Sixty Days Of Summer (Broken Oasis #2)
1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Scarlet
A s I make my way back to my apartment after another audition as a drummer for a band, I can’t help but feel crushed. I thought I did alright, but that drastically changed when they discovered my brother is Nate Reynolds, the drummer of Broken Oasis.
It fucking stings knowing that every audition I attend, my own identity is swallowed by Nate’s fame. I love him to death—always have, always will. But it’s disheartening that people constantly see me only as his little sister.
I want to make a name for myself, succeed on my own terms, and not always be in my brother’s band’s shadow, even if they’re the biggest thing in music right now.
It’s like a never-ending cycle.
Like today, when I sat down with the band after my audition, the conversation inevitably turned to my brother’s band. It’s as if I’m just a side character in my own story. Nobody gives a shit about my talent, my dreams, or even the struggles I’ve faced to get here. Sometimes, I think, is it even worth it? I might be better off pursuing something else where I’m not constantly living in Nate’s shadow. But then I remember music is more than just a hobby—it’s a part of me. It runs through my veins. It’s what makes me who I am and who I want to become. Without it, I am nothing.
Despite being two years younger, Nate and I have always been competitive. It all began when I was six and he was eight, challenging each other to drumming contests, trying to outdo each other with the perfect beat.
Theo, Nate’s friend, who has always been like an older brother to me and who I cherish just as much as Nate, was always the unbiased referee, keeping score of our friendly competitions. Deep down, I know I may never reach the same heights of success as Nate, and that’s fine with me. The most important thing is that I remain true to myself, my love for music, and make my own path, no matter how small it may seem compared to his.
In our younger years, it was always the five of us: me, Nate, Theo, Bianca - the girl who effortlessly charmed both Nate and Theo - and Quinn, her partner in crime. Those were some of the best times of my life—just hanging out with them, laughing, and making memories. Bianca’s tragic passing left an indescribable void that echoed through every one of us. I’ll never forget that day—the shock, the heartache, and the suffocating emptiness that seemed to swallow everything. The pain I experienced paled in comparison to the agony Nate and Theo endured. I witnessed how it shattered them, their spirits broken in ways I could never fully comprehend. Despite the passage of time, the memory of that day remains etched in my mind, a constant reminder of how fragile life is and how love and loss can shape enduring bonds.
I jam the key into the door of my apartment, the gnawing worry of falling behind on rent eating away at me again. Despite Nate’s wealth and his readiness to give me anything I need, I’ve always been determined to stand on my own two feet. He’d hand me the world if I asked—that’s just who he is. But asking for help has never been my style—not even when he and Theo offered to buy me a place in a better part of town. I’m not one to rely on handouts, a characteristic likely influenced by the constant comparisons to Nate. I want to prove that I can make it on my own. The pressure is suffocating, weighing down on me like a heavy blanket, but my stubborn pride pushes me to keep moving forward, even though the fear of never escaping Nate’s shadow lingers.
The moment I push open the door, an eerie feeling settles in the air. Despite the silence and the unchanged state of my small apartment, a shiver creeps down my spine.
As I step inside, my ears strain to detect any sound that might offer an explanation for my unease. Am I just imagining things? I tell myself I’m being ridiculous—that it’s just the lingering stress from today making me paranoid.
I turn and lock the door behind me, feeling a sense of security as the deadbolt clicks into place with a satisfying thud. Taking a deep breath, I make my way to the fridge, craving a refreshing bottle of water. As I bend down to grab it, the floorboards let out a loud, ominous creak from behind, making me freeze in place. Fuck, I knew something was off. My heart pounds with such intensity that it feels on the verge of exploding. Stay calm, I tell myself. If it’s an intruder, just give them whatever they want. It’s just stuff—it can be replaced.
As I close the fridge and turn around, a sudden chill runs down my spine, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. As my throat tightens and my muscles go rigid, I finally catch sight of him. Beck Wilder—my ex and the lead singer of my former band.
It’s been nine long months since our band fell apart, and we each went our separate ways. That day, my heart shattered into a million pieces as I walked in on him fucking Tasha, the band’s bass guitarist. Despite ignoring his endless phone calls and the flood of unanswered texts blaming me for his downward spiral, it’s clear it’s not just about the band anymore—apparently, he can’t live without me.
Someone told me two months ago that he’s been drowning his sorrows in alcohol nearly every day since. Well, tough shit. I’m sure he didn’t give me a second thought when he had his dick inside Tasha.
“Get out,” I say, my voice firm, but it falls on deaf ears. I try to move past him toward the door, planning to open it and shove him out, but his iron-like grip on my arm makes it impossible.
I try to yank my arm away, but he only tightens his grip.
“I want to talk,” he slurs, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Well, I don’t,” I snap, trying again to yank my arm free with all my strength. His fingers dig into my skin, tightening even more.
He steps closer. The foul smell of his breath becomes more overpowering, causing my stomach to churn. Despite my attempts to create distance between us, his grip is so tight that it feels impossible to step back. He forcefully pulls me closer to him and clamps his other hand tightly around my jaw. The look in his eyes and the crushing pressure of his grip on my chin sends a surge of panic through me. Still, I refuse to give in to his bullshit any longer.
“Let me fucking go!” I shout in his face, but instead of releasing me, he responds with a twisted, cruel smirk that makes my blood run cold. His gaze drops to my lips, and I brace myself for what’s coming next. “Please, Beck,” I plead, my voice trembling with fear.
When I try to turn my head away, his face contorts with rage. His intensity terrifies me in a way I’ve never felt before. Fear washes over me, urging me to take swift action before the situation worsens. With desperation I try to pry myself from his vice-like grip.
With brutal force, he yanks my hair, pulling my head back. His lips crash onto mine with such intensity that I fear I might crack a tooth. I struggle to break free, but his grip remains steadfast. I clench my jaw, refusing to give in as his tongue persistently attacks, desperate to gain entry.
With desperation, I wedge my hand between us and forcefully thrust upward, pushing his head away. He flinches for a moment, but his grip remains firm. I keep struggling, twisting to break free, but then his hand clamps around my throat, pinning me in place.
“Let me fucking go!” I scream into his face.
Fury blazes in his eyes as the pressure on my throat tightens, almost choking me. In a frantic bid for freedom, I claw at his hand, my nails scraping against his skin, but my efforts prove futile. His grip only tightens, showing no concern that I’m struggling to breathe.
“You’ve turned into quite the little bitch, Scarlet,” he growls, his spit hitting my face and making me feel nauseous. “You always thought you were better than everyone else because of your hotshot brother. Well, fuck you, Scarlet. You’re no better than me. You think you’re so high and mighty? Look at you now—trapped under my grip.”
Toying with me, he slowly loosens his grip. It’s just enough for me to catch my breath, while a menacing smirk spreads across his face. Two years of being with this man have shown me first-hand the extent of his drunken antics—how he revels in instigating fights with strangers just for his own twisted amusement.
He holds me tight, his gaze fixated on my lips once more. I can see the anticipation in his eyes, as if he expects me to surrender to his demands, just like he has cunningly manipulated me to do in the past.
As he moves in for another kiss, my instincts take over. I claw at his face and dig my nails into anything I can reach, desperate to make him back the hell off.
With a menacing growl, he forcefully shoves me, causing me to crash to the ground with a resounding thud. With a sudden impact, my body collides against the hard edge of the coffee table, igniting a searing pain in my side. The vase filled with flowers shatters, creating a colorful explosion of petals and shards of glass across the floor.
As I look up, struggling for air, I notice his towering figure above me, his face covered in scratches, blood slowly trickling down. His fingers drift across the wound, his touch gentle yet cautious, until he pulls his hand back to examine the dark, smeared blood. As he glares at me, his eyes burn with an intense fury. Before I can react or even get to my feet, he lunges forward with a predatory snarl.
“I fucking hate you, you stupid bitch,” he seethes, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over me.
As his voice roars in my ears, I recoil, realizing too late the danger lurking in his clenched fist. Just as I close my eyes, I feel a bone-jarring force slam into the side of my face. The force of the impact sends a jarring wave of pain coursing through me, shaking my bones and leaving me momentarily stunned as I collapse once more onto the floor.
Through the fog in my mind, I catch the faint sound of his footsteps resonating in the room, yet their exact location eludes me. The sound of running water brings me back to reality, forcing me to refocus. My vision blurs as I blink repeatedly, trying to focus, until finally I spot him standing by the kitchen sink. Hunched over with his back turned to me, he splashes water onto his bloody face.
My mind screams at me to get the fuck up and get out of there. Fumbling with the front door locks will take too long, and he’ll catch me before I can make my escape. The bathroom—it's my best shot. I pat my pocket, and a wave of relief washes over me when I feel my phone still there.
With his back still turned, hunched over the sink, I know I need to act now. There might not be another opportunity later. Desperate to get into the bathroom, I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest.
The uneven rhythm of my footsteps catches his attention, and moments later, the faucet shuts off.
“Oh no, you don’t, you little slut,” he growls, his hurried footsteps closing in behind me.
I push harder, feeling my body teeter on the edge of losing balance as my shoe unexpectedly snags on an object on the floor. Dread coiling in my stomach, I stagger forward, bracing myself for an imminent fall. With an effort, I regain my balance, and the force pushes me towards the bathroom door.
Footsteps sound behind me—shit, he’s almost on me.
In a rush, I propel myself through the narrow gap in the slightly open door, swiftly turning around and slamming it shut. The last thing I see before closing the door is Beck’s furious face looming closer, his eyes blazing with rage.
I stumble back, my heart pounding in my chest, as I watch in terror while the doorknob twists and turns frantically.
“Please, Beck. Please just go away,” I plead, my voice trembling with fear.
“Open the fucking door, Scarlet,” he snarls from the other side. His palm slams against the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through my head, amplifying the relentless throbbing pain in my face. “Fuck you, Scarlet. You know why I fucked Tasha? It’s because she doesn’t act like she’s so goddamn superior. That’s why I went to her—to get the fuck away from you.”
With trembling hands, I grab my phone, desperately trying to block out the relentless pounding on the door and Beck’s cruel taunts. I start to dial 911 but freeze abruptly.
If the press gets wind of this, my brother might make headlines for all the wrong reasons, simply because I’m his sister. I can’t do that to Nate—he shouldn’t be dragged through the mud for something beyond his control. But if calling the cops isn’t an option, how the fuck do I get Beck to leave my apartment?
“I’m calling the cops, Beck!” I scream, my voice trembling against the thunderous pounding on the door.
The banging abruptly stops.
“I’m calling the cops right now, Beck,” I repeat, my desperation seeping through as I clutch the phone tightly, praying that this threat will finally make him back off.
“You won’t fucking do that. You know the shitstorm it’ll bring,” he sneers from the other side of the door. He knows I’ve always avoided doing anything that might attract media attention and put my brother in the spotlight.
Ignoring his taunts, I press on, pretending to have already made the call and speaking loudly for him to hear through the door.
“Yes, I need to report a break-in at my apartment,” I say, striving to keep my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at me. “There’s a man trying to force his way in and threatening me.”
“Fuck you, Scarlet, you bitch,” he spits back.
Ignoring his rage, I keep speaking, using everything I’ve picked up from reality TV to sound convincing.
“Yes, my name is Scarlet Reynolds, and Beck Wilder, my ex-boyfriend, won’t leave my apartment,” I say, hoping the urgency in my voice is enough.
Through the closed door, I hear the jarring sounds of objects being hurled and shattered—vases crashing, furniture scraping against the floor. The noise crescendos into a chaotic racket before abruptly cutting off with the sharp slam of the front door.
With my heart still pounding, I approach the door cautiously, straining to catch any hint of Beck’s presence. The silence is unnervingly eerie, amplifying the throbbing pain on the side of my face where he struck me. I press my ear against the door, careful not to make any noise that might provoke him further.
I wait in the tense silence, each second stretching into an eternity.
My mind is on high alert, searching for any sign of movement or sound that might indicate Beck is still lurking nearby.
The wait is excruciating. I wrestle with the urge to open the door and peek outside, but a cold dread holds me back—what if he’s still out there waiting for me to expose myself?
I clutch my phone tightly, my finger trembling above the call button with 911 still displayed on the screen. If Beck is lingering nearby, ready to strike again, I know I’ll have to call emergency services, even if it means risking my brother’s privacy and dealing with unwanted media attention.
The click of the lock on the bathroom door echoes through the silence, sending a shiver down my spine. I cautiously turn the doorknob and step back, bracing for the possibility that Beck might burst in. My head still throbs from his earlier blow, and I’m acutely aware that another hit could knock me out, leaving me helpless and unable to reach for the call button if I need it.
When nothing happens, I slowly inch the door open, peering through the crack.
The sight that meets me is chaotic: my belongings are strewn across the floor—couch cushions, notebooks, my laptop, and various trinkets—tossed and scattered in disarray. But in this moment, none of that matters. What matters is that Beck isn’t lurking somewhere, giving me a sense of false hope.
With caution, I ease open the bathroom door, creating a wide enough opening to slip through, all while maintaining a fixed gaze on the apartment’s front door. The chain lock dangles loose, and a quiet sigh of relief escapes me as I remember securing it earlier when I got home. Even though Beck appears to be gone, there’s still unsettling suspicion gnawing at me. What if this is just a ploy to lure me out? I hold my breath, ears straining for any hint of noise, while my eyes dart around the apartment, scanning for any sign of movement.
Minutes stretch out unbearably slow as I force myself to take a few cautious steps forward. My heart pounds like a war drum in my chest, reverberating through every inch of my body. With every nerve on edge, I scan the room for any sign of danger.
Reaching the front door, I fumble with the deadbolt, locking it with a shaky hand, and then secure the chain lock. Each motion is tinged with dread, as though the very act of securing the door might be my downfall.
Turning to survey the wreckage, I wait in the quiet as a wave of crushing sadness washes over me. I collapse against the door, sliding down it until I’m sitting on the cold, hard floor. My head falls into my hands as I sob, with the realization that I can’t stay here any longer. Not after what he did. Not after the violation of my space and safety. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if I never made it into the bathroom. Plus, I don’t even know how the fuck he managed to get into my apartment in the first place.