Page 89 of Lucky 14

I picture Nellie up against thirty of my dads, and the thought is enough to make me physically ill. For the third time tonight, I wonder where I left my fucking vape. If someone stole it, I swear to god…

Oakley snatches up a notepad and starts scribbling. We’re in his room. He insisted that she might come back once she realizes it’s not safe. Curiously, I glance over his shoulder. He’s scribbling down the time and…

Manson gave me a weird look in the hall. Does he know?

I frown. Manson is one of Wyatt’s trusted men, and he’s known to stay by himself. How does Oakley know him?

A rip of unexplainable jealousy tears through my gut, spilling out all the shame that’s been building there. Suddenly, I’m washed in all the negative emotions that have been spilling off Oakley, and they’re so powerful I feel like I can’t breathe. I need my vape, or alcohol, or something. My chest is so tight, and I grab him by the back of the neck, guiding him to the bed.

“Hey,” he protests, but I just shove him, and he catches himself by the hands, back to me. I plaster myself to him before he can move, gripping him around the chest and squeezing. There’s too much negative here. So much that neither of us can breathe, so I do the only thing I know how to: I force bad feelings away by replacing them with happy feelings.

Holding Oakley still with one hand, I trace my other hand down his torso, down to his pelvis, rubbing along the place there that I know can take away the worries.

“Kyan.” Oakley stiffens.

“Let me make you feel better,” I mutter into his ear. He flinches away, but I hold him steady.

“No, Ky.” His hands grip the bedsheets as my hand rubs the life back into his stiffening dick. His ass brushes against my own dick, waking it up. Oakley’s ass is right here, and I imagine him with no pants on, bent over, quivering, waiting for my dick to slide in. That image is enough to chase away the negative emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

And then Oakley rips away from me, whirling. It’s like he takes the good feelings with him, and I’m left standing there, alone with the guilt.

Frustrated, I take a step toward him. “Let me take it away.” The need for it to go away hums through my system, making me damn near twitchy.

Oakley’s face is red, but he stares me down, muttering something so softly I don’t hear it.

“What?” I ask, grabbing for his shirt to rip it off so I can see his pretty, tattooed chest.

He just bats my hands away. “I don’t deserve for it to go away!”

I blink at him.

“I’m a bad person, Ky.” Oakley won’t meet my gaze now. He just sits on the bed, running his hands through his hair.

Annoyance flares hot under my skin, and I snap, “You think anyone here is a good person, mousey? Why do you care?”

His gaze darts to mine, and he holds it, angry. There’s too much here, too much…everything. Snatching up his jaw, I force him to look me in the eyes with those pretty blues. Those tortured pretty blues that reach right into my soul and call me out. That look at me and see me for who I am: a shit ass person who runs every chance they get.

Oakley doesn’t respond, and I just grip him hard enough that those pouty lips part. I have an odd urge to plead with him. To plead with him to run with me. To let me touch all over his body and pretend like none of this is happening. Then that desperation turns angry.

Oakley needs to let me help him this way. There is no surviving otherwise.

Unbidden, the feeling of the cool water from my pool pops into my head. The silence that comes with almost drowning. The warm fuzziness that comes from little white pills. The only escape from this reality. A reality Nellie taught me, and then she just…disappeared. Never been able to track her down after all these years. I assume one of her boyfriends got hold of her in a permanent kind of way.

Fear, desperation, and disgust rip through me, and I shake, trying to come back to reality. Then guilt follows closely after. Guilt that I couldn’t help Nellie the way she helped me. Guilt that I survived and she…didn’t.

Oakley’s warm skin presses against my fingers.

“Why?” I demand again, roughly, shaking him a little. Why does he insist on suffering when he could escape with me?

“Because!” Oakley snarls. “Maybe if I were good, they wouldn’t leave me!”

The room is silent for a beat, then Oakely’s cheeks flush even more pink than they already are. He yanks his face away from my grip.

For a second, I’m lost. “They?” I ask, then unreasonable jealousy hits me. Is this about Holli? Manson?

My body responds like he hit me, leaning away from him. Normally, I don’t give a fuck. Why the hell am I giving a fuck? Giving a fuck is dangerous, and I can already feel the flood doors opening and a wash of all kinds of emotions I try to keep at bay roaring in.

I’m starting to lose it, my heart rate beating fast and my fist clenching, starting to spiral into that blackness that comes when I lose control.