Page 15 of Ugly Truths
I release an exhale.
We need to talk about it. I owe him that.
If he truly feels something more, we need to determine if there’s a way to salvage the friendship we do have without further damaging it. Luis deserves more than confusion, and far more than whatever mixed signals I might have given without meaning to.
I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder before sliding out of the front seat and shutting the door behind me. My boots crunch against the gravel as I clasp my hands behind my lower back and push out to stretch my chest.
The clouds hang low today, cloaking the valley in a thick mist. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about it, even when the view is obscured. I smile and inhale deeply. The air smells heavy and clean.
Lost in thought and the quiet rhythm of my footsteps as I approach the edge of the driveway to look out at the view, I don’t hear the second pair of boots behind me until it’s too late.
A hand clamps down around my still-clasped wrists, locking them in place. Pain shoots through my shoulders as I'm yanked backward, nearly losing my footing. My bag slips from my shoulder and catches at my elbow, throwing me further off balance. I twist, struggling to break free.
“Relax,” a voice hisses in my ear, low and calm. “If you don’t, this is going to hurt.”
Every muscle in my body locks up.
That voice.
Before I can place it or even move, a sharp sting pierces the side of my neck. I gasp as the pain flares hot and fast beneath my skin. My vision is already starting to flicker. I try to turn my head just enough to see dirty blonde hair and a flash of bright,hateful eyes.
The world tilts. Sound warps. My arms go limp.
His name surfaces just as my knees buckle.
I sink to the ground, and he lets me fall. The impact is distant and muted. Whatever was in that needle is already taking hold, pulling me under enough that I barely feel the sting of hitting the ground.
The last thing I register before everything goes dark is the quietzipof my bag being opened and the low, distant rumble of thunder echoing across the trees.
—
The first time I come to, I'm laying down. My neck throbs from the angle my head is hanging. Vibrations hum against my cheek, rhythmic and low, but my body feels miles away. Even peeling my eyes open feels like a monumental effort.
Shapes melt together in streaks of shadow and light, the edges of the world refusing to stay still.
“…don’t know why you didn’t just take her out,” a voice mutters somewhere nearby. Male. Gruff. It sounds like it’s coming through a wall of cotton.
“Orders are orders,” someone else replies, calm and detached. It’s the person who whispered in my ear.
“Yeah, but—”
“Shut up. She’s waking up.”
I try to speak, to form anything that might sound like a question or a threat or a plea, but my tongue won’t cooperate. The only sound I manage is a faint, garbled moan.
Something causes me to jolt, sending a wave of nausea through me as my body shifts deeper into whatever seat I'm in.
The air smells faintly of leather and something sharp and chemical—too sharp. My eyes flutter once, twice, and the blur starts to spin.
Then everything fades again.
—
The next time I wake, the engine is louder. A low, constant roar that buzzes through my skull and rattles in my teeth.
Through half-lidded eyes, I catch glimpses of my surroundings. Metal walls. Narrow aisle. Oval windows with pale light bleeding in through clouds.
A plane?
