Page 14 of Forged By Shadows

“I hope they choose me,” one of the cheerleaders beside me gushes. I down my drink and grab her arm, yanking her down a few inches to my level.

“Choose you for what?” I hiss. She looks at me like I’m stupid.

“What we’re all in here waiting for,” she bobs her eyebrows. My face scrunches up as I look for Kay. She wouldn’t have come to this room with the intent on catching the basketball team’s attention. The cheerleaders, maybe. But alas, she’s disappeared.

Tugging my phone out of my cleavage, I look down for a split second when the girls around me part and the air changes. Axel hastily turns me towards the back wall as music starts to play. Not the thumping, fist pumping kind like downstairs, but the type you’d receive a lap dance to. Pulling me against his body, his solid chest leans against my back.

“Just go with it,” he mutters in my ear and sways slightly. We’re turning ever-so-slowly, step by step, to the bitter disgust of the cheerleaders watching on. The room rotates at the will of the firm arms caging me. The door comes into view and after checking over his shoulder, Axel releases me. “Get out of here.” I don’t need to be told twice.

Rushing for the hallway, my hair is suddenly caught. I’m being yanked backwards, screaming and gripping the hand twisted in my blonde locks. Coming face to face with Wyatt’s furious green eyes, they slide over my shoulder.

“Tsk, tsk, Axel.” His gaze briefly wanders to his friend. I can’t bring myself to worry about Axel right now. Out of his usual casual wear, Wyatt’s body seems bigger in a black shirt. The buttons have been left open down his chest, revealing swirling dark ink and the hint of defined muscle. He smells incredible, expensive. I jerk away, trying to rip my hair free from his fingers. With no such luck, Wyatt bundles me down the hallway and into an empty room.

I double take as I’m released, then pushed along to sit. I know in theory Wyatt is a Hughes, but the replica office to his father’s is the first time I’ve seen evidence of it. The desk is wide and mahogany, home to an antique lamp and cigar box. My eyes linger briefly on the decorative engravings before moving on. Persian rug, black shades, lit fireplace; it’s all here. Using the armchair’s high-back to their advantage, I can only look forward as the shadows close in. Wyatt takes front and center.

“What are you doing here?” He pops his knuckles on the desk behind him. Crossing one fishnet-clad leg over the other, I do want I do best. Act nonchalant and get under Wyatt’s skin.

“I mean…I was planning on getting shitfaced and dancing until dawn, if that’s quite alright with you?” Wyatt’s jaw tightens, a flutter beating in the low fiery glow.

“I thought I told you to stay away from us.” His voice is so thick, I have to suppress a responding shudder. Sighing, I pull my phone back out of my cleavage and slowly turn the message high for all to see.

“Well, someone decided to invite me.” Wyatt snatches it from my hand to peer closer. A long pause follows. I don’t try to understand the conversation happening between their eyes. Garrett and Axel take a guarded step closer to the chair arms, while Dax and Huxley hang back. Finally Wyatt draws himself back up to full height, slowly rolling his shirt sleeves up to the elbow. I’m sure he believes he’s being threatening.

“Apparently there’s no easy way to get this message through your skull, so let me be painfully clear. You are not welcome in my house, near my friends, at the gym.” Wyatt lets his voice turn to a drawl, talking as if I’m stupid. What a surefire way to get my back up. “If you see me around campus, get out of the general vicinity. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He drops forward, juddering the chair as he grips the arms. His green eyes fill my vision, the darker flecks within them more prominent than usual. My nostrils flare as I huff through my nose.

“Last time I checked, I’m a fully-fledged student here,” I prod my finger in Wyatt’s chest. “Just. Like. You.” There are murmurs behind, hushed warnings to quit while I’m ahead. From where I’m sitting, shrouded in Wyatt’s shadow, I’m firmly on the backfoot regardless. I might as well have a reason for his hatred, other than merely existing. Indecision crosses Wyatt’s face. I reckon he’s either going to headbutt or bite me, but instead, he pushes himself away.

“You’re nothing like me,” he chuckles darkly and rounds the desk. I don’t see the cue but a bag is promptly shoved over my head. It’s thick, making it hard to breathe. Hands grip my wrists when I try to shove it off, my entire body being manhandled. I’m carried out of the chair and dumped upright. Someone is still holding the bag around my head so I use my freed hands to lash out. Wood meets my fingers, snapping my nails on impact. I feel out the flat planks surrounding me as Wyatt’s laughter freezes my movements.

“I want you to remember, I tried to warn you multiple times. You’re just so fucking stubborn.” There’s a distant slam, like a ream of paper hitting the desk. “I have friends in the administration offices who kindly let me borrow your therapy transcripts before they were passed along to the counsellors. There’s so much to work with in here,” he muses. I feel around more slowly now. Three walls, empty slots where shelves once were, metal hinges for a door. If I had to hazard a guess, I’m in a closet, pinned in place by fear and the hand lightly clasped around my throat. My head is shaking but no sound comes through my lips.

“Fear of dark, enclosed spaces. The smell of whiskey causes flashbacks,” Wyatt makes a noise in his throat. Blood rushes in my ears as the hand holding me slips away. That’s it, hazing over. I will my heart to settle and for legs to move. Before they get the chance, a sudden shattering just above my head makes me scream. I duck, covering my head despite the bag protecting me from a downpour of glass. Whiskey explodes around me and when I finally manage to run, I slam into the now closed door. A lock clicks.

“No, no, Wyatt!” I scream, dragging the bag off my head. It makes no difference. The closet is pitch black, only wide enough for me to stand upright inside. I pound my fists, screaming at the top of my lungs. Someone in another room might hear. Grabbing for my phone, I remember Wyatt has it, the bastard. I fall still and quiet, pressing my ear to the wood. I convince myself they’ve left until a low sigh sounds through the door.

“Hopefully this conveys the message once and for all.” Wyatt’s voice is as clipped as his footsteps, echoed by the others leaving the room. My heart threatens to burst out of my chest.

“Guys, wait! Garrett, Dax, please don’t leave me here!” I’ve resorted to pleading. My breathing kicks up to a worrying pace, an impending panic attack about to hit. The whiskey makes me gag. My memories awaken as if they've been lying in wait, hovering on the edge of my consciousness for this exact moment.

"No!" I scream again, but my voice echoes back, a mocking reminder of the times I've been trapped before. This isn’t like the trunk, where I had the light of my phone, the boys on the other side of the divider and managed to maintain the upper hand. This is complete and utter blackness, an abyss forcing me back into a past I'd been doing my damnedest to forget. The effect of it was like a punch in the gut, and my knees buckle. There’s nowhere to go, my legs crushing against the wall.

It isn't long before the panic attack hits hard; a crushing weight on my chest as if the walls really were closing in on me. My breaths come in ragged gasps, beating against my ears with painful loudness in the tiny space. The darkness swirling around me is a living thing, pressing in tighter as each second passes.

Focus on what you can touch, Keren’s voice rings in my mind. Out of all of our therapy sessions, this is the one feat we could never manage. Even with the help of hypnotism, I can’t break my reaction to tight spaces. It’s not like claustrophobia; it’s a deep seated terror that I’ll be left and forgotten. That’ll I’ll die trembling and alone. Like my mom, I vaguely realize as the tears begin to fall.

With trembling hands, I feel along the walls for some sort of handle or latch. Tracing the coolness of the wood under my fingertips, stroking the rough grain against my skin. But there is nothing. Wyatt has created the ideal prison for me.

“I’m gonna kill him,” I seethe, clenching my fists. That, I can focus on. My undeniable, all-consuming hatred for Wyatt. Finding a position crammed against the wall, crunching glass beneath my heels, I do something I have never managed before. I welcome the memories of my past, but in place of a fragile young girl, I picture Wyatt. Topless, scared, screaming Wyatt. Let his body be beaten, let his tears drip onto the hardwood floor. Let him suffer and starve.

My breathing slows, my fists relaxing. The panic swirling stalls, settling like a heavy ball of lead. It’s not gone, but it’s somehow less. A strange, creeping smile grows upon my face and a flicker of hope ignites in my chest like a small flame. Perhaps I should thank Wyatt for making me face my demons. Now I can bring a whole world of pain he isn’t expecting. Maybe then he’ll learn to leave me the fuck alone.

Chapter Nine

“I’m so sick of this shit,” Wyatt groans, throwing a dart. It swoops high, bouncing off the backboard and missing the target. His shoulders sag with the weight of his sigh. I lift my hand to pat his back, but I don’t follow through. I can’t bring myself to comfort him right now. Instead, I step up for my turn. Acting casual is the best way forward, despite the crippling ache in my chest.

Similar feelings are rippling behind me. On a low sofa across the abandoned games room, Dax is incredibly quiet, nursing his drink and tapping his thumb on his knee. By the pool table, Garrett and Axel have turned into each other, taking comfort in stolen touches and muttered reassurances. The only one of us who doesn’t care that there’s a girl locked in the closet upstairs seems to be Wyatt.

His next dart sails aimlessly past the target and clatters against the wall behind it. The sound resonates through the silence in the room. Taking a shot of vodka straight, Wyatt sways on his feet, accidently bumping me aside. Garrett and Axel exchange a glance, but they don’t dare say anything. We’re all used to Wyatt’s dark, withdrawn moods, but getting himself unstably drunk is new. Every aspect of Wyatt’s life, of his personality, is about control. Strict, meticulous control.

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