25. Everly

25

Everly

I didn't know how to use a bus.

The thought settled uncomfortably in my mind as I stared at my phone, trying to make sense of the public transportation app. Mom's house wasn't far, but it might as well have been across the country without a car.

I needed to talk to her.

Urgently.

But every search for routes and schedules ended in frustration. Southern Michigan seemed to have given up on the idea of buses entirely.

I tried calling Mr. Walker, but he hadn't answered. Which was to be expected. He must be busy.

I scrolled through endless pages, trying to piece together a coherent route, but nothing fit. It felt like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. Eventually, I accepted defeat and turned my attention to the Uber app.

"How hard can this be?" I muttered, opening it for the first time.

Navigating the app proved more challenging than I'd expected. The interface felt like an alien language—too many buttons, too many options. I tapped on Set Pickup Location and watched a tiny car icon spin aimlessly on the map.

After several minutes of fiddling and cursing under my breath, I managed to input Mom's address and request a ride. My phone buzzed almost immediately with a notification: Your driver is on their way.

I stepped outside, clutching my bag tightly. A chill breeze ruffled my hair as I waited by the curb, eyes scanning for the approaching vehicle. Minutes ticked by slowly until a grey sedan pulled up in front of me.

"Everly?" The driver leaned out the window, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone screen.

I nodded, opening the back door and sliding in.

"Hi," I said, fastening my seatbelt and settling into the worn leather seat.

He gave me a quick nod through the rearview mirror before pulling away from the curb. I watched familiar streets blur past, my mind racing with questions for Mom.

As we navigated through traffic, I tried to calm my nerves. It felt surreal, relying on a stranger to get me where I needed to go. But necessity outweighed discomfort today.

The car hummed quietly as we moved through the city streets. I watched the familiar landmarks pass by, my anxiety slowly ebbing away. But then, we approached an intersection where the driver should have turned left. Instead, he drove straight ahead.

"Excuse me," I said politely, leaning forward a bit. "I think you missed the turn."

The driver didn't respond. He kept driving, eyes fixed on the road ahead. My heart began to race.

"Excuse me," I tried again, a bit louder this time. "You need to take a left back there to get to my mom's house."

"I know where I'm going," he barked, his voice harsh and impatient.

I clenched my teeth, a wave of unease washing over me. Cooper's voice echoed in my mind, his words about the real world and how people would treat me if I didn't stand up for myself. But surely, I could be polite and still get my point across.

"Look," I said, more firmly this time, "I need to get to 57 Maple Street. You're heading in the wrong direction."

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. The car continued down the wrong street.

"57 Maple Street," I repeated, enunciating each word clearly. "Please turn around and go back."

The car veered away from the route to Mom's house and took an unfamiliar turn. My heart pounded harder with each passing second.

"Where are we going?" I demanded, my voice trembling.

"Shut up," he snapped, eyes cold and unyielding in the rearview mirror.

Panic surged through me as the surroundings grew increasingly unfamiliar. The car pulled up in front of a frat house, one I recognized from the campus tours. He parked, yanked open my door, and grabbed my arm with bruising force.

"What's going on?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady as he dragged me toward the building.

He slapped me hard across the face. Pain exploded in my cheek, tears springing to my eyes.

"I said, shut up," he snarled. "You got Zach into trouble because you ran and told Sinclaire. Now, you're going to pay."

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and sweat. Dim light barely illuminated the dingy room. Shadows of men loomed closer. One of them pushed me down onto a grimy couch, straddling me with an expression that turned my stomach.

"Please," I said, my voice cracking. "Please, don't."

My mind went numb, memories of Zach's attack crashing over me like a relentless wave. Back then, I hadn't understood what was happening until it was too late. But now, there was no mistaking the danger I was in. The threat loomed over me, tangible and immediate.

I had two choices—lie there and take it or fight back.

Fuck this.

There's my little killer.

The words ignited a spark within me. I knew I wouldn't win; the odds were stacked too high. But I wasn't going down without a fight.

As the guy straddled me, I twisted my body violently, using every ounce of strength to throw him off balance. He grunted in surprise, momentarily losing his grip. I took advantage of the opening and kneed him hard in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for air.

"Get off me!" I screamed, my voice raw with desperation.

He reached for me again, but I lashed out with my fists, hitting him wherever I could. His face twisted with anger as he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head.

"You little?—"

I didn't let him finish. Summoning all my strength, I brought my knee up again, this time aiming lower. His eyes widened in pain and fury as he released my wrists to clutch at himself.

I scrambled off the couch, adrenaline coursing through me. My vision blurred with tears and fear, but I couldn't stop now.

Another guy lunged at me from the shadows, and I grabbed an empty beer bottle from a nearby table. With a desperate cry, I smashed it against his head. The glass shattered, sending shards flying.

"Help!" I yelled as loud as I could manage.

More figures closed in around me, but their movements seemed sluggish compared to the frantic pace of my heartbeat. One grabbed at my arm; I swung the broken bottle wildly in response. He recoiled, a deep cut opening on his forearm.

I didn't know how long I could keep this up—my strength was waning fast—but I'd fight until the very end if it meant surviving this nightmare.

The room spun as I swung the broken bottle again, but this time my aim was off. One of the guys caught my wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting it until the bottle fell from my hand. Pain shot through my arm, but I bit down on my lip, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

"Get her down!" someone barked.

Before I could react, two pairs of hands grabbed me from behind, shoving me to the floor. My knees hit the hard surface with a jarring thud, and a sharp pain shot up my legs. I struggled against their hold, kicking and thrashing, but they were too strong. One guy pinned my arms behind my back while another pressed his knee into the small of my back, forcing me to stay down.

My chest heaved with labored breaths as I fought to get free. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, but I couldn't give up. Not now.

"Hold her still," one of them growled.

A fist connected with the side of my head, and stars exploded in my vision. The room seemed to tilt on its axis as pain radiated from the impact point. My ears rang, and for a moment, I couldn't hear anything but the pounding of my own heartbeat.

Another blow landed on my ribs, and I gasped for air, the wind knocked out of me. My vision blurred with tears as I twisted and turned beneath them, trying to find any opening to escape. Their laughter echoed around me, a cruel reminder of their dominance.

One guy grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back painfully. I cried out as he leaned down close enough for me to smell his rancid breath.

"You should've kept your mouth shut," he said with a sneer.

His words barely registered through the haze of pain and fear clouding my mind. I kicked out blindly, hoping to make contact with anything that would hurt them back. My foot connected with something solid—a shin maybe—and a satisfying grunt followed.

But it wasn't enough. More punches rained down on me—my stomach, my sides—each one driving the air from my lungs and making it harder to think straight. My body felt like it was on fire; every nerve ending screamed in agony.

Yet even through the overwhelming pain, one thought remained clear: I had to keep fighting.

So I did.