10. Iris

The roar of the crowd feels almost dull in my ears as I watch my stepbrother moving across the field like he owns it. He probably thinks he does. The stadium lights glint off his emerald and gold helmet, casting shadows that seem almost as dark as the ones lurking within him. I draw a shaky breath, letting it out slowly, trying to still the unease churning in my gut from last night's revelations. I both hate him and want him all at the same time, and no amount of analytical introspection will help me come to terms with that fact.

I can't shake the feeling of being trapped. If Lincoln decides to spill my secrets, my meticulously crafted image would shatter like glass on pavement.

"Come on, Blackwood!" someone yells from behind me, but I barely register the words. My mind is occupied with Lincoln's smirking face, and it's as if he's saying without words, "I have you, angel. You're mine."

He is power incarnate on the field, every muscle flexing under his fitted jersey as he dodges another tackle. The crowd erupts as he makes a break for it, but all I feel is the weight of his piercing gaze whenever he looks my way, a silent reminder of our twisted game. I don't do submission. Not even to the likes of Lincoln Blackwood.

Possession of the ball is turned over to the other team, whatever that means. I'm just eavesdropping on the people around me, but it has Lincoln sitting on the benches.

As the St. James quarterback launches the football through the air, time slows down. I see my window to escape, the moment when Lincoln is too preoccupied with the game to notice my absence.

Without a second glance, I rise from my seat, feigning a calmness I'm far from feeling. My heart hammers against my ribcage, as if begging to break free. I keep my head high, my steps measured. A casual observer would think I'm just another co-ed heading for a concession stand break.

"Excuse me," I murmur as I slip past legs and feet, my tone light, almost bored. But beneath the surface, my nerves are fraying like the hem of the jeans I usually never wear. There's a scent in the air—popcorn, sweat and something metallic, like the tang of blood. It's intoxicating, almost enough to drown out the stink of my own fear. Almost.

Reaching the concourse, I let out a harsh breath. The din of the crowd fades into a muffled roar behind me. Adrenaline surges through my veins, sharp and sweet. I should feel victorious, yet all I can think about is how Lincoln will react once he realizes I'm gone. I look behind me, half expecting him to be barreling toward me ready to tackle me to the ground. The twisted part of me that should never see the light of day is disappointed that he's not.

Will he be angry? Without a doubt. But anger doesn't necessarily equate to betrayal. I know the rules of this perverse game we're playing. He wants to keep me close, to remind me I'm under his thumb. But telling my father about my indiscretions? That would mean losing his most potent weapon over me.

So, I walk faster, the thud of my shoes on the concrete echoing like a timer counting down. With each step, I put more distance between myself and the boy who could be my ruin.

The air bites at my exposed skin as I step out from the shadow of the stadium, a stark contrast to the heat that's been steaming off me since I made my great escape. My phone feels heavy in my hand, like it's suddenly made of lead instead of sleek, lifeless technology. Contacts scroll under my thumb—a blur of names that mean next to nothing.

"Who even is there?" I mutter to myself. The answer is laughable—practically no one. My life? A carefully curated gallery of academic achievements and enough extracurriculars to make any Ivy League swoon. Friends? More like convenient acquaintances, all too busy chasing their own ambitions to notice mine are on the verge of crumbling.

Nicole's name pops up, her contact photo grinning with preppy-perfect teeth. It's a shot in the dark, but desperation makes for strange bedfellows. My fingers hesitate before tapping her number, each ring an echo of potential rejection.

"Hey, Iris! What's up?" Nicole's voice bursts through the line like she's just won the lottery, and I'm the winning ticket.

"Hi, Nicole. Listen, I need a favor," I start, trying to keep the quiver from my voice. "Could you give me a ride back to campus? I'm over at St. James for…" I trail off before I say too much. "My ride bailed on me."

"Of course!" she chirps, and relief washes over me, tainted only slightly by surprise. "I'm actually already out and not too far away. Are you at the library?" I roll my eyes because I should be at a fucking library right now.

"Yes! I'll just wait outside of the library," I say, a smile almost breaking through the fortress of my lips. I hang up, feeling reassured that Lincoln can't possibly leave his throne on the field to come after me now.

I vaguely remember where the library is, so it takes me a few minutes to find my bearings. Minutes tick by, each one a reminder of how vulnerable I am standing alone outside on a campus I have no business being on. Finally, a black car rolls up, its windows so tinted they might as well be painted on. The door swings open, revealing Nicole… and not Nicole.

"Hey, hop in!" she beams, gesturing toward the guy in the driver's seat—a stranger wearing a cocky grin that says he knows exactly what sort of cargo he's carrying. "This is Nick."

"Nice to meet you," I lie, peering into the car's interior, which smells like a mix of leather and something herbal, pungent, not entirely unpleasant. The dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree in a way that screams ‘look at me, I'm probably illegal'.

"Nick's got the hookup," Nicole adds, and I can't help but think she means more than just a friendly lift. My stomach tightens; getting into cars with unknown drug dealers isn't exactly chapter one of ‘How to Succeed Without Really Trying.'

"Right…" I say, my tone flat, my body hesitating at the boundary between the safety of the night air and the unknown territory within the car. My mind races, imagining the myriad of ways this could go south, each scenario more colorful and disastrous than the last.

But options are a luxury I don't have, and right now, the scent of freedom is laced with exhaust fumes and the faintest hint of danger. So, I slide into the backseat, telling myself it's just another calculated risk in the game of chess my life has become.

"Thanks for picking me up," I manage, the words feeling foreign in my mouth—gratitude, an unfamiliar currency.

"Anytime," Nick replies, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror a fraction longer than necessary, sending a shiver down my spine that's not entirely from the cold.

The ringtone slices through the tension like a scream in the silence of a horror flick. I flinch, my heart hammering against my ribs as if it's trying to break free from the cage of my chest.

"Shit," I hiss under my breath, thumb swiping the screen to silence the call without a second thought. Dad. The word alone is enough to conjure up images of his stern face, the tight line of his mouth when he's disappointed, which is pretty much always.

"Everything okay?" Nicole's eyes are wide with concern, the neon glow of streetlights playing across her features.

"Yeah, everything is great," I lie, trying to push the shaking in my voice back down my throat. My mind's racing—scenarios where Dad finds out I'm not buried in textbooks like the dutiful daughter I pretend to be.

"Boyfriend?" Nick's voice is casual, almost disinterested, but I can feel the way he's looking at me from the driver's seat. Assessing.

"My dad," I mumble, forcing a laugh that feels more like a choke.

"Big Brother always watching?" he quips, and there's a smirk in his voice that I want to hate but somehow can't. He gets it—the scrutiny, the pressure.

"Something like that." My fingers tap on the cool metal of the car door, a stuttered rhythm that matches the pounding in my skull. Options—or lack thereof—flit through my head like moths to a flame. Stay here and risk Lincoln's wrath or take the ride with Nick, the lesser of two evils. I'm painfully aware that both choices lead down roads paved with trouble.

"Look, Iris," Nick starts, and I brace myself for the sales pitch, "I don't know what your deal is, but you need to get back to campus, right?"

"Right," I reply, because what else is there to say?

"Then calm down and enjoy the ride." There's no malice in his voice, just the blunt-force trauma of logic. A challenge I can't deny because he's offering a solution, however imperfect.

With a resigned sigh, I sink into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin as I try to relax. The scent of pine air freshener assaults my nostrils, mingling with the faint whiff of tobacco and something sweeter, edgier. It's the smell of recklessness, of freedom tinged with danger, and it's intoxicating.

The car's interior is a stark contrast to the chaos I just left behind. Black leather seats that look like they've never been sat on, a dashboard so clean it could double as a surgical table. I mutter a half-hearted "thanks" to Nick, but my words hang awkwardly in the air, like an unwanted guest. I buckle up behind Nicole, feeling the cool leather against my athletic frame, and catch Nick's eyes on me in the rearview mirror. He lingers far too long, suggesting he sees more than just another passenger. His stare feels like a hand creeping along the scars on my back, unseen but invasive. It feels different than when Lincoln looks at me, and I suppose that's just further proof of how twisted up my brain is.

My phone buzzes, shattering the silence like a rock through a window. I glance at the screen, and it's like I can feel the weight of my father's disappointment before I even read the words.

Dad

Where are you? You should be studying.

The text reads, each word a leaden accusation. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating a lie or the silent treatment. Neither will shield me from the inevitable fallout.

I can feel beads of sweat forming at the base of my skull, and I'm grateful for the shadows in the car, hoping they're enough to conceal the fear that's probably written all over my face. The cadence of my heart quickens, my breaths shallow and sharp. I'm trapped in a glass case of anxiety, and each vibration of my phone is a crack threatening to shatter it.

The car's engine hums a low, steady rhythm as we merge onto the freeway, the city lights blurring past like streaks of melted crayons. Nicole's leg bounces nervously to the beat of whatever pop rock song is playing too loudly through the speakers.

"Nick," she snaps suddenly, her voice slicing through the bass like a knife, "eyes on the road, not on Iris."

I stiffen, the words hitting me sideways. I look straight through the horizon ahead, pretending I don't notice Nick's eyes flitting back to the road, his smirk visible even in the dim light of the dashboard. There's an awkward silence, thick enough to smother us, and I'm suddenly hyper-aware of every inhale and exhale filling the cramped space.

It's not my place to comment because I'm essentially the hitchhiker in this car of uneasy alliances. My lips press into a tight line, my default defense. I let the moment hang, unacknowledged, playing with the frayed edge of my watch strap instead.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. Silence stretches, but it's not comforting in the slightest.

"Anxiety's a bitch, isn't it?" Nicole's voice cuts through the quiet, laced with a bitterness that feels too familiar. My eyes snap open, and I see her reflection in the rearview mirror.

She glances back at me, her brown eyes reflecting a weariness I know all too well. "I get it. The shaking hands, the look of someone who's about to jump out of their skin. You think you're good at hiding it, but I can tell."

"Guess I'm not as opaque as I thought," I mutter, rubbing my palms on my jeans.

"Nick helps me deal," she confesses, a shadow passing over her face. "Not just with rides. With… other things."

"Ah." It clicks. The late-night rendezvous, the carefree attitude around a guy she barely knows.

My phone thrums against my thigh, which is nothing but a violent reminder that the world outside this car hasn't paused. I fish it out, and the screen lights up with Lincoln's name. A barrage of messages, each one more incensed than the last. I can almost hear his low growl, the clench of his fists.

Lincoln Blackwood

Where are you?!

Answer me!

IRIS!

"Shit," I whisper, my throat tightening. Each word from him is like a vise, squeezing until I can't breathe.

Nicole eyes me, silent, but her glance is enough. She knows what this feels like, to be in the grip of something you can't quite control, and just trying to keep your head above water.

"Turn it off," she suggests, nodding toward the phone.

"Can't. It's like shutting my eyes and hoping the monster disappears." I shake my head, the movement jittery. "Doesn't work that way."

"Maybe not," she says softly, "but sometimes you've got to shut the door on the monster for a little while. Just to catch your breath."

"Or to brace for the next round," I add, forcing a smirk that feels like it could shatter.

"Exactly." She grins, and it's the most genuine thing I've seen from her tonight.

"Round two. Ding ding." I mockingly hold up my phone like a boxer ready for another hit, bracing myself for the impact.

"Nick keeps me level," she murmurs, tapping her purse where a pill bottle clinks like an illicit lullaby. "Xanax. My secret anchor."

A bitter laugh escapes me because it doesn't escape me that she's brand new at St. Charles and has already found a dealer to latch onto. Pills offered up with the casualness of sharing gum. It's so absurd it almost circles back to sane. But sanity is a luxury I can't afford, not with my phone vibrating against my thigh like a warning siren.

"I understand more than you know." My hand trembles as I reach for my phone, Lincoln's texts blazing across the screen. The digital assault on my senses makes it hard to focus on anything else.

"Want one?" Nicole's question hangs between us, an offer wrapped in false concern and genuine desperation.

There's a war in my head. The good girl, the perfect student, the untouchable Iris Shelby doesn't pop pills to cope. But then again, that Iris isn't real, is she? Just a facade I'm fighting to keep intact while everything crumbles. I usually only do this at parties or in my dorm room and definitely not around people I don't really know.

"Isn't this how it starts?" I quip, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "One minute you're popping Xanax in a dealer's car, next thing you know, you're the star of your own tragic after-school special."

"Better than starring in your own horror story," Nicole retorts, and damn her for making sense.

My thumb hovers over the ‘decline' button on another call from dad. I could shatter, or I could float. Seems like an easy choice when framed like that.

"Fuck it," I say, snatching the pill from Nicole's outstretched palm. White and innocuous, yet promising the silence of my buzzing brain. I swallow it dry, the bitterness coating my tongue like a truth I can't spit out.

"Welcome to the club," Nicole smirks as I lean back and let the unease slowly dissolve into a dull numbness. A fake serenity wraps around me, but I cling to it like a lifeline. Because right now, it's all I have.

Nicole snatches my phone like it's a grenade about to detonate, thumb swiping with a manicured ferocity. The screen goes black, and the deluge of texts and calls halt, effectively cutting off the outside world like a guillotine blade.

"Trust me, you'll thank me later," she says, tossing the now silent device into her purse. Her words vibrate through the dense air, but even as I sag against the leather seat, I can't fully relax. It's a reprieve, sure—a stolen moment from the relentless current that is my life. But not the solution.

My heart still hammers in my chest, breaths shallow, despite the chemical calm spreading through my veins. My mind should be foggy, thoughts tangled up and sedated. But no, they're razor-sharp, honed on every little detail like the faint smell of marijuana clinging to Nick's side of the car, the soft hum of the car engine, Nicole's nervous tapping of her fingernails on the dashboard.

The darkness outside presses against the tinted windows, a reflection of the chaos I'm trying to contain within.

"I don't need saving, right?" I murmur to myself, tasting the irony.

Nick looks back at me again in the rearview mirror, lingering just a second too long almost like he's trying to peel back layers I didn't consent to uncover. It prickles my skin, this unwanted scrutiny, adding to the undercurrent of tension that's already threatening to pull me under.

"Easy there, Casanova." Nicole's voice cuts through the silence, a warning wrapped in sweetness. "You're making me jealous."

Nicole's biting words hang in the air, and I am aware for the first time that she might not be all easy-going sweetness.