3. Oakley

Chapter 3

Oakley

M y head throbs with a dull, relentless ache as I slowly open my eyes. My vision is blurred, and everything around me is a hazy swirl of shadows and light. Panic washes over me in waves as I realize I don't recognize this room. The unfamiliarity tightens like a vise around my chest, and my heart races, pounding against my ribcage like a trapped bird.

"This can't be good. Gosh, Oakley how did you get yourself into this mess?" I whisper to myself, my tone shaky and foreign in this strange space. My mind races, desperately trying to piece together how I ended up here, but the memories are hazy, fragmented, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I feel trapped—like a mouse caught in a maze with no way out.

Sitting up, I notice something that sends a fresh jolt of panic through me. I'm not wearing the same outfit I had on at the party last night. Instead, a hoodie that isn't mine hangs loosely from my frame. My breath catches in my throat, clawing its way out in ragged gasps. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my already foggy vision. I can feel panic creeping in, and now my vision blurs for an entirely different reason.

"I only had a couple sips of my drink," I mutter, but the words do nothing to soothe the rising tide of fear. The sensation of not being in control of myself or my actions is overwhelming. I feel exposed, vulnerable, like a raw nerve. How could I have been so dang careless?

The room spins around me, the walls closing in. I struggle to find something familiar, something to anchor myself. There's nothing. Just unfamiliar furniture and dim, suffocating silence.

I try to grasp at the fragments of memory from last night. The party, the laughter, the music—all disjointed images that refuse to form a coherent picture. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out any semblance of rational thought. The fear claws at me, relentless and unyielding.

My thoughts are a chaotic jumble of panic and confusion. Just as I feel the panic tightening its grip, the creak of the door sends a jolt through me. My eyes dart to the entrance, where Jeremiah Blackwood stands, his green eyes widening with concern.

"Bunny, it's me," he says, his words a mixture of warmth and firmness that cuts through the fog in my mind. He steps closer, extending a hand toward me. His touch is grounding, something tangible that I've missed since the last time we saw each other, and it's everything I need right now.

My words tremble, barely above a whisper. "What happened last night? How did I end up here? Why are you looking at me like that?"

His expression softens, but there's an intensity in his gaze that makes my heart race for reasons beyond fear. Memories of our past. I had such a silly crush on him back then, back before my life was flipped upside down. He left me. He protected me all along and then he left me to fend for myself because he wasn't friends with my brother any longer. My anger, the resentment I have toward him comes crashing back, making it hard to breathe. I'm torn between wanting answers and wanting to bolt from the room, from him. I don't want him to know what happened to me those years he was out of my life.

"Bunny, you need to calm down for me," he murmurs, his hand steady on my shoulder. "You're safe now."

"Safe?" I echo, my tone tinged with sarcasm and disbelief. I'm mad at him and it has nothing to do with waking up in his room. I'm trying my hardest not to show it, and I'm failing miserably. "How can I feel safe when I don't even remember how I got here?"

" I brought you here," Jeremiah begins, choosing his words carefully, and I know him well enough to understand that he's trying to restrain his anger, too. "You were at the party, and things got out of control."

"Out of control?" My laugh is hollow, devoid of humor. "That's the understatement of the year."

"Look, bunny, you weren't in any state to get back to your dorm, especially not by yourself." His tone is measured, almost too calm, like he's trying to soothe a wild animal. "So, I brought you here so I could keep an eye on you."

"Here," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "Your room."

"Yes, my room in my house," he confirms, his tone unwavering. "I couldn't leave you alone like that."

"Why not? You've done it before." The question bursts out before I can stop it. The old wounds, the shattered friendship—they're all there, just beneath the surface.

Jeremiah's jaw flexes and I know I've hit a nerve. "Because I care about you," he says simply, his eyes locking onto mine. There's something raw and unguarded in his gaze, something that makes my breath hitch.

"Care about me?" I scoff, though my tone lacks conviction. "Since when?"

"Since always," he replies, the barest hint of frustration creeping into his words. "Despite everything that's happened between me and your brother."

"Everything that's happened," I mutter, shaking my head. Cutting me out of his life is more accurate, but I'm choosing to pick my battles because something else is really bothering me. "Who took my clothes off?"

His eyes flash with anger and hurt that I would all but accuse him. "Oakley. I didn't touch you. Not like that."

"Not like that?" My voice cracks, a tear slipping down my cheek. "Then why am I wearing…this?" I gesture to the pretty boy sized hoodie hanging loosely from my frame.

"Your clothes were all rumpled up from the tantrum you threw when I dragged you out of the party, and I hardly think sleeping in that dress would have been comfortable," he explains, his tone softening again.

The conflicting emotions swirl within me, and I can't get them to agree on which one I should feel first so they all refuse to settle.

Jeremiah must notice because he says, "Trust me or not," he says quietly, "I'm here. And you're not leaving until I know you're okay."

"I'm fine." I want the words to sound harsh, but they come out in a whisper, and end up feeling foreign on my tongue. Can I ever be fine in his presence?

"I know when you're lying. Something's up," he snaps, stepping closer. The scent of his musky cologne fills the air between us. "Why did you transfer to St. Charles? What are you hiding?"

Defiance ignites within me. My heart pounds against my ribcage, each beat echoing to me to resist him. "It's none of your business."

"None of my business?" he repeats, incredulous. His eyes bore into mine, searching for answers I'm not ready to give. "Everything about you is my business. I've always looked out for you."

"Really, Jeremiah?" I snort in disgust, shaking my head. "You're sadly misguided."

"Yes," he growls, stepping even closer. I can feel the heat radiating off him. "I need to understand why you're here."

My words are steady despite the turmoil inside me. "I was forced to transfer. That's all you need to know."

"Forced by who?" he presses, frustration clear in his words.

"That's none of your concern," I snap, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable. "Where are my things? I need to leave."

"You're not going anywhere until you tell me the truth," he says, blocking my path. The tension is suffocating, an insufferable force between us.

"Move," I say, pushing past my fear. I'm no match for Jeremiah Blackwood's massive frame when my head doesn't even reach his shoulders, but I'll pretend like I don't notice that fact. "I won't stay here another second."

"Oakley," he starts, but I cut him off .

"Where are my clothes, Jeremiah?" I demand, my tone rising. "I'm leaving."

"Tell me what happened," Jeremiah says, barely moving his body to block me from moving. "Oakley," he starts, but I cut him off the same way he did to me.

"Don't Oakley me, while I'm here in your room half-naked and with no memory of how I got here."

He snaps, his words sharp and accusatory. "Do you really think I'd do something to you while you were passed out?"

"I don't know you anymore, Jeremiah," I spit out, turning back to face him. "I trusted you once, and you completely let me down. How do I know what you're capable of?" I gesture toward his hoodie that I'm currently swimming in.

"Oakley, I already told you that I didn't touch you—" he snarls, his green orbs flashing with anger.

"How comforting," I retort, rolling my eyes. "What a gentleman you are, Jeremiah. Just let me leave."

"Don't tempt me, bunny. I can be the monster you want me so badly to be," he growls, frustration simmering beneath his calm facade. I've seen a protective side of Jeremiah before, but there's an edge to him now that makes my stomach flip.

Shaking my head, I implore him, "Just tell me where my things are."

"When did you become so stubborn?" he asks, exasperation creeping into his tone.

"When I learned the hard way that I'm on my own and that trusting people doesn't get you anywhere," I reply, my tone softening despite myself. I fidget with the hem of the hoodie, trying to keep my hands steady. My movements feel small and delicate, as if I am trying to subconsciously not entice the monster that could be in the room .

"You're impossible," he mutters, running a hand through his shorn hair.

"Maybe I am," I admit, my eyes searching his face for any sign of understanding. "But can you blame me?"

"Oakley…" he begins, his tone gentler now, almost pleading.

"You can't just run away because you're mad at me." Jeremiah sounds calm, measured, but there's an edge to it that makes my heart race.

"Run away? You think I'm running away?" I scoff, turning to face him fully. "You're the king of the disappearing act. I guess I always did look up to you, so maybe I learned it from you."

"Bunny, you know I had shit going on with my family and then..." He takes a step closer, and I can feel the tension crackling between us like static electricity. "Things were blurring and then the fight with Royce blew up out of nowhere. The only one who was going to get hurt was you."

"Don't call me bunny, I've let it slide, but it makes me sick to hear that from you now," I gesture around the room, my hand shaking slightly. "Whatever twisted game you're playing isn't going to make up for the fact that you told me you'd always be here, and you weren't. You left me just like Royce did. I chose you always."

"Twisted game?" he repeats, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You think I enjoy this, seeing you like this? You think I wanted to see you hanging all over some prick like he was the best fucking thing you've ever seen in your life?"

"Don't act all high and mighty now," I snap, my anger flaring up again. If it was anyone else, I wouldn't feel so dang comfortable speaking up. "You should have done what you did two years ago and left me alone. I don't need your pity. "

His voice rises, frustration seeping into his words. "You were a mess last night, Oakley. You could barely stand."

"That doesn't give you the right to—" I stop myself, breathing heavily, my mind racing with fragmented memories of the previous night.

"To what?" he challenges, stepping even closer. "To take care of you? To make sure you were safe?"

"Safe?" I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. "Is that what you call this? You played the hero and then waltz in here, calling me bunny like I'm supposed to fall at your feet and worship you like I used to. Those days were over last year, Jeremiah, and they'll never be back. Especially not because you randomly found me at a party. I'm doing fine on my own."

"You're not going to talk around it," he says, a hint of ironic humor in his words. "What happened last year? The last I checked you were thriving at your college doing fine without me or anyone else hovering over you."

"You were checking up on me? You cut me off, but you were watching everything I was doing? That's supposed to make me feel better? If it's even true." I spit out, my anger bubbling over. "You're such a?—"

"Careful, bunny," he interrupts, his tone low and dangerous. "I don't have the patience I had two years ago. We've been apart a long time." The way his eyes darken sends shivers up my spine. Jeremiah Blackwood used to look at me with a softness that he did not hold for anyone else. Now, though, he looks like he wants to devour me piece by piece until I only exist for him.

"Don't call me that," I snap at him again, my cheeks flushing with anger and embarrassment. When I hear the nickname that only he used to call me, it brings back so many feelings I'd much rather forget. "You lost the right to use that name a long time ago."

"Did I?" he asks, tilting his head slightly, his dimples showing as he pulls his mouth up into a tight smile. I always saw Jeremiah Blackwood as being different from his brothers. He was the kind one, the gentle one. Well, at least he was all of those things to me, but this morning I finally see what everyone else always said about him. He's cocky, arrogant, an always-gets-what-he-wants son of Robert Blackwood.

"I won't do this with you. You're bigger than me. Congratulations. You're bigger and badder than ninety-nine percent of the people at St. Charles," I say, my words trembling with rage and desperation and it doesn't help that I see his chest puff out like my try at sounding dismissive or condescending has only given him an ego boost. "That does not mean you can force me to stay here, and it certainly does not mean you can control everything I do."

"Control?" he laughs, a hollow sound. "If I wanted control, Oakley, you'd know it."

"Then what is it?" I demand, stepping closer until we're mere inches apart. "What do you want from me, Jeremiah?"

"Everything," he whispers, his eyes darkening with intensity. "I want everything, Oakley."

"You're just taunting me at this point," I say, my tone firm despite the fear gnawing at my insides. "If I was so damn important to you, we wouldn't be meeting at a party randomly that you were no doubt going to pick up a jersey chaser from."

Jeremiah speaks softly, his gaze piercing through me, "You're more important than you realize."

"Stop it," I plead, feeling the walls closing in. "Stop trying to twist this. Just let me go. "

"Not until you tell me why you transferred to St. Charles," he demands, his words tinged with desperation.

"That's none of your business," I retort, my heart pounding against my ribcage.

"Make it my business," he urges, his eyes searching mine. "Tell me the truth, Oakley."

"Why should I?" I challenge, my tone wavering. "So, you can use it against me?"

"Because I can't fix it if I don't know what it is," he says, his words filled with raw emotion. "And I need to understand."

"Understand what?" I ask, tears welling up in my eyes. "That I'm broken? That I've been through hell and back?"

"Yes," he admits, his tone barely above a whisper. "I need to know, Oakley. Please." Jeremiah finally takes a step toward me, and I can feel the heat radiating off his large frame. I'm not a tall girl, but next to him I feel miniature.

"Shut up," I whisper, hating the way my body reacts to him, the way my pulse quickens, the way my skin tingles. I have not had this reaction to another man since he left me two years ago. I tried to be happy, I really did, but then my world got flipped upside down and I've been in survival mode ever since. With Royce and Jeremiah gone, that left my parents who can only be bothered to participate in a distracted, dismissive phone call once a month. On one hand, I'm livid with Jeremiah, but having him this close and not feeling like I'm going to be swallowed whole by my anxiety is something I didn't anticipate but am grateful for. "I can't do this right now. I need you to let it go."

"Not until you tell me why," he insists, his hand reaching out to touch my arm. His fingers are warm, firm, a stark contrast to the cold fear gripping my heart.

"Why does it matter?" I ask, my voice breaking. "Why do you care?"

"Because I've never stopped giving a shit about you," he confesses, his eyes locking onto mine. "And because I need to protect you. I need to know why you're so scared. I need to know why you were at that party. That's not something the Oakley I knew would have done. Like it or not, you're mine to look after."

"That's bullshit," I spit, pulling away from his touch. "You don't own me, Jeremiah. You never did."

"That's open to opinion, I suppose," he concedes, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I won't let you walk away without knowing the truth."

"Then maybe it's better if we don't see each other again," I say, my voice trembling. "Maybe it's better if we just forget everything."

"Is that what you really want?" he asks, his eyes searching mine. "To forget?"

"Yes," I lie, my heart aching with the weight of the unspoken words between us. "It's exactly what I want." I sit back on the bed, pulling at the sheets as if they were some sort of security blanket. They smell like him, and I don't know if I want to sigh or cringe. I hate feeling this way.