Chapter 3
Chapter three
Thin Air
Becky
The second time I see him is completely by accident, which is infuriating considering how hard I’ve tried to throw myself in his path.
I figured out his class schedule, but he never goes to lectures.
Doesn’t even show up for quizzes or tests.
I heard rumors he likes a certain coffee shop, so I sat there for hours, drinking mug after mug until my heart thundered and my hands shook.
Still no Carrson.
I try a different approach and show up to the parties his fraternity throws.
They’re huge affairs with music blaring and drunk people puking into the bushes.
I wear my most slutty outfit, pull out my fishnet stockings, only to get turned away.
Not on “the list.” I even try bribing one of the guys working the door with fifty bucks.
He shoves the money in his pocket, smiles, and tells me to get lost.
Fucker.
That was my grocery money. For the next month, I live on ramen and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
All that effort. All for nothing. Which is why, when I’m on my daily jog and stumble across him in the woods a mile outside campus, I almost can’t believe my eyes.
He’s there.
As if I pulled him out of thin air. As if, finally, the universe has decided to give me something back. Which, quite frankly, I deserve, after everything that’s been taken from me.
Carrson stands in a clearing where the trees thin and the ground is littered with dry leaves and twigs. It’s fall, the air cool and dry. Sunlight filters weakly through the treetops, breaking through in narrow beams of light. Dust motes and pollen drift from above, spiraling as they fall.
It reminds me of the paintings I’ve seen by Rembrandt and Botticelli, where the heavens split open just enough to cast light on the chosen.
None of it touches Carrson.
Like even the light knows better.
Darkness shapes him instead. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Muscle defined not by size but by precision, as if each line, each curve, had been trained into being, a body built with intention.
He’s shirtless. Sweat slicks his skin. It drags down the planes of his chest, disappears along the grooves of his abdomen. His hair is damp, pushed back, the dark strands nearly black. Athletic shorts hang low on his hips, the jut of bone visible above the waistband.
A punching bag hangs from a tree branch, red and scarred.
The trunk behind it is worse, riddled with jagged white gouges, the bark shredded like an animal has been carving into it for years.
I find the source a second later. Two knives.
Short black handles, sunk deep into the wood. Right next to Carrson.
He drives his fist into the bag like his life depends on it. It jerks back, then swings, spinning from the force of him as he changes his stance and strikes from the opposite side. Each punch is targeted. Violent.
He hasn’t seen me yet, which gives me a few extra seconds to look, and I take full advantage because wow. I narrow my eyes, searching for flaws, and come up empty.
Which is…annoying.
I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Money breeds beauty, and most of the kids on this campus, including Carrson, are rich as sin.
Not on scholarship, like me.
After a moment, I cross the distance that separates us one quiet step at a time until I’m almost beside him.
Close enough to feel the force of his hits through the ground, to hear the steady rhythm of his breath.
Carrson doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on the bag, on whatever’s driving his fists like he’s trying to beat something out of himself.
When I’m about a foot away, my eyes flick to the knives sunk into the tree trunk within easy reach.
If I startle him, I have a feeling he won’t hesitate.
Better to let him know I’m here. I deliberately step on a branch the size of my thumb.
It snaps, loud, the sound cracking through the stillness like a gunshot and echoing into the trees, sending birds scattering into the air.
Carrson doesn’t break stride.
One second the knives are buried in the tree, the next one is in his grip and he’s turning, fast but controlled. This isn’t panic. It’s instinct. Like this is what he does. Who he is.
His body moves seamlessly, weight dropping, stance widening, balanced and ready.
The blade is at my throat.
Cold steel hovers over my skin. I feel it without it quite touching.
My breath falters, trapped in my chest. I stand frozen, not because I’m scared. Because I understand, all at once, how real this is.
My hands lift slowly, palms out. “Ah…hey.”
I don’t move. The trees don’t move either. The entire clearing goes quiet. Waiting.
Then I step forward and close the distance.
The blade meets my skin.
Not enough to cut. A cool, sharp press at the base of my throat that sends an electric awareness through me, gathering low in my stomach. My pulse hammers against the edge of the knife, each beat pressing me closer to it, my own body testing the boundary.
He doesn’t pull back, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. I’ve surprised him.
Up close, he’s…worse.
Not just handsome. Controlled.
Every line of him held in place as if it’s been trained that way. His shoulders coiled with restrained force. His chest moves slow and steady.
He smells like sweat, earth, metal.
Danger.
Air slips out of me in an exhale, and the blade follows, like it’s part of him.
I force my shoulders to loosen, shrinking enough to read as small, harmless. My hands stay where he can see them, open and empty.
See? Not worth stabbing.
My breathing stays steady, but my pulse doesn’t. It punches hard against my ribs as I look at him, at the tension locked into his shoulders, at the slight flex of his fingers around the knife.
He hasn’t lowered it. Not even a little.
If anything, he’s holding himself in place, balanced on the edge of a decision he hasn’t made yet. His gaze drags over me, assessing, as if he’s noting every detail. Deciding whether I’m a threat or just a nuisance. His grip shifts, and the blade moves closer, indenting my skin.
A drop of blood beads where the blade kisses my skin…then slides down my throat.
His eyes lock onto it as darkness swirls in his expression, focused on that single drop of crimson as it slips under my collar.
I think he likes it.
My blood.
A cold realization slips in. I might have miscalculated. This isn’t posturing. He could actually do it. Kill me. Leave me out here in the woods, never to be found. My pulse pounds harder.
The worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the curiosity, the way a broken piece of me, the part that went into the ground with Remi, isn’t actually scared.
It wants to see if he will.
The blade stays at my neck until I’m sure he’s going to follow through. Slice my throat. End this here.
Would I feel regret? Or relief?
Carrson doesn’t cut me. His eyes narrow with irritation. I’m not reacting the way I should, and he doesn’t like it, which honestly seems unfair considering he’s the one pointing a knife at me.
One more glance. His eyes meet mine. I stare back, unwavering. Whatever he sees, it’s enough. Not to trust me, but not to kill me either. I’m not dangerous enough. Or important enough.
He straightens, then drives the knife back into the tree trunk with a solid thunk.
“Leave,” he says, “before I make you.”
He’s already turning. The bag takes another hit. Then another. He falls into his rhythm like I don’t exist, but I notice it’s not quite as exact as it was before.
Heat flares in my chest, not fear, something angrier. More volatile. I’ve spent months chasing a ghost, and now I’m finally standing in front of him. Closer than I’ve ever been to answers. To the power I crave, the kind people like him take for granted.
No way am I leaving. Not when this might be my only chance.
Pulling myself up tall, I take another step forward. “I don’t take orders from you.” I raise my voice so he can hear me over the steady, brutal thud of his fists.
No response. Not even a twitch to show that he knows, or cares, I’m there.
“Excuse me?” I raise my voice so it carries. “These are public woods. I’m not going anywhere.”
Nothing. The longer he ignores me, the more my temper rises, the flame on the stovetop being turned up a notch at a time. My family jokes about my short fuse. Personally, I think I have a low tolerance for bullshit.
I don’t start fights.
I refuse to walk away from them.
Suddenly he stops. The stillness is louder than the noise. Without a word, without even a glance my way, Carrson turns and steps past me.
My mouth parts, shocked, as my head swivels to follow him. He’s not…leaving? Is he?
That’s exactly what he does. He walks away.
I stand there for a long time after he’s gone. Long enough for the bag to go still. For the birds to return, chirping like I’m part of the scenery. Like I was never worth noticing at all.
Which might be the most dangerous mistake he could make.