Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
That goddamn tightness is back in my chest, lingering around the edges, taunting me. Reminding me how peaceful drowning in nothingness could be.
Instead, I take another draw of liquor. It burns going down, the pain mocking me. Reminding me I’m still alive.
You’ve failed Nellie.
I take another swig. I can’t remember the last time I was sober. Usually, my vices help muffle the accusing voices. Now they’re just making things worse.
I stare at the jagged tree that’s fallen into the sunroom.
I discovered it earlier while tripping balls, and it felt…
ominous. It’s overcast today, the dim lighting casting the room in gray, the wind howling through the hole in the roof, and the gulls screaming their mournful tune.
Like an omen that the universe is pissed, and all good things will come to an end.
It’s horrible, but still I stay rooted here, unable to shake the feeling that I deserve this, inhaling lungfuls of my vape like it can clog the hole in my sinking ship.
“Ky!”
Blinking slowly, I turn. Only people who know me are allowed to call me that.
In fact, they don’t usually dare to use my name, picking nods of respect or addressing me as ‘sir.’ They know I do the things around here that no one else wants to do.
Like kicking players off the island…and then into the ocean if that’s what the boss wants. Then I drink till I forget.
I turn to see Oakley striding into the room, face red.
The vise around my chest loosens a fraction. “Oakley.”
He storms up to me, gripping the shirt on my chest and yanking me to him. Surprised, I stumble into his body, the contact lighting up my nerve endings and making them sing.
“Where have you been?” There’s a note of desperate accusation in Oakley’s voice, and his pretty blue eyes are tight around the edges.
The pure need spilling off him lights up my veins like dope, and I band my arms around him. “Missed me, mousey?”
“I can’t—she’s missing.” He struggles. “I can’t find her!”
If the high is like warm steam, Oakley’s words are the cold wind that blows it away. I frown.
“Where is she?” He slaps at my chest. “You have to know!”
His palm against my chest thuds a mixture of reality and escape. But the she keeps knocking against my skull. The she I’ve been drinking to avoid acknowledging.
Fourteen.
“I don’t know.” I push him off me, but keep a grip on his wrists, unable to let him go fully.
“You have to find her.” Oakley’s hair is disheveled, and his eyes are darting around like there’s some sort of solution. “Someone could have her.”
Irritation runs under the surface of my numbness. Of course someone has her. And if they don’t, they will. Fourteen is on the island. Prey doesn't leave the island. It’s not just a rule, it’s a fact. And the sooner Oakley accepts that, the better.
I search for my bottle of alcohol. I don’t even remember what I was drinking; I just grabbed something from the kitchen. I spot it on the ground by the tree, but before I can grab it, Oakley is there, grabbing it up, the liquid sloshing as he whirls.
“You’re not listening to me. We need to find her, and then we need to get off this goddamn island.”
A twinge of something uncomfortable makes my muscles tense. “She’s in the game, Oakley.” And suddenly I’m hot. All this insistence on saving her forces me to remember that she shouldn’t be here in the first place. Forces me to remember I’ve failed. And that fucking pisses me off.
“No, she’s not. She didn’t want to be here.” Oakley steps so close I can feel his breath against my skin.
I snort. “You think anyone wants to be here?”
“It’s not fair! I brought her here by accident!” Oakley is so animated, like he truly believes what he’s saying, damn near on his tiptoes, eyes clear. All that passion, and he’s not even under the influence.
How? Why? He brought her here, and yet he’s claiming it’s an accident?
I cock my head. Oakley doesn’t belong. At first, I thought he was messing with me, but now I realize he actually believes the things he’s saying.
Oakley throws his hands in the air. “Holli is missing and in danger. You can help.”
Cold washes over me. I can’t help. Coming to the island was a death sentence for Fourteen. No one survives. No one is that lucky.
I go to shake him off me, but now the hands that were bracing against me are latched on like claws. Staring down at him, I expect to see defiance. Instead, it’s desperation, and when our eyes meet, he automatically flutters his down in submission.
That starts a humming in my veins. Oakley is so goddamn submissive, and I realize that’s part of what draws me to him like a magnet.
He just looks at me like I could tell him to swim across the ocean and he’d do it with a smile.
He’s so goddamn innocent, just throwing his heart at anyone who walks by.
That realization makes my chest squeeze with a foreign feeling. Anyone could take advantage of him. Especially here. Men like Oakley don’t survive here.
The feeling squeezes tighter, and I just want to pull him into me and never let him go.
“Please.” Oakley stares up at me, and I know what he’s asking. He’s asking me to take away the guilt. To make him feel better. To wrestle the fear from him, to rip it out of his clinging hands.
To take control.
I swallow, picturing Oakley on his knees in front of me, eyes glazed over because I’m doing the one thing I’m good at: wrapping myself and everyone around me up in a pleasure-filled fog. And it sends blood shooting straight to my dick.
Sure, I can help Oakley in the only way I know how.
“Knees,” I demand.
Oakley’s lashes flutter in surprise, and his pupils are big dark circles rimmed by the tiniest bit of blue. His brow furrows. He wears every emotion on his sleeve like he’s never had to learn not to.
“Well, do you want help?” I raise an eyebrow. Oakley may fight me, but he’s sealing his fate with that…presence.
There’s a spark of anger burning hot in his gaze, but I just hold it, unscrewing the liquor without looking and tossing the cap.
Taking a long, deep drink, I don’t break eye contact.
A multitude of emotions flash through Oakley’s eyes, and for a second, I’m hit with his arresting anger.
He feels so much with such abandon. Doesn’t he know it’s not safe?
That people like me will take advantage of him?
But as soon as he starts dropping down, I don’t care. Oakley is mine. Shooting my hand down, I grip his hair, fingers tight against his scalp. Oakley lets out a surprised hiss, and I grin. “You’re such a good boy for me, mousey.”
“Ky—”
I yank, cutting him off, and groan. Oakley’s hands are on my thighs, and then he jerks them away, like he just realized he was still touching me.
Grinning, I keep one hand in his hair and bring the other to my zipper. Oakley stiffens, but doesn’t pull against my grip. Because of course he doesn’t. He wants everything I have to offer.
That pleasant numbness surrounds me, only now it’s electrified.