Eleven
I’ve officially lost my mind.
I thought my life was fucked up before but now, here I am stalking someone. The guy who tortures me daily, no less. Maybe there’s something in the air, some kind of government experiment gone wrong that accidentally let out toxic fumes into the atmosphere and is infecting people’s brains, forcing them to make some seriously questionable life choices. Or maybe all of this madness started when Asher pushed me against that locker and kissed the hell out of me. God, I don’t know. What I do know though, is I’m not leaving here until I get some answers. Real ones this time.
It’s stifling in here, a vast contrast to the near-freezing temperatures outside. Hot steam shoots out from different directions, blasting me in the face, each gust loud enough to make me jump. I keep moving down the dark corridor, my footsteps slow and measured, following the neon lights decorating the walls and ceiling.
Asher’s group isn’t far in front. I can hear their muffled chatter, the girls’ screams every time something jumps out at them and the quickly followed bursts of laughter from the guys. Something inside of me twists into a tight knot at the thought of Asher joining in with them, finding anything Peyton does even remotely amusing.
Jesus, forget losing my mind. It’s gone. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
I turn a corner into another corridor, this one even darker, only lit up by an eerie neon green strip along the ceiling. Misty clouds swirl around my feet and I almost fall on my ass when a maniacal cackle blares through the speakers. The next area’s brighter, thank God, painted in garish shades of yellow and orange with spinning wheels on the floor that I struggle to maneuver myself over. Then, I weave my way through the maze of clear, plastic panels, almost giving myself a concussion more times than I’d like to admit. All the while, I’m conscious of my pace, keeping a decent amount of distance between me and Asher’s group to avoid being seen, but not enough to lose them.
When it feels like hours have gone by, panic sets in. We must be nearing the exit by now, and if I don’t get to him before then, this will have all been for nothing. I speed up slightly, skidding to a stop when I round the next corner and see him. He’s lingering at the back of the group, walking slowly and staring down at his feet. Even in the near-darkness, I know it’s him. I’d recognize him anywhere. Those broad shoulders and trim waist, the backward ball cap that fails to hide the messiness of his hair underneath.
Now’s my chance.
I grab his arm and drag him down another corridor to our right, using every morsel of strength to stop him from fighting me.
“What the fuck?” he cries.
I shush him, pulling him into a small room completely covered in mirrors. They’re everywhere, even on the ceiling. Once inside, I push him back against the wall and finally let go of his arm.
“Farrow?” he asks in disbelief, as if he’s hallucinating and can’t quite believe I’m really here. “What are you doing?”
I go to answer him, maybe give him some shitty excuse that he’d be able to see straight through. In the end, I settle for honesty. “I don’t know.”
He frowns. “You followed me in here and dragged me away from my group, but you don’t know why?”
“I just— I wanted to— Fuck.” I blow out a breath, try to steady myself. The heat in this place, being this close to him again, it’s all messing with my mind. “I’ve barely been able to think straight for the last two days, okay? I’ve been worried and confused and then I lost my job and—”
“Wait. You lost your job? At the diner?”
“Yeah, because—” I shake my head. “That’s not even important. Where the hell have you been?”
His eyebrows jump up to his hairline. “What?”
“You’ve been gone for, like, two days. After everything that happened, you just disappeared. Where were you?”
A slow, teasing smile creeps across his face. “Oh, Farrow. Did you miss me?”
Fucking hell. How many times am I gonna get this wrong? Once an asshole, always an asshole. “Forget it,” I grumble, moving for the door. “Your girlfriend’s probably looking for you.”
“Whoa, hey.” He snatches my wrist, stopping me from leaving. “I was kidding. And who said anything about a girlfriend?”
“I thought Peyton was—”
“Peyton’s nothing,” he assures me, voice firm. “Trust me.”
I swallow my surprise, try to force my features to stay neutral. “Okay.”
There’s a beat of silence. It’s not awkward, just… weighted. There’s so many things both of us want to say, so many questions we want to ask, but neither of us know how. When Asher speaks, it’s in a low voice, a hint of vulnerability making his words shake.
“I went away for a couple of days. To clear my head. I needed some time to process everything. That night was…” He blows out a long breath, shaking his head.
“Time to process,” I mutter, repeating his words. “So, it wasn’t all bullshit then? The kiss. The way you… looked at me. How hurt you seemed after the things I said. It was real? Not an act?”
He shuffles on his feet, from nerves or discomfort, I can’t tell. “Yeah, it was real. Every bit of it.”
I don’t know what to say to that, how to react. Do I call him a fucking liar and walk away, or do I do the one thing my heart is begging me to do: believe him? It’s an impossible choice, both options equally filled with risks and consequences. I should just choose the lesser of two evils, but I can’t even decide which one that is. Hell, after the amount of times I’ve spent second-guessing myself over the last few days, I can’t even tell which way is up anymore.
Seeming to notice the cogs whirring inside my brain, Asher chuckles in an attempt to lighten the mood, though it sounds strained and forced and all wrong. “Especially the part about you hurting me the other day. What did you expect, delivering gut-punch after gut-punch after gut-punch like that? Man, you’ve got a vicious tongue, you know that?”
“I apologized for that. It wasn’t— I didn’t—”
He sobers. “I know. Not like I didn’t deserve it, though, huh? You were right. I am an asshole to you. I treat you like dirt, even though you never did anything wrong. It’s on me. I should get a lot worse than just you calling me out on my shit.”
And there he goes again, surprising the hell out of me. He’s actually taking accountability for the things he’s done? My brain feels like it’s about to explode.
Asher edges closer, so close that all I can see, feel and smell is him. His scent envelopes me, wrapping around me. It’s overwhelming. So much so that I have to take a step back. Shaking my head, I let out a weak chuckle and turn away from him completely. Distance, that’s what I need. Enough to get my head on straight.
“I don’t get it.”
I don’t have to look at him to know he’s frowning. “Don’t get what?”
“From the minute we met, you’ve had it out for me. Made my life a living hell. Tortured me for a whole year. Then, you’re demanding to know who hurt me and when I question you about it, you tell me you don’t give a shit. You leave stuff in my locker to help my ribs, orchestrate this whole plan to get me alone with you. You kiss me, then act like an asshole about it, threatening me if I tell anybody, then disappear for two days and turn up here with Peyton fucking Harris. And now… now you’re telling me it was all real and that you’re holding your hands up for the things you’ve done to me. What, do you expect me to just believe you? Forgive you?” I run my hands through my hair, chest heaving as I finally take a breath. “I’m gonna need you to explain this all to me because I’m seriously getting whiplash over here.”
“Oakley…”
“How? How can you go from hating me to this? What, you see a couple of bruises on me and suddenly you want to… protect me? I just— I don’t fucking get it.”
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
And against all logic, I do.
His brows are scrunched together, a little line forming between them, and his mouth’s turned down at this corners, almost like this conversation, hearing my words, is paining him. And still, I don’t get it.
“You’re right,” he says. “I know it’s confusing. Fuck, I barely even understand it myself. But, I meant what I said that night in the locker room. I don’t want anyone else to hurt you.”
“Except you,” I whisper.
“Yeah, except me. It’s fucked up, I know that, but it’s just how I feel. I can’t explain it. Just the thought of someone putting their hands on you, hurting you, it makes me wanna punch something. As for the kiss…” He blows out a breath. “I—”
“Another one of those unexplainable things?”
“I guess. All I know is… I liked it. I wanted to do it. Would have carried on doing it if you hadn’t run away. The second I pinned you against that locker, it was all I could think about. How you’d taste, how you’d feel. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since. Even now, I…” He swallows. “I want to do it again.”
This is… it’s too much. Too much for me to wrap my head around, to try and make sense of. I’d considered the possibility of him feeling this way, even made myself believe it at times, but to have him here, in front of me, confirming it? That’s a whole other ballgame. And something I don’t have the mental strength to even try and process right now.
In a daze, I shake my head again, forcing my feet to retreat back toward the gap in the wall that separates us from the rest of the funhouse. “I— I can’t— I have to—”
“You wanted it, too,” he blurts, freezing me in place.
Slowly, I turn back to face him. “What?”
“You kissed me back, remember? You didn’t have to, but you… did. You wanted me just as much as I wanted you. You still want me.”
I can’t even deny it. What’s the point? He’s right, I did kiss him back. I do want him. But, there’s a difference between wanting something and actually taking it. I can want him so much that it feels like I’m suffocating from the force of it, but it won’t change anything. Because Asher’s still the guy who spent the last year torturing me, he’s still the guy who hurt me. As much as I want to forget all of that, to say fuck it and jump in headfirst, I just can’t. Because when this all blows up in my face - and it will - I’ll only have myself to blame.
But, what if it doesn’t blow up in your face? That damn voice in the back of my mind whispers. What if you finally get something you want for a change?
“Oakley,” he rasps, sounding as desperate for this as I am. He cups the side of my face with a trembling hand. “Oakley, please.”
And just like that, my control snaps.