Page 27 of Wicked Fury

“Excuse me,” I murmur as I slip past legs and feet, my tone light, almost bored. But beneath the surface, my nerves are fraying like the hem of the jeans I usually never wear. There’s a scent in the air—popcorn, sweat and something metallic, like the tang of blood. It’s intoxicating, almost enough to drown out the stink of my own fear. Almost.

Reaching the concourse, I let out a harsh breath. The din of the crowd fades into a muffled roar behind me. Adrenaline surges through my veins, sharp and sweet. I should feel victorious, yet all I can think about is how Lincoln will react once he realizes I’m gone. I look behind me, half expecting him to be barreling toward me ready to tackle me to the ground. The twisted part of me that should never see the light of day is disappointed that he’s not.

Will he be angry? Without a doubt. But anger doesn’t necessarily equate to betrayal. I know the rules of this perverse game we’re playing. He wants to keep me close, to remind me I’m under his thumb. But telling my father about my indiscretions? That would mean losing his most potent weapon over me.

So, I walk faster, the thud of my shoes on the concrete echoing like a timer counting down. With each step, I put more distance between myself and the boy who could be my ruin.

The air bites at my exposed skin as I step out from the shadow of the stadium, a stark contrast to the heat that’s been steaming off me since I made my great escape. My phone feels heavy in my hand, like it’s suddenly made of lead instead of sleek, lifeless technology. Contacts scroll under my thumb—a blur of names that mean next to nothing.

“Who even is there?” I mutter to myself. The answer is laughable—practically no one. My life? A carefully curated gallery of academic achievements and enough extracurriculars to make any Ivy League swoon. Friends? More like convenient acquaintances, all too busy chasing their own ambitions to notice mine are on the verge of crumbling.

Nicole’s name pops up, her contact photo grinning with preppy-perfect teeth. It’s a shot in the dark, but desperation makes for strange bedfellows. My fingers hesitate before tapping her number, each ring an echo of potential rejection.

“Hey, Iris! What’s up?” Nicole’s voice bursts through the line like she’s just won the lottery, and I’m the winning ticket.

“Hi, Nicole. Listen, I need a favor,” I start, trying to keep the quiver from my voice. “Could you give me a ride back to campus? I’m over at St. James for…” I trail off before I say too much. “My ride bailed on me.”

“Of course!” she chirps, and relief washes over me, tainted only slightly by surprise. “I’m actually already out and not too far away. Are you at the library?” I roll my eyes because I should be at a fucking library right now.

“Yes! I’ll just wait outside of the library,” I say, a smile almost breaking through the fortress of my lips. I hang up, feeling reassured that Lincoln can’t possibly leave his throne on the field to come after me now.

I vaguely remember where the library is, so it takes me a few minutes to find my bearings. Minutes tick by, each one a reminder of how vulnerable I am standing alone outside on a campus I have no business being on. Finally, a black car rolls up, its windows so tinted they might as well be painted on. The door swings open, revealing Nicole… and not Nicole.

“Hey, hop in!” she beams, gesturing toward the guy in the driver’s seat—a stranger wearing a cocky grin that says he knows exactly what sort of cargo he’s carrying. “This is Nick.”

“Nice to meet you,” I lie, peering into the car’s interior, which smells like a mix of leather and something herbal, pungent, not entirely unpleasant. The dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree in a way that screams ‘look at me, I’m probably illegal’.

“Nick’s got the hookup,” Nicole adds, and I can’t help but think she means more than just a friendly lift. My stomach tightens; getting into cars with unknown drug dealers isn’t exactly chapter one of ‘How to Succeed Without Really Trying.’

“Right…” I say, my tone flat, my body hesitating at the boundary between the safety of the night air and the unknown territory within the car. My mind races, imagining the myriad of ways this could go south, each scenario more colorful and disastrous than the last.

But options are a luxury I don’t have, and right now, the scent of freedom is laced with exhaust fumes and the faintest hint of danger. So, I slide into the backseat, telling myself it’s just another calculated risk in the game of chess my life has become.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I manage, the words feeling foreign in my mouth—gratitude, an unfamiliar currency.

“Anytime,” Nick replies, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror a fraction longer than necessary, sending a shiver down my spine that’s not entirely from the cold.

The ringtone slices through the tension like a scream in the silence of a horror flick. I flinch, my heart hammering against my ribs as if it’s trying to break free from the cage of my chest.

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, thumb swiping the screen to silence the call without a second thought. Dad. The word alone is enough to conjure up images of his stern face, the tight line of his mouth when he’s disappointed, which is pretty much always.

“Everything okay?” Nicole’s eyes are wide with concern, the neon glow of streetlights playing across her features.

“Yeah, everything is great,” I lie, trying to push the shaking in my voice back down my throat. My mind’s racing—scenarios where Dad finds out I’m not buried in textbooks like the dutiful daughter I pretend to be.

“Boyfriend?” Nick’s voice is casual, almost disinterested, but I can feel the way he’s looking at me from the driver’s seat. Assessing.

“My dad,” I mumble, forcing a laugh that feels more like a choke.

“Big Brother always watching?” he quips, and there’s a smirk in his voice that I want to hate but somehow can’t. He gets it—the scrutiny, the pressure.

“Something like that.” My fingers tap on the cool metal of the car door, a stuttered rhythm that matches the pounding in my skull. Options—or lack thereof—flit through my head like moths to a flame. Stay here and risk Lincoln’s wrath or take the ride with Nick, the lesser of two evils. I’m painfully aware that both choices lead down roads paved with trouble.

“Look, Iris,” Nick starts, and I brace myself for the sales pitch, “I don’t know what your deal is, but you need to get back to campus, right?”

“Right,” I reply, because what else is there to say?

“Then calm down and enjoy the ride.” There’s no malice in his voice, just the blunt-force trauma of logic. A challenge I can’t deny because he’s offering a solution, however imperfect.

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