Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“There,” he says, pointing at a run-down building up ahead.
The gas station looks like it’s been abandoned for years. The paint on the building is faded and cracked, and some od the windows are boarded up.
Hudson shoves his phone into his pocket, the picture of relaxed. “This looks promising.”
“Seriously? Are we looking at the same place?”
“Got any better options?”
“I mean, no. But this place looks like it belongs in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
“The only other choice is starring in Twister, and not in an epic Glen Powell sort of way.”
“I feel like you’re more Bill Paxton.”
“While I loved that man, I’d end up being the random guy nobody remembers—the one who gets sucked into a tornado before anyone learns his name. So come on. Let’s go.”
I park as close to the entrance as possible and hesitate. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
Hudson is already out of the car before I can unbuckle my seat belt. “It’s safer than out here.” He tosses open my door and holds out a hand, motioning for me to hurry up. “Come on.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, brushing past him as I climb out.
“Sure you are,” he mutters, following close.
The moment I step outside, I’m drenched. The wind batters me so hard I stagger.
Without asking, Hudson snatches my hand and drags me toward the building. “Let’s go.”
He sprints toward the door, and I follow, struggling to keep up.
Luckily, the door is glass, which should be easy to break into. Hudson seems to think the same thing as he grabs something from the ground and bashes the glass above the knob.
I watch as he pulls his sleeve over his hand, then reaches in to turn the deadbolt. A second later, the door creaks open, and we dash inside.
The air in the gas station is stale and musty, thick with neglect.
I wrinkle my nose. “This place is disgusting.”
“It’s not the Ritz.” Hudson walks farther into the building, using his phone’s flashlight to guide him. “But it’ll do.”
The stench of oil clings to the surface and tickles my nose. This is bad.
Stop that thought.
Just because it smells doesn’t mean we’re in danger. We’re safe, for now—or at least safe from the rain and wind.
I cross my arms, leaning against the counter as he checks the back rooms. My pulse is still racing, but I can feel it starting to slow. His calm demeanor infuriates me, though I can’t deny that it’s also grounding.
He reappears a moment later, brushing cobwebs off his jacket. “No basement, but the walls are solid. We’ll be fine here.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“You good?” His gaze softens just enough to make me uncomfortable.
“Yeah.” I look away. “I’m fine.”
I don’t believe my own words.
I stare at the tiles instead, willing the storm to go away.
A scraping noise catches my attention. I glance over to find Hudson dragging furniture toward the door, forming a makeshift barricade.
As if that’ll stop a tornado.
The space is small, and there’s nowhere to hide—or at least, I don’t think there is. Hudson already confirmed there’s no basement.
The lights are off, and the interior feels suffocating and eerie. Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to stop trembling, but the blaring sirens in the distance make it impossible.
I start to pace back and forth. Nervous energy winning over.
“Will you stop that?” Hudson grunts, nodding toward me. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”
“Sorry, Hudson, I didn’t realize my existential crisis bothered you.” I whip my soaked hair off my shoulders. Beads of water spray my face.
“There she is.” He turns to look at me. “The real you. Aren’t you tired of pretending to be perfect all the time?”
“Perfect? You don’t even like me, so why would you care what I am?”
“True,” he admits with a shrug. “But your brother would kill me if I let you spiral into whatever this is.” His gaze softens, just barely. “So maybe . . . don’t?”
The wind chooses that moment to howl louder, shaking the windows. My chest feels tight. Like the pressure building inside me mimics the pressure of the storm raging outside.
Each breath comes faster. Shallower.
I can’t pull in enough air.
I can’t breathe.
I’m dying.
“Stop it.”
Hudson’s smirk fades. “Molly?”
My knees buckle slightly, and I reach for a shelf for support.
“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” I choke out. “What if it’s not enough? What if—”
He shakes his head. “Stop that thought right there. It will be.”
I can barely hear him over the sound of my own pulse.
“We’re okay. I’ve got you.”
My breath hitches as I look up at him.
My body trembles harder, the fear overwhelming me. “I think I’m dying—”
Hudson crosses the room in two long strides, grabbing me by my shoulders.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” His voice is low, steady, more commanding than comforting. “You’re not dying. You’re panicking. Big difference.”
My eyes lock on his. “You don’t get it—”