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)
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “Wrong turn.”
Her eyes squint, scrutinizing me. “I find that hard to believe.”
“How do you figure?” I ask, defensive.
“This hallway is at the opposite end of where a player would ever be, so the fact that you’re in here feels pretty targeted. Are you following me?”
I scoff. “Why would I be following you?”
“No idea. Just asking.”
“No. I took a wrong turn. That’s all.”
“Yeah, okay. Well, on that note, new guy, I have to go.” She starts walking toward the door but stops in her tracks. “Oh, no.”
I rub my brow, getting whiplash from this conversation. “What?”
“Tell me you didn’t close the door.”
I follow her gaze to the now closed door. “I did. So what?”
“No.” Her hands shoot to her scalp, tugging at her thick hair. “No, no, no.”
“What’s the problem?” I inquire, sensing her rising panic.
She tosses her hands up. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“The door is broken.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “So what?”
“Not so what.” She shakes her head, beginning to pace, not even looking at me. “We’re trapped in here.” Her voice rises, urgency creeping in.
“Now you’re just being dramatic,” I say, trying and failing to lighten the mood.
“Yeah? Why don’t you try to open it?” she challenges, finally peering over her shoulder with an arched eyebrow.
So I do just that.
I stride over to the door, my hard steps echoing in the small space as my shoes clap against the concrete floor.
Once I’m standing in front of the door, the possibility that she’s right starts to sink in. I have a game soon. I can’t be late. There’ll be hell to pay if I am.
I reach my hand out, my fingers grasping the cold metal, and try to turn the knob.
Nothing.
It won’t move.
It doesn’t even budge.
A flash of brown catches my eyes. I pivot to see what it is. Her hair. It sways with the movement of her body.
I’m not sure what I’m witnessing.
Her tiny hands fist.
Her lips move fast, stumbling over incoherent mutters.
Is she shaking?
Fuck.
2
Molly
I take a deep breath. Not that it helps.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t breathe.
The air feels dense around me, reminding me of the early morning fog when it clings desperately to the windshield of a car.
Why are the walls closing in?
The storage closet isn’t small.
This shouldn’t be happening.
I thought I was better. I’m not.
A heart shouldn’t race this fast.
I drop down to the floor, my legs no longer able to hold the weight of my body.
A strange, metallic scent clogs my nostrils, and my ears start to ring.
Cue the dizziness.
I press myself down lower until my head kisses the concrete. Invisible hands tighten around my heart, constricting the organ in my chest.
I’m trapped.
Again.
Always trapped.
“You need to breathe.” An unfamiliar voice breaks through my haze. “Come on. Inhale.”
I shake my head back and forth.
“I promise you can,” he coos.
I try. I really do. But my breaths still come out in short, frantic gasps.
It’s pointless. I’m going to die in here.
“It’s okay. You can do it.”
The space around us feels dark, and the ringing in my ears intensifies as I search for something—anything—to calm me.
“Take a slow inhale for me.”
I do what he says, allowing him to guide me.
“That’s good. Now, slowly exhale.” The voice is closer now, almost as if he’s beside me.
“I can’t.”
“Yet you are.”
I can’t help but let out a shaky laugh.
“See? Even laughing is breathing.”
I hear movement, and then I feel his warmth. He must be right beside me, and that makes my heart beat even faster.
“Shh.” Rough fingers touch my hand. “In. And out.”
I hesitate at first but eventually follow his lead.
“In. Out.”
The tightness in my chest loosens. It’s definitely better than moments ago.
“Can you open your eyes?”
I shake my head, immediately dizzy from the movement. “No.”
“Come on, Molly. Please.”
His smooth baritone as he says my name forces an eyelid open.
I stare at him out of one eye. “You do know who I am.”
“You gave me your name,” he points out.
Shit. I totally forgot. I hate that I get like this. Panicked. Messed up. Unable to push myself out of it.
“You didn’t need to, though,” the new guy, whose name I’m still not privy to, admits. He squints, and small lines form at the sides of his temples. “Of course, I know who you are.”
“And you? Do you have a name?”
“Hudson Wilde.”
Hudson.
I realize he gave it to me earlier as we argued. He held his hand out, and I didn’t even shake it. I almost feel bad about it. Almost.
Consider it the price of admission for staring at my ass.
Which, to be fair, I would’ve enjoyed, since he is hot. But he caught me at a bad time. Or rather I caught him at a bad time. It’s game day, the closet must be a zillion degrees, and I absolutely loathe enclosed spaces.
If Hudson remembers that he already gave me his name, he doesn’t call me out on my panic-induced memory lapse. He just helps me ride this out, patting my hand every now and then.