Page 28 of Wicked Fury

With a resigned sigh, I sink into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin as I try to relax. The scent of pine air freshener assaults my nostrils, mingling with the faint whiff of tobacco and something sweeter, edgier. It’s the smell of recklessness, of freedom tinged with danger, and it’s intoxicating.

The car’s interior is a stark contrast to the chaos I just left behind. Black leather seats that look like they’ve never been sat on, a dashboard so clean it could double as a surgical table. I mutter a half-hearted “thanks” to Nick, but my words hang awkwardly in the air, like an unwanted guest. I buckle up behind Nicole, feeling the cool leather against my athletic frame, and catch Nick’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. He lingers far too long, suggesting he sees more than just another passenger. His stare feels like a hand creeping along the scars on my back, unseen but invasive. It feels different than when Lincoln looks at me, and I suppose that’s just further proof of how twisted up my brain is.

My phone buzzes, shattering the silence like a rock through a window. I glance at the screen, and it’s like I can feel the weight of my father’s disappointment before I even read the words.

Dad

Where are you? You should be studying.

The text reads, each word a leaden accusation. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating a lie or the silent treatment. Neither will shield me from the inevitable fallout.

I can feel beads of sweat forming at the base of my skull, and I’m grateful for the shadows in the car, hoping they’re enough to conceal the fear that’s probably written all over my face. The cadence of my heart quickens, my breaths shallow and sharp. I’m trapped in a glass case of anxiety, and each vibration of my phone is a crack threatening to shatter it.

The car’s engine hums a low, steady rhythm as we merge onto the freeway, the city lights blurring past like streaks of melted crayons. Nicole’s leg bounces nervously to the beat of whatever pop rock song is playing too loudly through the speakers.

“Nick,” she snaps suddenly, her voice slicing through the bass like a knife, “eyes on the road, not on Iris.”

I stiffen, the words hitting me sideways. I look straight through the horizon ahead, pretending I don’t notice Nick’s eyes flitting back to the road, his smirk visible even in the dim light of the dashboard. There’s an awkward silence, thick enough to smother us, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every inhale and exhale filling the cramped space.

It’s not my place to comment because I’m essentially the hitchhiker in this car of uneasy alliances. My lips press into a tight line, my default defense. I let the moment hang, unacknowledged, playing with the frayed edge of my watch strap instead.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. Silence stretches, but it’s not comforting in the slightest.

“Anxiety’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Nicole’s voice cuts through the quiet, laced with a bitterness that feels too familiar. My eyes snap open, and I see her reflection in the rearview mirror.

She glances back at me, her brown eyes reflecting a weariness I know all too well. “I get it. The shaking hands, the look of someone who’s about to jump out of their skin. You think you’re good at hiding it, but I can tell.”

“Guess I’m not as opaque as I thought,” I mutter, rubbing my palms on my jeans.

“Nick helps me deal,” she confesses, a shadow passing over her face. “Not just with rides. With… other things.”

“Ah.” It clicks. The late-night rendezvous, the carefree attitude around a guy she barely knows.

My phone thrums against my thigh, which is nothing but a violent reminder that the world outside this car hasn’t paused. I fish it out, and the screen lights up with Lincoln’s name. A barrage of messages, each one more incensed than the last. I can almost hear his low growl, the clench of his fists.

Lincoln Blackwood

Where are you?!

Answer me!

IRIS!

“Shit,” I whisper, my throat tightening. Each word from him is like a vise, squeezing until I can’t breathe.

Nicole eyes me, silent, but her glance is enough. She knows what this feels like, to be in the grip of something you can’t quite control, and just trying to keep your head above water.

“Turn it off,” she suggests, nodding toward the phone.

“Can’t. It’s like shutting my eyes and hoping the monster disappears.” I shake my head, the movement jittery. “Doesn’t work that way.”

“Maybe not,” she says softly, “but sometimes you’ve got to shut the door on the monster for a little while. Just to catch your breath.”

“Or to brace for the next round,” I add, forcing a smirk that feels like it could shatter.

“Exactly.” She grins, and it’s the most genuine thing I’ve seen from her tonight.

“Round two. Ding ding.” I mockingly hold up my phone like a boxer ready for another hit, bracing myself for the impact.

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