Page 17 of Wicked Fury

“Hey,” Nicole says, her voice slicing through my spiraling thoughts, “you look like you could use a break from all this… intensity.” She sweeps a hand around, encompassing the musty lecture hall, the whiteboard littered with the debris of political theories. “How about we hang out sometime? No books, no lectures, just… fun.”

“Fun?” The word feels foreign on my tongue, a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. I size her up, this enigma wrapped in a preppy smile. There’s something about her—her eagerness, her bright-eyed boldness—that disarms me. People don’t usually do ‘forward’ with me; they retreat, wary of the barbs and jibes that lurk beneath my surface.

“Sure,” I say before caution can claw its way up my throat. “Fun sounds like an endangered species worth preserving.” An unfamiliar warmth bubbles up inside me at the thought of letting go, even if for a fleeting moment. Maybe Nicole’s brand of carefree can leech into my veins, dilute the poison of obsession and yearning. Maybe I won’t even need to get high.

“Perfect!” Her grin is infectious, and damn it, I feel my lips twitch in response. Who knew giving in to spontaneity could be less terrifying and more… thrilling?

My voice is casual as I slide my books into my bag, “There’s a party this Friday. Interested in some real campus life initiation?”

Her eyes light up brighter than the strobe lights at those very parties. “Hell yes, I’m in! Do you think—?” She hesitates, biting her lip. It’s an amateur move compared to my own perfected version. “Is it a football party?” She’s fishing, her line baited with hope.

“Most likely. They usually show up and take over any event worth attending around here.” I can’t help but paint them in my mind—Lincoln at the center, his hair a stark contrast to the golden boys of the team, tattoos peeking out beneath his sleeves like art coming to play.

“Any of them single?” There’s a tease in the way she speaks to me, but her interest smells as genuine as the desperation in a freshman during finals week.

“Pick one. They’re like Pokémon; gotta catch ‘em all.” I force a laugh, but inside, a coil unwinds. If she takes the bait, if she latches onto Lincoln’s chiseled jawline and intense eyes, then maybe, just maybe, I can sever these gnarly roots of fixation that keep tripping me up.

“Then consider me Ash Ketchum.” Nicole’s grin is wide as she shoulders her bag, and I can’t help but smirk back.

“Careful not to end up with a Psyduck.” As we weave through the corridors, I feel lighter, a sense of relief seeping through me like whiskey on an empty stomach—warm, intoxicating, dangerous. With any luck, Nicole’s charm will snag Lincoln’s attention, and I can vanish into the background, fade away until I’m just Iris Shelby, future law student, not Iris, Lincoln Blackwood’s favorite chew toy.

“Thanks for the invite, Iris. Really,” Nicole says, sincerity threading her words together.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I warn her, half-joking. “You haven’t seen St. Charles’ wild side.”

“Looking forward to it.” Her excitement is palpable.

“Good,” I say, but my mind is already racing ahead, to the night when bodies press close, music throbs against skin, and Lincoln is just another face in the crowd—not the ghost that haunts my every restless moment.

Chapter 7

Lincoln

Ican’t shake the feeling that tonight’s underground party at St. Charles is going to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but here I am, walking in with my three brothers like we own the place, which, let’s face it, we do. The air reeks of sweat and cheap booze, and the bass from the music vibrates through the soles of my shoes. It’s the kind of scene that makes your blood rush—partly from excitement, partly from the sheer anticipation of trouble.

I scan the crowd, spotting the usual suspects. Frat boys and Soror girls. A member of every sports team on campus, most of them rocking their Spartan gear. Every year represented and every group. It’s a fucking melting pot like we were fucking LA or New York in here.

There’s little Oakley Ashford, drowning in a sea of pulsating bodies, her golden hair catching stray beams of light as if she’s some wayward angel lost in hell. She’s a damn contradiction wrapped in a floral dress, looking like springtime in a den of debauchery.

“Jeremiah,” I nod toward her, knowing full well he’s about to lose his ever-loving shit. Jeremiah’s always had this sixth sense for bullshit, and Oakley’s presence here is definitely going to set off some weird alarm he has for her.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and I watch as he strides over to her, each step measured, purposeful. The crowd once again parts for him like he’s a god.

“Oakley, what the hell are you doing here?” Jeremiah’s voice cuts through the noise, his tone more incredulity than anger. She’s the only person that could cause the volcanic explosion that’s about to erupt from my brother.

“Jeremiah Blackwood,” she slurs, her eyes wide with a drunken innocence that doesn’t fool anyone. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Their spat unfolds like wreckage in slow motion—you want to look away, but you can’t. Oakley’s anger flares, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and indignation. She’s swaying on her feet, spitting fire and vitriol, and I can’t help but smirk at the spectacle.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” Jeremiah says, trying to wrap an arm around her, but she shrugs him off with a fierceness that’s almost admirable for someone of her size.

“Fuck off, pretty boy,” she snaps, and I stifle a laugh. Little Oakley Ashford, all five-foot-nothing of her, thinks she can take on my brother who tackles guys twice her size for breakfast. The way she spits the nickname she’s always called him, lets me know that she’s actually still angry at him and not just drunk.

But Jeremiah’s patience has run out. Before she can protest further, he hoists her up and tosses her over his shoulder like a sack of rebellious potatoes. Her legs kick, her hands smack against his back, but it’s no use. Jeremiah’s got this handled with a palm planted at the bottom of her ass to ensure her dress doesn’t ride up and flash the entire party.

“Put me down, you Neanderthal!” Oakley screeches, but Jeremiah just tightens his grip, his jaw set in determination. I trail behind them, soaking in the entertainment and the scent of desperation that clings to the air like a second skin.

“Jesus, Jere, you sure know how to pick ‘em,” I say, unable to hide my amusement.

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