Page 123 of Lucky 14

Wait.

I freeze. Oakley said the name Wyatt. Why would he say that? That’s my boss’ name. Why does Oakley know Wyatt? How? Wyatt never talks to me in person. He rarely talks to anyone. That’s just the way he runs his business. Runs this game.

My heart is racing. What the hell is happening right now?

I need to run. Need to get so blackout drunk I can’t think anymore. This is all just a bad dream. I’ll find some sort of escape.

So that’s what I do. I go inside, ignoring Oakley in the living room, who’s acting distressed, lock my door, and guzzle as much liquor as I can.

It works for a little while, until it doesn’t. I end up vomiting nonstop a few hours later. The whole time, all I can do is think about what Oakley said. I realize that the memory from the pool is the earliest memory I have. I was nine at the time. But it’s normal not to remember your childhood, right?

Right?

I end up lying on the bathroom floor, head pounding, stomach turning. I can’t escape it this time. Just like I couldn’t escape it when I sank in that pool. Reality will always come knocking, at one point or another.

Finally, I rouse myself, find a sticky note, and scribble something down. Only then do I pass out.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Day 11

I can’t tell if I had the most arousing dream or if Holland actually smacked me around in a chair. Reality is scrambled in my brain, and I feel like I’ve been drinking for days. Which is weird, because I don’t drink.

Holland and Oakley exist around me like some sort of weird roommates. Roommates? The thought is absurd, but as I watch them around me, doing the dishes and cooking food, it doesn’t feel absurd. In my dream, Holland said she had nothing to do with Weston. When I’m not dreaming, I’ve been keeping a close eye on him through the computer system. From what I can see on the cameras and what I can track on the map, it looks like he’s slaughtering the rest of the prey, amassing a group of hunters.

Not safe! The tiny voice in my head that’s been screaming since Weston got released from jail continues to ring warning bells.

I need to kill him. I’ve studied what I can, and now I need to hunt him down. I shouldn’t do it alone, but what other choice do I have?

I’m on my way to my stash of guns when I run into a soft body. Holland looks up at me with a gasp. There’s a startle of…something in her eyes before she narrows her gaze.

What was that? Why is she looking at me like that?

My stomach clenches in a mix of anxiety and something that is absolutely not anxiety. In fact, it feels a lot like…excitement. Which is completely fucked up.

I clear my throat. “Where you going?” The question comes out more like a demand. I can’t help myself. It seems the excitement has gone from my dick to my brain, turning it to mush. I should be focused on Weston and not flirting with the wild card in my house. I shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to help myself. There’s something about this woman that just quiets that voice in my head.

Holland plants a small hand on my chest and shoves. It does nothing and yet everything at the same time. My knees go weak, and my breathing picks up. My dick is hard as stone.

Holland cocks her head, eyes darting between mine, then flickering down to my mouth.

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.

“I was getting a snack. Is that okay, your highness?” Her voice is mocking, using the same words I used in the dream. My heart takes off like we’re in a race.

“That’s what I thought,” she sneers, pushing past me, stalking down the hall like a queen.

My legs bow, like my body wants to follow her with a magnetic pull. There was so much…hatred in her eyes. I have no doubt she’d hurt me. Which, against all odds, makes me want her even more.

I know from my past research that Holland is a therapist from Oklahoma, with living parents but no other immediate family. I couldn’t find much for her on social media, but what I did see looked fake as hell—her smiling in front of a city skyline, some picture of a flower with an inspirational quote, a mirror selfie. But in every picture, she was alone. Also, her eyes looked…empty. They looked nothing like the eyes I just saw in the hallway. Here, she looks alive.

I suppose she hates me for bringing her here. They all do. It’s normal to hate the person who signs your death warrant, but there isn’t just hate in her eyes. There’s life. It’s like she doesn’t have a tiny voice in her head screaming that she’s not safe. Or, if she does, she ignores it.

Where does that life come from? Not from whatever fake reality she posts online. That Holland would wilt in the face of danger. I know for a fact that this Holland would look someone like Weston in the face and spit.

I stare blankly at the place she disappeared down the hall.

I want that life from her. I want her to tie me down, cut me open, and transplant whatever that is into my chest. Carve the voice from my brain and replace it with the simplicity she presented me with when she pointed that gun in my face. Die or obey.