by Keilan Shea
I grab her wrist and jam her finger harder into my chest. “You’re right. I am broken.” Then I yank. Mia trips—thanks to her uneven footing. I reach around her for Eve’s water bottle, and this time I spray her on purpose. The cool water gushes into her face as I squeeze the bottle until it whimpers a pitiful pop and loses its shape. “You’ve always been insecure, but while I broke, you became a bitch too.”
Mia holds her face as if it’ll prevent the gobs of makeup from seeping. It doesn’t. The runoff bleeds between her fingers and drips onto the floor. And it ticks.
“T-Teagan,” Sarah says among the spectators.
Mia screams and launches herself at me with fingers clawed. She gets my hair, an easy target since I haven’t had a chance to pull it back yet. The pressure reminds me of when Earnshaw had my hair. I scream, too, and tear Mia’s auburn curls from her ponytail. I tighten my grip to hold her in place and prepare my fist. I’m about to jab my knuckles into the space just below her rib cage when unbidden hands and arms restrain us both. They systematically extract us, prying fingers from hair. Suddenly, Coach Brown is dragging me to her office.
I flail, but fatigue overwhelms me. It was bound to eventually. I didn’t eat a scrap of food for breakfast or lunch. Now she has to deal with my deadweight, which can be surprisingly heavy even if there isn’t a ton to you these days.
“Maybe I was too hasty,” Coach Brown says. “I thought throwing you in would be good for you and the team. Teagan, it’s obvious you have a lot of anger to work through. I know cheer could be an effective outlet, but a team must stand united …”
She trails off, her grip on me loosens, and I’ve caught my breath. I give her one good shove and bolt for the nearest back door.
“Teagan!”
I run as if I’m a fugitive. I navigate behind and around the large rock foundations of the gyms and the school like one too. It isn’t the quickest route to the parking lot, but I cut through the meticulous landscaping to make up for it. I need to avoid the police officers stationed at the front doors and distract anyone else who might be following me long enough to hop into my car and speed away. Shouts pursue me, but their owners aren’t within sight when I hit blacktop. My Prius is, though, and it’s the unguarded prize. Perfect.
I raise my key fob when I’m positive I’m close enough for my car to respond. It unlocks and I dive onto the driver’s seat. A group of people appears in my rearview mirror, but I don’t take the time to analyze who they are. I lock my doors, buckle my seat belt, start the engine, and step on the gas. My heart lurches into my throat and my mind races with warnings as I peel out of the parking lot.
I’m going too fast.
I could kill someone.
But I need to get to a forest entrance. Near my house will be good, on that last stretch of road that leads nowhere else so that there won’t be anyone to stop me. It isn’t too far. I’ll abandon my car and let the forest take me. I’ll vanish. Soon everyone will forget I ever existed.
For the first time since the accident, I speed. My sweaty palms are slippery on the steering wheel, but they don’t come loose. I have a death grip on it because I am in control. Traffic isn’t bad. I’m vigilant. No one will die today. I drive too close to the curb, but it’s better than being near the motorcyclist in the next lane. Until I have to take a left turn. And another. Each one is a hammer pounding a nail into my skull.
Focus. You’re nearly there.
No flashing red and blue lights glare in my rearview mirror and only one other car is behind me when I’m on the road home. I drive until I bypass the last possible turn—which that car takes—leaving me with nothing but open road and the thickening forest. I look for an opening, somewhere my car can enter and hide inside without crashing into a quaking aspen. A little voice in my head reminds me to watch the road, or a crash may happen regardless. But no one’s on the road.
My gaze flickers anyway, fixing straight ahead, because that little voice won’t quit nagging. And for good reason. There, just a few feet in front of me, is a human being hanging out in the middle of the road. He’s waving his arms like a lunatic, but his legs aren’t moving. My heart crawls up my throat, but I swallow it back down as I slam on the brakes.
My car screeches and my tires smoke, but it isn’t enough. I made the wrong choice. I know this when my car smacks the guy with a dull thunk and he drops out of view. If I had swerved, I would have missed him entirely.
“No,” I say under my breath. I clutch my blouse, near my heart, searching for Mom’s locket. I wheeze as I open the driver-side door and fall out of the vehicle. “No,” I say again as I scramble onto the asphalt on my hands and knees. I killed him. Oh my God. Who is it?
I peek out from the side of my car, prepared to see a puddle of blood and dry-heave at the sight. But there is no blood. His chest is moving, and he’s sitting up. He’s sitting up!
“Are you okay?” I ask. Hell, I can’t see anything now. Tears bead in my eyes and fall down my cheeks without rest. It’s like peering through a watery film.
I have no idea who this guy is until he says, “God! She said you wouldn’t hit me.”
That’s when my tears freeze. His slicked-back hair and blocky face belong to someone I know. “William?”
My mind is slow to process when he tackles me. My left cheek grinds against asphalt and his elbow bruises my back, knocking the air out of my lungs.
“What are you doing?!” I gasp.
A feminine voice I don’t recognize replies, “Shut up, bitch.”
Pain bursts into my skull when a CRACK consumes my ears. The stimulus is unbearable for a moment, but then my senses darken. It’s cold now, like being encased in ice. Numbing. Like dying. I realize that this is okay. This is what I was running toward. So, I embrace the nothing and beg it to keep me.
Don’t reject me this time.
But, of course, it does. Light pierces the darkness as my consciousness blazes with the might of primal survival instincts. And more. The unmistakable timbre of Blake Earnshaw’s authoritative voice and his scorching touch jolt my heart. “Selene Miller. You must be GlitterKitten.”
Blake Earnshaw is a mystery. Just what the hell is going through his head? You can get a peek right now by signing up for Keilan's newsletter. Get an all-new chapter by clicking/tapping here (keilanshea.com/subscribe).
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Bonus Chapter
Blake Earnshaw is a mystery. Just what the hell is going through his head? You can get a peek right now by signing up for Keilan's newsletter.
Get an all-new chapter by clicking/tapping here (keilanshea.com/subscribe).
Keilan’s Books
Unraveling Blake Earnshaw
Book 1: The Rich Prick
About the Author
They say anyone can be redeemed. Let’s test that theory.
Keilan Shea writes mature YA/NA contemporary romance on the darker and more suspenseful side of the genre. Think sexy bad boys, girls who take no shit, and plots driven by dangerous secrets and games. Hold on to your seat and your heart because you’re in for a ride.
Keilan's website: keilanshea.com
