“Long story short, Phil took Hazel and my best friend. I’ll explain when I get there.”
I pull the phone back as a long line of curses almost burst my eardrum before silence extends down the line.
“You said you would keep her safe,” he mutters.
“I know,” I growl as my hand tightens on the wheel. “I failed.”
I end the call. All that anger bubbling back up again has me slamming my phone down in the cup holder. I swore to Bobby I’d keep Hazel safe. That was the only way he’d help me get her out of town and make sure she was far from where Phil could find her—and out of that bedroom she had trapped herself in, reliving that shit every day. Her being there wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t safe. I promised her that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her, that I would find him and take care of it. I failed them both, miserably. Now Hazel and Joseph will suffer by Phil’s hand, and it’s all my fault. I never should have left town. I should have confronted Hazel when I found the formula and ended that shit then.
Planning in hindsight’s a bitch. Not gonna happen again. This time, when I find him, I’m gonna fucking kill him. Shoot first and fuck the questions, because,quite frankly, I’m fucking tired of them.
HAZEL
The sound of metal slamming against metal makes me come to, and my head ache. My lids are so heavy and sticky that opening them feels like peeling tape apart. I don’t have control over any part of my body, and my head is foggy. The room smells funny, like chemicals, and it makes my stomach roll. A groan slips through my lips as I try to keep myself from vomiting. My head falls to the side, and a spot on the back of my skull pulsates in time with my heart, throbbing harder as the beat increases.
I do the whole breathe-in-through-your-nose-out-through-your-mouth routine, but the stench of chemicals in the air makes my nausea worse and my head swim more. Instead, I take stock of what I can figure out, and focus on that while getting my bearings. I’m lying on something hard, with little cushion, that has my stiff body hurting. An old, flat, scratchy pillow is under my head barely giving any support at all. It smells musty, with a hint of body odor.
Where the fuck am I?
Where was I last?
What day is it?
I struggle to open my eyes and get some answers, but instantly stop when I hear footsteps on the opposite side of the room. As each step brings whomever closer, Iattempt to calm my already labored breathing to a slower pace and try my damnedest not to move or even twitch. My heart slams into my rib cage as if it’s a wild animal eager to break loose from captivity. I take one last deep breath to still the racing before the footsteps come to a halt near me. I swear my heart stops with them.
“Is she awake?” A muffled voice comes from across the room. My ears either aren’t working properly, or the person has something over their mouth distorting their voice. Either way, it terrifies me to know people are waiting for me to wake up, and I don’t know who they are or what they want.
I think back to the last thing I can remember, but everything is so fuzzy I’m uncertain of where to begin. Nothing makes sense and forcing myself to form a thought only confuses me more.
A large palm presses against my forehead. If I weren’t so out of it, I would’ve jumped out of my skin. Thankfully, my body is so numb I can’t react and continue to lie still. The backs of the same fingers press against my cheek, and it dawns on me he’s checking my temperature.
Why would he be doing that? Have I been sick?
“No. She should be soon.”
My heart that once felt dead a moment ago trips over itself at the familiarity of the voice. I want to push myself away, curl up and become unnoticeable. There’s no reason why he should be here, or why I shouldbe here with him. Fear trickles through my body, causing my nerve endings to awaken from the adrenaline now coursing through me. The throbbing in my head gives a warning to slow down; there’s not much I can do now anyway.
But it’s too late. My stomach lurches and bile rises in my throat, burning my esophagus. I gag on the putrid tasting acid before hands grab my shoulders and pull my upper body over the edge of the cot. Dry heaves rack my body until my stomach is able to purge whatever it was that made me ill. I feel better, and I’m a little more alert, even though my body is weaker.
Finally able to crack my eyes open, I blink away the crusty grime coating them. It takes a moment to get my focus, but when I do, a cracked concrete floor covered in the liquid remnants of my stomach is within view, along with the legs of someone squatting in front of me. A cool cloth nears my face and swipes over my mouth and chin, removing the stringy vomit left behind. It makes my stomach lurch again, but I swallow it down and get it under control.
A hand sweeps through my knotted hair, pushing it back and collecting it at the base of my neck. It’s not a friendly gesture. The grip tightens as the hand wraps my hair around its wrist and pulls my head back slowly.
I close my eyes in fear, yet I can’t help but open them when he stops pulling my head back, revealing the one person I never wanted to see again. His ice blue orbs study mine, getting colder as he registers the terror reflecting back to him.
“Hello, lover.” Phil’s whispered endearment makes my skin crawl.
I make a weak attempt to pull out of his grasp, but he only yanks me closer to him. His mouth tugs down in a tight frown, and his nostrils flare. Minutes tick by as we stare at one another, waiting for what, I’m not sure. I dare not move my gaze from his. I fear the moment I do he will strike, and I will miss my opportunity to attack.
His other hand comes up and cups my face, making me flinch in surprise. I try to cover it quickly, make it seem like anything except fear, but he saw my face. The hand in my hair yanks my head back as far as it will go, causing my head to pound in response. The bile rises again before I even have a chance to register I’ll be sick, and I start choking on it. He stands and leans over me, forcing my head to remain still as he watches me squirm and drown on my stomach acid. My lungs burn from the liquid seeping into them, along with the lack of oxygen. Melting. That’s what I imagine my lungs are doing. They are melting.
The deep void in his stare tells me all I need to know. Phil doesn’t love me. He never did. He’s in love with the idea of having control over me. Having me at his beck and call. My life is in his hands, and my passing will be of his choosing. All of it is written in his dead stare, which says nothing and everything all at once.
Concern flickers over his face, and I know he’s returned to reality. He hurries to pull me back over the edge of the bed as my vision blurs and spots. I must be losing it completely, because, for a moment, Iswear I saw guilt and compassion cross his features. But I know better than that. This man doesn’t know compassion. Hell, the only thing he knows about either is what the definition is. Even then, I still don’t think he comprehends it. His hand comes down hard in the middle of my back, helping to push the vomit from my lungs.
I spew what I can, and suck oxygen greedily, only to feel my airway constrict. My high-pitched wheezing freaks me out even more as I struggle to breathe and claw at my throat and chest. Phil wraps himself around me and rubs my back to soothe me. It does anything but soothe. His hand touches every spot he had previously tortured and pushes harder on the worst of them, as if he’s reminding me of what he’s capable of. Like I need a reminder of what he did. I see it every single day. I feel it every fucking day. When I can finally breathe, he holds a cup with a straw to my mouth. I sip on the water, hoping not to choke again.
He reclines on the cot and pulls me back against his chest. I stiffen in his hold as his fingers trail over my skin. I refuse to break the silence. I refuse to appear weak, but I can’t help the shudder of disgust and fear that rips through my body at his touch. Phil’s form of compassion is intimidation, and in my state, right now, it’s creepy and scary as hell not knowing what’s coming next. At one point in time, I would’ve said he was predictable and boring. Oh, how very wrong I was. He’s proven that time and again.
