Page 113 of Lucky 14

The smile stalls me, and I search for the menace in his face. Was he planting something in my room? What is he doing unbound?

Anger boils up in my veins, and I stalk around the couch. Oakley throws me a startled look right before I get my hand around his neck and slam him into the fridge. “Where’s Holli?”

I have other questions too. Like, why can’t I remember how they got untied? How much time has passed? Why was he fucking smiling at me?

We need to hide! Hide, hide, hide!

Oakely’s eyes are big, and his hands are grasping at mine, and the wash of fear that settles over me is cold. Something bad must be happening.

I squeeze harder, but it doesn’t make the fear go away. My skin is crawling with it, like bugs running up and down my arms, their feet leaving goosebumps as they go.

Control. I need someone to take control. I recognize how bad things are feeling. This usually means more people telling me I did things I didn’t. Doing things I don’t remember.

“Put him down,” the sharp voice cuts through the swirling thoughts, and I turn with a snarl to see Holland there, also sans zip ties. She’s giving me a cold, clinical look. It cuts through the fog of anger.

I release my hold a little, and the man in my grasp gasps. His head is tilted back as he tries to get any air that he can. He reminds me of the man I kicked to shit in that motel room. In fact, he’s just like him. Working for Weston.

Weston is dangerous. He’s going to kill us.

My hand starts to shake again.

“Wyatt!” Holland’s voice is high-pitched now. She’s angry.

Angry. Not safe!

I snarl, pushing Oakley into the door again. “What does my brother want?” Deep down, I know the answer. He came here to destroy my game. Eat me up from the inside out. And it’s working. I feel like I’m going crazy.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp burst of pain in my cheek. I look down to see Holland there, eyes flashing. She hit me.

And then I see what she’s holding.

My gun.

I stop, staring at her. Holli has backed up enough that I can’t reach out and snatch it from her.

“Let go,” Holland says. Her voice has dropped that shrill tone. Now she’s detached, staring at me with a cold look in her eyes that surprises me from someone with such an innocent face. Oddly, it brings calm to the storm of emotions inside me. She looks confident.

I let go of Oakley, bracing for his counterattack. He doesn’t, though. He just gasps for breath, stumbling away from me.

“Sit.” Holland motions with the gun at one of the kitchen chairs.

I shouldn’t. I should lunge at her and risk getting shot. But she narrows her eyes slightly, like she’s asking if I really want her to shoot me.

I can see in her gaze that she will. Her eyes are cold and detached. And for some reason, it makes everything really simple. Either sit or get shot. No overthinking it. Nothing else in this moment.

So, I sit.

Holland has a hushed conversation with Oakley, but she never takes her eyes off me. Those blue eyes that hold such certainty in them. Certainty that the only thing I need to do right now is listen to her. I hold onto that thread of comfort as if it can keep me from going insane.

Oakley comes back holding zip ties.

I stiffen. Zipties mean she wants to keep me for an extended period of time. Means I’ll have to exist through that time, feeling that fear. They mean more complexity than the simple choice of sit or die.

My breathing picks up, and Holland notices. “We’re gonna talk.”

Oakley’s eyes are wide, which makes adrenaline shoot through my system.

Not safe!