade: ambitious to the core. If she could find a way to use what Jackie told her, she would. Keeping silent was the better plan.

It always had been, a lesson she'd learned too late.

Jackie looked past her manicurist to the solarium's sliding glass doors. The sky above the lagoon was a cornflower blue, and she longed to float beneath it. Ralph had taken his sailboat in the divorce, but she never bought another one. She preferred swimming.

His expensive and elaborate stereo system, however, remained in the house. It was connected to speakers wired throughout most of the rooms. Right on time, the solarium's speakers pumped in music. Patricia, Jackie's housekeeper, had done her job.

"What the hell is that?" Deborah said. Her nails, like all of theirs, were positioned under UV lamps to dry.

"It's called music—sort of," June said. "Degenerate Matter, Jackie? Really?"

"Just be glad I put on the second album, not the first," Jackie said. It was the most combative response she'd given any of these women in a long time, but they seem unfazed.

Ann-Marie sighed theatrically and slumped in her chair, as if the music depleted all her energy.

Deborah, on the other hand, angled back her head to stare at the speakers. They were bolted to the four corners of the solarium's ceiling. "This music's so melodramatic. God."

"Yeah, this is so not party music," June said. "Can't you have Patricia put on some Poison or Mötley Crüe?"

"Or how about some Wildebeest?" Jackie said pointedly. "You know that hair-metal garbage is banned from my house."

"Her house, her rules," Brie said with a shrug. "It's about time we listen to something cool. Get over it."

Deborah glowered at Jackie, forming lines in her forehead she'd regret. "Fine, but next time we're at my house, I'm putting on Wildebeest just to spite you."

Fuck you, Jackie thought, but she'd never say it out loud. Instead, she shut out her friends' complaints and concentrated on the music. It wasn't hard to do. The song's aggressive riff vibrated in her chest, and Ro Skirving's voice slithered into ears. It coiled around her brain and injected O. MacNeil's lyrics into her nervous system.

"You stole my keystone," Ro sang, her voice raw with emotion, "so I took yours as compensation. Demolished the brick you depended on, and the rest came tumbling down on top of me..."

"Jacqueline," Ann-Marie said, and Jackie flinched at the disruption. "You will be attending my fundraiser Saturday night." It was a statement, not a request Jackie could refuse. "Your sister has already RSVP'd."

She meant Jackie's mother. Wonderful. "Yes, I'll be there."

"And you'll be offering your services for auction. The Wintry Charities need every dollar they can get."

"Yes, yes," Jackie said, failing to hide her annoyance.

"No need to be snippy, dear."

Jackie wiggled her fingers beneath the UV lamp. Her nails were taking forever to dry. An hour with this group often felt like a week, but she'd need a month to recuperate after this Saturday. Trapped at a big event with her mother, cameras flashing everywhere … Ann-Marie had ordered her to a deeper circle of hell.

June 4, 1994

Edinburgh, Scotland

Craighead's Catacombs.
...

Ro, Lee, Sherry, and Nate were arranged tightly on a small stage. Their instruments were acoustic, but the music created its own electricity. It had the crowd of 175 on its feet and rocking out. Didn't matter if the audience was ten-thousand or under two-hundred, Degenerate Matter held back nothing.

The band was playing a surprise gig at a pub. Craighead's Catacombs was ensconced in Edinburgh's Old Town; specifically, in the vaults built under South Bridge. Hyde appreciated the laid-back atmosphere of the place. The audience wasn't rowdy, despite the malt whiskey some people drank.

Hyde, though, stuck to water and sat sidestage with Scotty. The majority of the road crew had the night off, and Scotty was serving as guitar tech for both Lee and Ro. This gig was an appetizer for tomorrow night at Usher Hall, the last stop on Degenerate Matter's European-UK tour.

Ro hadn't pulled any stunts yet, but a small stage like this wouldn't stop her. She often read a crowd's mood, and she found her moment during "Point of No Return". She passed Scotty her Martin Acoustic and dived into the audience. People lifted her up on a sea of hands, tossed her like waves would a sailboat, and eventually deposited her safely back on stage.

She went to the mic stand, and Scotty returned her guitar. Her fingers played as if they'd never stopped, but she cast Hyde a sideways glance before singing again. "Point of No Return" was one of his songs, music and lyrics. She didn't know the meaning behind the song, had explicitly told him not to tell her, but she treated it like one of her own.

"Entered my room with booze and trust," she sang with her eyes closed. "Touched not with love but unnatural lust. Swallowed me whole with both pairs of lips. Sucked out my joy; turned it into shit."

The music took over, and she backed away from the mic stand. Her head bobbed to Lee's solo, to the backing riff that contained Hyde's memories. His stomach clenched whenever the band played this song, but putting his experiences into music had released them from his skull.

Ro ran to the side of the stage after the song finished. She'd broken a guitar string. Scotty had another Martin Acoustic ready for her, but she slid her sweaty cheek against Hyde's shoulder and swiped his water. His bottle was mostly empty when she returned it, but that was a small price to pay for some physical contact.

Moments of connection between him and Ro were rare in public, especially during gigs. Their secrets had to stay secret, including that he wrote a good portion of the band's lyrics. She'd penned all of them for the first album, Vagabondage, but she'd hated the experience.

Back at center stage, she banged out the first chord of "Beardface". It was a silly punk song about Hyde, written before she knew who he really was. He'd kept his eyes behind a pair of shades when he first signed the band. His long hair had been hidden in a fedora, and a thick beard covered his face. None of the band members had seen him in any other get-up, not until the summer of 1990 at Raddygazoo.

Raddygazoo was a massive rock music festival. Degenerate Matter had joined it with the Spasms, another band signed to Hyde's label. Raddy was both bands' first first big, U.S. tour, and Hyde had become a steel dog for their joint stage.

Being a roadie again was a downgrade from doing A&R work. Back then, his dad and sister had questioned why he'd done it. But the work was so labor-intensive that it kept him from thinking too hard—and he'd desperately needed to quit thinking. Hauling steel, both manually and with motorized chain hoists, gave him little time to dwell on much of anything.

He'd shaved off his beard before going on that tour. His face was exposed for the first time in years, and his hair often fell out of his Milwaukee Brewers cap. Neither Degenerate Matter nor the Spasms recognized him. He was able to work hassle-free, even when Ro watched the road crew rig up the lighting truss towers. All through that summer she watched him, never guessing he was the same guy who'd signed her band, the same suit who'd worked on her first album.

Now, though, to the 175 people listening at Craighead's Catacombs, she improvised lyrics about his dual identities. "Thought that bearded fucker was in his forties," she sang, "a poser trying to capitalize on what wasn't his. But it was his all along. He's in it … of it. One of us, one of mine. Without that beard, without that beard—damn, he's motherfuckin' fine."

Hyde laughed into the crook of his elbow, and Scotty glanced at him before dashing onstage with a fresh guitar for Lee. Lee had broken a string while "Beardface" transitioned into "Tenderize," a song off the band's second album.

Ro had written that one, music and lyrics. It was about Hyde, too, and he grew suspicious. She must have planned that setlist on purpose. To soften him up. Make him malleable or receptive to what he might not want to hear.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans. Five sticks were left, and he smoked them all before the gig ended.

Hours later, in their room at the Wintry Hotel, Ro fucked him so hard he couldn't catch his breath. Their bodies were damp with sweat, and he barely held onto her waist while she moved like a super-charged piston. A galaxy of musical notes was tattooed on her arms, spiraling out from her shoulders. He could see them because she was sitting on top of him, facing backward. She had a good grip on his thighs, but his hands slipped off her.

He tried to focus on his breathing, to slow down his body. He didn't want this kind of release, but his ability to think crumbled under her onslaught. That might have been her goal, to screw him brainless, but she dug her nails into his flesh and said, "I fucked Lee."

"You what?" She didn't need to repeat herself, though. He'd heard her, and with a strength drawn from his reserves, he stopped her from grinding on him. That was why she was so into him tonight, at the show and here: she'd cheated on him while he was in Wisconsin. "I'm gone a few goddamn days, and you go and nail your ex?"

She glanced back at him. "There it is."

"Where what is?"

"You anger, love. You hold onto it like its an organ spilling from your eviscerated body."

His arms dropped from her waist to the bed. He leaned back into the pillow and suppressed a groan. "You didn't fuck him."

"Not lately." She turned around on his hips, keeping him inside her the whole time. He was still hard, and she gazed at him softly. "But I would if it'd piss you off."

"Just you talkin' about it is doing the job."

"Good." She smiled at him wickedly, bent down, and kissed him. He didn't kiss her back. "You want me to hit you?"

"You want me to leave?"

"You're already halfway gone," she said. "Steve, you spent Belgium in space. Ireland, too. I'll have you here in my ancestors' home, or I'll kick your ass."

"Don't—" he raised himself up on his arms—"call me—" and maneuvered their bodies so that he was on top of her—"Steve."

"Is Steh-ven better? Rhymes with seven."

"Fuck you."

"'Kay, Stevie." She thrust her hips against him, making him wince.

"Damn it! You're not screwing Lee?"

"No, but back when I did, he was like a jackhammer. That's what I want from you..." She scraped her fingernails through his scalp. "Take it out on me so I can have you back."

He clamped his jaw shut, biting back the shame rising in his throat. She deserved better than a man who had to screw his rage out on her.

"Come on—" She grabbed onto his butt and pushed him deeper inside her thighs.

"Spark … stop. " He pulled out of her as emotions careened off thoughts with no safe place to land. It had started in Kenosha, at the funeral, and his mind needed time to cope. He sat on the edge of the bed and hunched over his knees. His fingers laced over the nape of his neck. Ro called this armadillo-ing, his way of shutting out the world. Their hotel room no longer existed for him. Edinburgh didn't exist. Only the past was real and what he'd done.

His eyes eventually registered his surroundings again. They were open toward the floor, and Ro's bare feet paced in front of him. Cigarette smoke saturated his nostrils. She'd been waiting for him to come back.

"I'm pissed off," he said quietly.

"No shit."

"At myself. Thought I was over this."

"You are, love. Wouldn't have the life you do now if you weren't." Her weight joined him on the bed, and her hand slid to his neck, where his fingers were a stiff lattice of skin and bone. "That funeral, most of your ghosts attended it. Spooked you." She paused for a drag on her cigarette. "You gotta spook them back into their graves."

He removed his hands from his nape. They were sweaty, but he straightened up and cupped her knee. "Gonna help me do that?"

She put her cigarette to his lips, and he sucked in the smoke. Outside the windows, Edinburgh Castle rose into the night sky. He and Ro would be staying in Scotland a while. Edinburgh was ten miles west from where Ro's grandmother used to live.

"When we go to East Lothian," she said and strode to the nearest window, "you'll be free." She mashed her cigarette into the sill and returned to the bed. They were both still naked, and he pressed his forehead into her bare shoulder. That prompted her to sit in his lap and pull his arms around her waist.

"What's the most pissed you've gotten?" he said, but he had a few guesses. They existed as tattoos on her arms, as the hesitation marks on her wrist, but he wanted to hear it from her mouth.

"I need you to trust me." She leaned her back against his chest. He was soft between her legs, and she took him in her hand. He was sensitive from she'd done to him earlier. Hell, it hurt, but she'd brought him to that place before. Too many times. She seemed to get off on it. "You won't be giving me up. I'll be getting you back," she said. "I need you to come back, Steven."

"Something ever piss you off," he said, even as her gentle hand made him hard again, "so damn much you could've killed someone?"

"Is that what you did?" Her hand squeezed him tightly, and he grunted. "Tell me now."

The demand jolted him more than her vice grip on his dick. She'd put an embargo on his past. It was full of stories, she said, not life. Living for the now was all that mattered, and her devotion to that ideal had saved him.

But now, as she pulled him inside her, she said, "What did you do? What the hell did you do?"

He grabbed her hips, but holding onto her with any significance was impossible. She didn't start off slow but slammed into him like a pile driver. "What did you do?" she said again.

"I—" he groaned, from pain as much as from pleasure—"can't."

"Tell me, or I won't ease up." She had the power when he was in this state. He couldn't see her face, and he ached to see it. But she wouldn't give him that luxury, not until he gave her what she wanted

For once, it wasn't about the present. What she wanted were specifics about his past.

August 8, 1979

Point Place, Wisconsin

The Hub
…

Hyde left the Camino in The Hub's parking lot. Closing time was in ten minutes, meaning The Hub would be relatively empty. His stomach was growling. He hadn't eaten since last night, hadn't returned to the Formans' in three days. Staying away from his family and friends—from Jackie—was for their own safety. Rage ruptured his thoughts, making them bleed out. His hands were bruised from punching trees. It was an old method of release, one that wasn't working.

Jackie hadn't said yes. She hadn't said yes, and its absence smashed though his rationality. Being with her right now wasn't an option. He'd disappeared into chaos, but he'd left her the engagement ring, a silent promise he'd come back.

The Hub's back door was warm to the touch. He shoved it open and headed for the order window, but a pair of voices froze his steps. Kelso and Forman were playing Space Invaders at the arcade cabinet against the wall.

Kelso. Hyde strode toward him, his boots squeaking on the linoleum floor, and Kelso glanced over his shoulder. Hyde walked faster. Kelso was going to bolt, but Hyde's fingers clamped around Kelso's arm, tightly enough to prevent his escape.

"Uh, hey, Hyde," Kelso said and nodded toward Space Invaders. "You want in? Me and Eric are having us a little tournament. Loser gets pantsed."

"Which I only agreed to because there's no one else here," Forman said. "Even Frank's on an extended bathroom break." He wiped his brow and rambled on. "Man, I hope his own cooking didn't send him to Diarrhea Town. Otherwise, we're in big doo-doo."

Hyde didn't acknowledge him. His focus was on Kelso, whose face seemed less than human. Hyde squinted. His vision could've been shot. He hadn't taken off his shades for days, not even to sleep. Not that he'd slept much lately. Or, maybe, he'd finally seen past Kelso's mask to the animal beneath.

"You and me are gonna have a talk," he said.

"Sure." Kelso gestured to the order window. "How about I buy you a hot dog—"

"Not here." Hyde pulled Kelso to The Hub's back door, and Forman followed. "Forman, a little privacy."

"Fine. Just tell me where you're going."

"Somewhere else."

"Hyde, come on. No one's seen you since Sunday."

"You're seein' me now." Hyde pushed Kelso into the alleyway outside, but Forman continued to follow. "Do yourself a favor, man, and back off."

Forman stared at him. "Back off?" His eyes flicked to Hyde's hands then to Kelso. "Kelso, what did you do?"

Kelso shrugged, and Hyde's grip on him tightened. "That's what me and Kelso are gonna talk about. Just talk, all right?"

"All right." Forman sounded less than convinced, but he returned to The Hub. The light inside brightened the alleyway then vanished as the door closed.

Hyde dragged Kelso to the parking lot. The humid summer air coated Hyde's skin, but his brain was numb with cold. His thoughts froze as he opened the Camino's passenger-side door. "Get in."

Kelso slid into the passenger seat. "If this is about Chicago—"

Hyde slammed the door shut, moved to the other side of the car, and thrust himself into the driver's seat. The motor revved with a growl. The parking lot shrank in the rearview mirror, and his foot grew heavy on the gas pedal, but he obeyed all traffic laws.

"This is about Chicago," he said when houses became few and far between. He was driving himself and Kelso to Mt. Wilmont Park, toward the wilderness surrounding the western-most part of town. "Jackie told me you nailed her."

"She's lying."

Shards of ice tore through Hyde's veins, but he forced warmth into his voice. "Why would she do that?"

"Because she wants to piss you off," Kelso said. "It's classic ex-girlfriend behavior. You know how it is. Jackie used to lie to me all the time to piss me off."

"She's not my ex." Hyde stopped at a traffic light. They were one street away from the park, and he pulled off his shades. "I went to Chicago to propose."

Kelso bared his teeth like he'd just witnessed a car crash. "Then you are not gonna like the wedding present I gave her."

The traffic light turned green. Hyde hammered the gas pedal, and the Camino sped into the woods. "So you did fuck her."

Kelso's grin reflected at him in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, I—" His lips flattened out, and his shoulders sagged. "I thought you were broken up. She thought you were broken up. You left, and I ... I wouldn't have done anything if I knew you weren't through with her."

"It's okay, man." Hyde drove onto a side road. The trees were denser here, and the lowest of their branches scraped the Camino's roof. "I know how good she is. "Did you enjoy it?"

Kelso laughed a little. "Oh, yeah!"

"What about her? Did she enjoy it?"

"She didn't stop me."

Hyde's knuckles burned. He was choking the steering wheel, and he turned it sharply to the left. The Camino swerved off the road and onto dirt. The tires skidded a little as he stomped the break, but the car came to a stop. "So why'd you do it it, man?" he said and shut off the engine.

"You gotta ask?" Kelso looked out the passenger-side window. "Where are we?"

"Answer my question first."

"Well..." Kelso grasped the door handle. "I figured since me and Jackie never had breakup sex, we should finally do it. Okay, so technically it was your breakup, but I was fine with that, and—where the hell did you take me?"

The passenger-side door handle clicked. Kelso made a break for it, but Hyde kicked open his own door and jumped out. He tackled Kelso to the ground, pinned Kelso's arm to his back, and yanked him to his feet. "We're not there yet."

"Hyde—ow!—Hyde, she said you two were over—for good."

Hyde wrenched Kelso's arm harder. "Said it or cried it?"

"I-I guess she was crying. I don't know."

"I know." Hyde's voice was ragged, and he pulled Kelso deep into the woods. The park lamps grew dimmer the farther they went, but the route was cut into his brain. He used to borrow Forman's bike to get here, after Edna would mess with him.

The place hadn't felt his fists in years. It was thick with trees, some with scars he'd given them. Their trunks rose from the ground like iron spikes. Their branches impaled the sky, but they couldn't reach the full moon. It cast leaf-shaped shadows on Kelso's face, and Hyde shoved him against an oak.

"Damn, Hyde!" Kelso said as Hyde drew back his fist. "She wanted me to—"

"You forced yourself on her, man!"

Kelso shook his head vehemently "I didn't!"

Hyde was past listening. His knuckles collided with Kelso's jaw, and the impact twisted Kelso's body from the tree. He crashed to the ground, but Hyde stuck his hands under Kelso's armpits and hoisted him back up.

"She was fucking vulnerable," Hyde said, trying to regain control of himself, "and you saw that, and you raped her!"

"No! She never told me to stop!" Kelso's lip was bleeding. "She was making these quiet sounds, and I know those sounds. You gotta believe me, Hyde. These were happy sounds!"

Hyde slugged him again, and the crack of Kelso's nose vibrated into his fingers. He'd broken it, must have, but Kelso had done far worse to Jackie.

"She was crying!" Hyde shouted down at him. Kelso was in the dirt, squirming like an earthworm. "She was begging you to stop. You didn't listen. You didn't fuckin' see her, but you'll never hurt her again!"

"I did see her," Kelso mumbled, and Hyde leapt on top of him.

All became darkness until a voice let the moonlight back in: "Hyde—Hyde, stop!"

Hyde blinked and looked down at his hands. They were covered in a substance he couldn't identify, and Kelso's limp body lay beneath him. Forman kept shouting Hyde's name—Forman. Hyde blinked again. Forman shouldn't have been there, but his fingers were pressed to Kelso's wrist.

"Thank God," Forman said. "Thank God. He has a pulse. It's weak, but it's there."

Hyde cupped his forehead, and the smell hit him: blood. His hands were drenched in it. Bits of flesh stuck to his fingers, along with a tooth. Kelso's left cheek was shattered. Hyde had demolished it, and he stood up on rickety legs.

"What happened?" Forman said and glanced up at him. He was still holding onto Kelso's wrist, as if letting go of it would cause Kelso to die. "What happened, Hyde?"

"He raped Jackie." The ground beneath Hyde was shaking, or maybe it was his own body. He crossed his arms over his chest, smearing gore across his shirt. It was no good. The feeling threatened to make him puke, and his arms dropped to his sides. "We gotta get that fucker to the hospital. I'm sure I gave him a concussion."

"He—he raped Jackie?"

"In Chicago." Hyde's eyes stung. This area of the park was a lot brighter than he remembered, and he turned around. The Vista Cruiser was parked nearby with is headlights on. Forman must have followed him here. "We've gotta get Kelso into your car, man."

Forman let go of Kelso's wrist and rummaged in Kelso's jeans pockets. "Shit, Hyde. This is bad. This is very, very bad." He yanked out Kelso's leather wallet and got to his feet. "Very, very, very bad."

He removed the money from the wallet and took off his T-shirt. In moments, the wallet was wiped clean of fingerprints.

"Forman, what're you doing?"

"What you'd do for me if—" Forman's voice caught—"if I thought someone had hurt Donna, and I..."

He didn't finish his sentence. The wallet was cradled in his T-shirt, which he'd transformed into a sling. He must've learned that skill in the Boy Scouts, and with a grunt, he hurled Kelso's wallet far into the woods.

"Forman—" Hyde said.

Forman waved at him to shut up. He grabbed Kelso's legs and indicated that Hyde take charge of Kelso's head and torso. Moving him couldn't possibly be a good idea, but their other options sucked just as bad.

"Kelso's gonna recover," Forman said as he and Hyde carried Kelso's body. "We'll get him to the hospital, and he'll be fine, and—and so will you, and we'll put this crap far, far, behind us."

Hyde shouted curses into Ro's back. He'd told her less than half the story before losing control. His hands squeezed her thighs as she fucked the emotion out of him. Her sustained, satisfied groans urged him on, but he sounded like an animal and felt worse.

Soon, his body surrendered all it had into her. He fell back onto the bed, and she crawled over him. "You'll be okay," she said. Relief was in her smile, and she kissed his damp forehead. It was the most intimate touch she'd given him all night. "You got a lot of shit out."

She laid her head on his chest, and his arms glided around her. Whenever he retreated too far into himself, she pulled him out with rough sex. Releasing his pain always charged her up, but it depleted his energy. Left a bruise on his soul. He didn't like it, but the alternative was worse. He'd been down that road before, and he wouldn't go back.