Page 8 of Wicked Scorn
“Shut up and help me,” I snap, my tone harsher than intended. But there’s no time for Penn’s comedic bullshit.
“Alright, alright,” Penn chuckles, but there’s an edge to it—a hint of excitement that’s unsettling. He flips his hat backward, ready to help me clean this shit up. He steps around the truck, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the tattoos snaking up his arms. The truck drives away and if I thought for one minute it was someone who would say something I’d question it, but whoever dropped my brother off has clearly been vetted by him.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say, bending down to grab Brock by the ankles. His body is heavier than I anticipated, dead weight that pulls at my muscles.
“On three,” Penn says, taking hold of Brock’s shoulders. “One…two…three.”
We heave him up; the effort drawing a grunt from both of us. The sound of Brock’s lifeless body hitting the bed of the truck is sickening, a dull thud that seems to echo in the stillness of the night.
“Good riddance, fucker,” Penn mutters, brushing his hands off on his jeans. He turns to me, that sly grin back in place. “You gonna be okay, pretty boy?”
“Just get it done,” I reply, my voice tight. “I need to get back to the house.”
“Don’t worry,” Penn says, giving me a mock salute before climbing into the driver’s seat of Brock’s truck. “I’ll take care of everything. You go play knight in shining armor.”
“Fuck off, Penn,” I shoot back, but there’s no real anger in it. Just exhaustion.
He laughs, the sound carefree and almost jarring given the circumstances. “I gotta go see a man about a junkyard.”
With a final sarcastic salute, he drives off into the night, the taillights fading into the distance. I stand there for a moment, the silence pressing in once again.
The urgency to get back to my bunny gnaws at me, driving me forward. I swing my leg over the bike seat, the engine roaring to life beneath me.
I throttle the bike, as blood still pumps hot in my veins, and I can’t shake the image of Brock crumpling under the bat’s brutal swing. The rush was intoxicating.
The whips at my face, seeping into my helmet and making my eyes water a bit. I need to get back to her. To make sure she’s safe.
I kill the engine and glide to a halt as I pull up to the house. Silence envelops me, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. Every creak of the wood as I push open the door sounds so loud.
I walk across the foyer and up the stairs before I walk into my bathroom.
I strip off my clothes, the scent of sweat and blood clinging to them. They hit the floor with a thud.
“Fuck,” I hiss, stepping into the shower. Hot water pelts my skin, washing away the tension in my body. Steam swirls around me, thick and suffocating, but also cleansing. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, washing away the grime.
The water mingles with the remnants of blood on my hands, turning pink before swirling down the drain. I scrub harder, nails digging into my skin, trying to erase any evidence. The scent of iron fades, replaced by the sterile aroma of soap.
I turn off the water, the sudden silence almost deafening.Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the shower, droplets still clinging to my skin.
I push open the door to my bedroom, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on me. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting a warm halo around Oakley’s sleeping form. She lies curled up under the covers, her golden hair splayed out on the pillow.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face. The adrenaline has left me, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. Each step feels like I’m trudging through quicksand.
“Rem?” The word is a whisper, barely cutting through the thick silence of the room. My heart skips a beat, and I freeze. Did she wake up? No, she’s probably just murmuring in her sleep.
“Shh, bunny, it’s okay,” I murmur softly, slipping into bed beside her. The mattress dips under my weight, and she instinctively shifts closer, her warmth seeping into me. I feel a flicker of something—peace, maybe—as I watch her breath steadily.
“You’re safe now,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. Her steady breaths are a balm to my nerves, each exhale grounding me.
“Why’d you have to get mixed up in this shit, Oak?” I ask quietly, not expecting an answer. The memory of Brock’s bloodied face flashes before my eyes, but I force it away, focusing instead on the gentle rise and fall of Oakley’s chest.
“I missed you, Rem, but you’re always gone in the morning. I wish my dreams could last forever.” Her tone is tinged with a sleepy confusion.
Chapter 3
Oakley
My 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.
