Chapter Twelve
I shake my head at the selfie of me aggressively murdering a chocolate bar, clicking off my phone and placing it facing down on the table. Back to focus central. I lift the heavy book from the tabletop and lower it onto my knee, hunching over to keep reading.
I didn’t lie to Thiago, I am studying, but not necessarily for school.
I’m reading whatever texts the library has to offer on lacrosse.
Obviously, I know how to play, but this afternoon’s development has got me thinking about the differences between a joint male and female team.
If I’m going to be forced to work alongside Everest and his team of bull-headed jocks, I need to understand their tactics, their formations, and their weaknesses.
Typically in sport, or just in general life, men rely so heavily on strength that they forget finesse.
Whereas in my previous all-girls team, finesse was our specialty.
We knew our weaknesses, and had carefully crafted ways to counteract them.
Everest’s team will be too arrogant for that kind of training.
It’ll be power first, strategy second on the pitch, and that isn’t going to cut it.
I shift slightly in the stiff wooden chair, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek and scribbling down a note about face-off positioning in NCAA rules, my focus narrowing as the world around me blurs into quiet mutters of whispered study sessions and the occasional chair scrape being pushed back.
It’s just past nine when I resurface to stretch my back, feeling it crack in several places before I reach for my water bottle. Getting back into shape for competing is going to suck balls, but I’ll do it. Stubbornness is my superpower.
Lowering my water, I latch onto a shift in the atmosphere.
Shadows shift near the library stacks, but I quickly pass that off for students wandering through the quiet maze of shelves.
Attempting to return to my textbook, two figures round the bookshelves at two ends and head directly for me.
I frown, the alarm bells in my head blaring.
Shoving my chair back, I’m stalled by another body standing behind me, and that’s when I know something is seriously wrong.
I know them in a secondary sense, or more like I know of them.
There’s been no need for Danny, Mitchell or Samson to address me directly before.
All three are wearing lacrosse uniforms, not that there is any evidence they’ve actually been training.
It's all for show. Just as the matching smirks on their smug faces are, but my stomach tightens none the less.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Samson grins, his voice low and coated in amusement.
Despite the tremor prickling beneath my skin, a cool mask of indifference washes over my features.
It’s a defense mechanism that I’ve perfected over the years.
Let them think you’re untouchable and they back off… usually.
“I haven’t been hiding,” I lift a brow and pretend to go back to my reading. The chair jostles behind me, followed by warm breath against my ear.
“Coach wants a word,” Mitchell adds, taking his time to look me up and down. I refuse to sink back in my sweatshirt and torn jeans.
“Unless ‘Coach’ is a new nickname for Dean Colt, I’m not interested.” Closing my book and standing, my stance steady even as my fingers itch toward my phone.
“We can do this the easy way,” Danny begins, reaching for my elbow.
“Touch me, and you’ll lose that hand.” I half shift out of his reach, attracting the attention of the other students at nearby tables. Most of them are silently packing up their belongings and ducking out, leaving less and less witnesses to whatever is about to happen.
Deciding I’m in over my head, I attempt to swipe my phone, but I’m too slow.
It’s in Mitchell’s oversized hand before I can grab it.
At least I’m quicker with my bag. I make it two whole steps before hands grip my shoulders.
My foot slams against one of their shins, hard enough to make him curse, but I’m already being dragged backwards, my bag hitting the floor and scattering papers like confetti.
“Are you seriously kidnapping me from the library?” I yell, twisting and landing an elbow somewhere solid. Danny grunts, but he doesn’t let go. My boots scrape against the floor as they haul me out the side exit like I’m a sack of dirty laundry.
The cool night air hits my face as we emerge into the courtyard.
I’m wriggling and swearing and threatening everything from lawsuits to ancient curses, but they’re unfazed, leading me with brute determination towards a car with the trunk already popped open.
That’s when the first true tremor of fear slices through me like a shard of ice, reopening old wounds.
“No,” I gasp, the word tearing out of me as I plant my heels into the pavement, my boots screeching uselessly while they shove me forward.
My spine arches as instinct takes over, my body remembering before my mind can catch up.
I can hear Harrison’s laugh echoing through my ears.
I can feel the dull metal of a gun pressed against my nape.
I remember praying to a sky that stared back uselessly while the world was wiped out from beneath me.
Unsure if I’m even fighting anymore or if the debilitating fear has taken over, I’m shoved into the trunk and encased in darkness with a scream caught halfway between my lungs and my throat.
The engine rumbles beneath me just as the car jerks into motion.
I slide across the roughly carpeted floor, my shoulder slamming into the side with a thud that barely registers over the roar in my ears.
Every bump in the road is like a personal attack as my mind fractures between then and now, past and present bleeding together until I can’t tell which terror belongs to which memory.
I’m no longer in this reality, the confusion that barrels to the forefront of my mind as real as it was all those months ago.
Why me, what did I do wrong, will I ever see my mom again?
“B-breathe,” I croak to myself, fighting for control against the rising panic.
In for three, out for five. My nails are creating half crescents in my palms, my teeth grinding into my tongue until I can taste blood.
Somehow, I manage to slow my heart a fraction just as the trunk is popped again.
Through the haze of my spotted vision, it’s not Harrison I see dragging me out but these college idiots.
The panic doesn’t immediately fade as I’d hoped. It holds onto me with piercing claws. My pulse races out of control, aiding the dizzy sway of my head as bright lights blink ahead.
“Take her inside,” Samson says, the words muffled and distorted like I’m underwater.
I start screaming then. Really screaming.
Not just threats or insults but pure animalistic terror that tears its way out of my throat.
The hands on my body become tighter, more desperate to haul me towards a house I vaguely recognize, but it does nothing to soothe me.
It’s the frat house I vowed never to step inside again.
“Get the fuck off me!” Violent survival instinct kicks in as I lash out with everything I have, my fist connecting with a chest, my elbow catching a jaw, my knee driving up hard enough to make someone grunt and stagger back, because in my head, I’m not here.
I’m being dragged to Frederick’s house, not Everest’s.
I’m fighting for my life all over again.
They swear and stumble, clearly not expecting the level of fight I’m putting up, but strong hands clamp down again, now dragging me backwards across the grassy lawn to the stage that’s been set for my humiliation.
My whole body is trembling uncontrollably, my breath ragged and uneven. I glare at them through the haze of adrenaline and terror, ready to bite, claw, and burn the whole place down if that’s what it takes to send a message. I will not be a victim again.
“I swear after this, I’m going to the salon to get the longest, pointiest nail extensions and then I’m coming back to scratch all of your eyes out!
” I shriek, writhing once more. The bone-head jocks don’t bother answering me.
They simply tighten their grip as they steer me through the front doors, my boots skidding against polished wood as the house seems to swallow me whole.
Voices echo from somewhere deeper inside, laughter and music bleeding through walls as if a young woman isn’t being dragged through this place with shaking limbs and murder in her eyes.
Eventually, against all odds, it’s the smell of expensive cologne and stale beer slamming into me that brings me back to the here and now.
There’s no cigar smoke perfuming the air, no man waiting to introduce himself as my biological father.
Instead, there are stains in the carpet and a stack of empty beer cans that reaches the ceiling.
I take great pride in twisting and kicking it over.
Being hauled forward, fingers dig into my arms as if I’m nothing more than a problem to be managed.
“Upstairs. Now,” Danny grinds through his teeth, as if that would make me comply.
They push me toward the staircase, my body protesting every step as I’m half-carried, half-dragged upwards.
The banister is cold beneath my fingers when I manage to grab it, splinters biting into my skin as I cling desperately for purchase, but they pry me loose and painfully wrench my shoulder back.
Each step feels too loud, my pulse thundering in my ears as the hallway above comes into view, lined with closed doors that feel like watching eyes.