Page 29 of Wicked Fury

“Nick keeps me level,” she murmurs, tapping her purse where a pill bottle clinks like an illicit lullaby. “Xanax. My secret anchor.”

A bitter laugh escapes me because it doesn’t escape me that she’s brand new at St. Charles and has already found a dealer to latch onto. Pills offered up with the casualness of sharing gum. It’s so absurd it almost circles back to sane. But sanity is a luxury I can’t afford, not with my phone vibrating against my thigh like a warning siren.

“I understand more than you know.” My hand trembles as I reach for my phone, Lincoln’s texts blazing across the screen. The digital assault on my senses makes it hard to focus on anything else.

“Want one?” Nicole’s question hangs between us, an offer wrapped in false concern and genuine desperation.

There’s a war in my head. The good girl, the perfect student, the untouchable Iris Shelby doesn’t pop pills to cope. But then again, that Iris isn’t real, is she? Just a facade I’m fighting to keep intact while everything crumbles. I usually only do this at parties or in my dorm room and definitely not around people I don’t really know.

“Isn’t this how it starts?” I quip, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “One minute you’re popping Xanax in a dealer’s car, next thing you know, you’re the star of your own tragic after-school special.”

“Better than starring in your own horror story,” Nicole retorts, and damn her for making sense.

My thumb hovers over the ‘decline’ button on another call from dad. I could shatter, or I could float. Seems like an easy choice when framed like that.

“Fuck it,” I say, snatching the pill from Nicole’s outstretched palm. White and innocuous, yet promising the silence of my buzzing brain. I swallow it dry, the bitterness coating my tongue like a truth I can’t spit out.

“Welcome to the club,” Nicole smirks as I lean back and let the unease slowly dissolve into a dull numbness. A fake serenity wraps around me, but I cling to it like a lifeline. Because right now, it’s all I have.

Nicole snatches my phone like it’s a grenade about to detonate, thumb swiping with a manicured ferocity. The screen goes black, and the deluge of texts and calls halt, effectively cutting off the outside world like a guillotine blade.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” she says, tossing the now silent device into her purse. Her words vibrate through the dense air, but even as I sag against the leather seat, I can’t fully relax. It’s a reprieve, sure—a stolen moment from the relentless current that is my life. But not the solution.

My heart still hammers in my chest, breaths shallow, despite the chemical calm spreading through my veins. My mind should be foggy, thoughts tangled up and sedated. But no, they’re razor-sharp, honed on every little detail like the faint smell of marijuana clinging to Nick’s side of the car, the soft hum of the car engine, Nicole’s nervous tapping of her fingernails on the dashboard.

The darkness outside presses against the tinted windows, a reflection of the chaos I’m trying to contain within.

“I don’t need saving, right?” I murmur to myself, tasting the irony.

Nick looks back at me again in the rearview mirror, lingering just a second too long almost like he’s trying to peel back layers I didn’t consent to uncover. It prickles my skin, this unwanted scrutiny, adding to the undercurrent of tension that’s already threatening to pull me under.

“Easy there, Casanova.” Nicole’s voice cuts through the silence, a warning wrapped in sweetness. “You’re making me jealous.”

Nicole’s biting words hang in the air, and I am aware for the first time that she might not be all easy-going sweetness.

Chapter 11

Lincoln

The roar of the crowd is a dull buzz in my ears as I scan the bleachers. Where the hell is Iris? She agreed she’d be right there—front and center—in the spot where I told her to sit. The empty seat mocks me, a gaping hole in an otherwise packed sea of faces. My mistake thinking she’d just sit the fuck down and stay put for fucking once.

“Blackwood! Focus!” Coach’s voice slices through the clamor, but it’s white noise, all of it. My fingers tighten around the pigskin, and for a fraction of a second, I’m back in the game. Muscle memory takes over—pivot, aim, throw—but it’s all off. The ball spirals out of control, like my thoughts, and hits the turf with a sickening thud. A strain of groans rises, and we lose possession.

“Dammit, Blackwood!” someone shouts from the sidelines, but I barely hear them over the blood pounding in my temples, my gaze still fixed on that damn empty seat.

Halftime is a blur of locker room sweat and curses. I’m glued to my phone, thumb smashing the screen as I fire off texts to Iris.

Where are you?

Sent.

This isn't funny

Sent.

Talk to me dammit

Sent.

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