Oakley
Forty-Seven
Something sticky and metallic trickles down my neck as I struggle to open my eyes amid the pain. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, like someone’s pinned them down with super glue, but I finally manage to pry them open a fraction after I’m not sure how many minutes of struggling.
The world spins around me, the bright yellowing light piercing and sending shooting stars across my line of vision.
My ears ring with a high-pitched tone, and I shake my head to clear the fog, only to cry out when a sharp throb reverberates through my head at the motion.
My arms try to lift on instinct to clutch my head, but something is weighing them down, and I don’t have the energy to fight for the small movement right now.
Something is wrong.
Something is very wrong.
I just can’t remember what.
I’m groggy and disoriented. What happened?
With every second of confusion that passes, the pulse in my temples thuds louder, and my mind grows more panicked.
My breaths come quicker now, no doubt thanks to the adrenaline pumping through my body.
I think the hormone is the only reason I’m awake right now, like my body recognizes it’s in danger even if my mind doesn’t understand why.
I lick my chapped lips, grimacing at the rough texture as I glide my tongue over them.
I swallow and wince. My throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper.
The throbbing in my head makes it hard to focus, but I force myself to look around anyway, ignoring the stab of discomfort at the light when I open my eyes.
At first, I can’t see anything, just that blinding fucking light, and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision. It takes another fear-soaked minute, but finally, I glance around and take in the room around me.
I’m lying on my side on the hardwood floor, my hips and shoulders aching with the pressure of having been in the same position for too long without moving.
My back is up against something firm—a couch, I think?
—and I struggle to push myself up to sitting, fighting for the simple movement that takes up way too much of my energy.
My hands are asleep from resting in the uncomfortable position, and I flex my fingers in a feeble attempt to bring some feeling back into them.
The room is easier to take in now that I’m sitting up, though confusion and a lingering sense of dread still coats my brain as I glance around.
In front of me sits a small television on top of a scratched black cabinet with clear glass doors.
The cabinet looks old and worn, the finish chipped off in places and dented in others.
It looks like it’s seen the inside of a dozen homes, and better days, at best. There’s a couch behind me that smells like it’s been wet, and then dried out in the sun, repeatedly for days on end, and I try not to focus on the unidentifiable stains that litter the beige upholstery.
A long, dark hallway stretches out from the room I’m currently in, the yellow light dying halfway down it so I can’t see where it leads.
An involuntary shiver spider-walks down my spine, and I dart my gaze to the left, noticing a large window with dirty panes of glass peeking through the dingy curtains.
Wherever this place is, it’s in absolute disarray, like it’s been vacant for far too long.
I scan my eyes to my right, following the yellow light to where it disappears around a wall, a sliver of outdated orange tile visible. That must be the kitchen. If the living room looks like this, I don’t even want to see the state of the kitchen.
“You’re finally awake. I was wondering when you were planning on joining the fun.”
The sudden voice in the otherwise silent room jolts me, and I jump. My heart lodges itself somewhere in my throat as I frantically scan my surroundings for the source, but I come up empty.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Not even going to greet me properly?”
I freeze at the familiarity of that voice, my muscles locking in place as a tidal wave of panic rips through my chest like the serrated slice of a sharpened blade.
It can’t be.
It’s a trick of the mind, my subconscious trying to make sense of what I’m hearing by conjuring up false recognition in the cruelest way possible.
And yet, when the shadows in the hallway shift, unadulterated terror grips me as I make out the shape of a man.
My blood turns to ice as the shape moves closer, still hidden in the shadows, a condescending laugh following his slow movements.
I would know that sound anywhere. After all, it still haunts my darkest nightmares even on the best of days.
As if I’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water, the memories come flooding back to me in snippets. The bar. The harsh stinging smell of the whiskey as I poured it for him.
I’ll see you around.
The parking lot.
The jingle of my keys in a monster’s hand.
The gun pointed at my head.
Travis steps into the light, and it takes everything in me not to physically recoil at the sight of him.
To put it plainly, he looks like shit, a far cry from the charismatic, charming man I once knew.
Months of the drink, and whatever other substances he’s been sullying his body with, have taken its toll.
His skin is leeched of color, and I can see the sheen of clammy sweat clinging to his forehead from here.
He’s dressed in a loose pair of red basketball shorts that hang down to his knees and a ratty white tank top.
The neckline is stretched out from too many years of wear, and there’s a beer stain down the front of it.
My eyes zero in on the stain. It’s old, and I still remember the night I accidentally tripped over his Playstation cord and spilled the drink I was bringing him down the front of it.
God, he was so angry. I can still feel the sting of his hand when he smacked me, my head jerking back from the force of it.
It had taken an extra fifteen minutes of carefully applied makeup to cover up the bruise that lasted well over a week, and even after I did, you could still see it peeking through.
He’s lost some weight since the last time I saw him before I ran, but it’s clear that he’s still big enough to overpower me if I try anything stupid.
He moves closer until he’s looming over me, before crouching down and balancing his elbows on his knees.
He cracks his tattooed knuckles as his sunken eyes roam over my body in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“I’m waiting,” he prompts. When I look at him in confusion his eyes flash with something dangerous. “For my apology. You have a lot to answer for, Oakley.”
My anger threatens to boil over as venom coats my tongue.
If looks could kill, I’m certain he’d be dead a thousand times over from the way I’m glaring at him, but no matter how enraged I am right now, I have to play this smart.
He has the upper hand right now. I don’t know where I am, or how long I’ve been knocked out on this dirty floor, and I’m still weak.
I can still feel the effects of the hit to my temple, in the way my limbs feel heavier than usual and from the continuous pounding in my skull.
“Aw,” he tuts, shaking his head in disappointment. “Feeling shy, are we? That’s okay. I’m sure once we start, you’ll find it in you.”
I don’t let the fear of what he’s planning to do to me dull my rage.
I spent long enough being pushed around by him, and I’m tired of running.
This is my town. I’ve made a life for myself here in North Creek, and I’ll be damned if I let someone as pathetic as him take that away from me.
I’ve found a decent job, friends I can spend hours laughing with, and freedom in the peaceful calm of the mountains I now call my home.
And love. You’ve found love.
My heart aches at the thought of Levi, and the comfort and safety I feel in his arms. But even more so, I ache at the realization that my inner voice is right. I’ve found love.
I love Levi.
I love the quiet way he demands I fight for myself, all while providing a safe haven to do it in.
I love his loyalty to his friends and his community, and the way he challenges me every day to reclaim a part of myself I thought had been lost forever.
Does he know I’m missing? Does he know something’s wrong?
“Alright. I guess we can do this the hard way.”
I’m snapped out of my thoughts and back into my reality at the flash of metal in Travis’s hands. My eyes narrow on the sight of the handcuffs. I recoil backwards as he moves closer.
“Don’t fight me. You know how much harder it’ll be if you do.” He grabs my wrist with one tattooed hand.
“Let go of me!” I spit at him, trying and failing to yank my wrist free from his grasp.
In an instant, I’m on the ground on my stomach, my face shoved down against the sticky hardwood as he straddles my thighs and wrenches one arm and then the other behind my back.
I scream my protest, wriggling and bucking to try and get him off of me, but it’s no use.
My body feels so weak, and he’s heavy on top of me.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Keep fighting me. You know how much I love it.”
He laughs cruelly as I struggle beneath him, his weight settling even further down on me. I swallow down a wave of nausea at the press of his hardness against my backside, the feeling only stoking my rage further.
“Get the fuck off of me!” I scream as he clicks the handcuffs around my wrists. Tears prick at my eyes, but it’s not helplessness I’m feeling. It’s white-hot ferocity that courses through my veins alongside the adrenaline. I swear I could spit fucking fire right now if I tried.
He grinds his erection into me again, and I kick my legs up behind me, trying and failing to find purchase.