Page 48 of Unmanageable

I turn my head on the pillow, looking at the dark outline of her profile. She hasn’t moved an inch, her face still turned resolutely toward the wall.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask gently.

“Because it’s stupid.” She sighs. “And because I’m the one who was supposed to handle the hotel. I should have checked the confirmation twice. I should have known.”

“Scottie, it’s a broken system link. It happens. You don’t have to be perfect twenty-four hours a day. The world isn’t going to end because we have to sleep in a sketchy cabin for six hours.”

“You don’t get it,” she mutters. “If I’m not perfect, things fall apart. The contract gets dropped. I don’t… I don’t have a backup plan, Cash.”

“You have me,” I say, the words slipping out before I can analyze them. “Even if you lose the contract, even if you put us in a ditch, I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t move, but the shallow rhythm of her breathing slows down. She lets out a long, quiet sigh, her forehead resting lightly against the wooden paneling of the wall.

“Shut up, O’Connell,” she whispers. “Go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Sharky.”

***

I’m awake before I’m even conscious.

It’s not loud, but it’s the most violent sound I’ve ever heard. It’s a ragged, desperate gasping, like someone is being strangled in their sleep.

I bolt upright, my heart jumping into my throat.

“Scottie?” I say, my voice thick with sleep. “Scottie, hey. Wake up.”

I reach out a hand, instinctively trying to hold her. The second my fingers touch her skin, she lets out a sound that I will never, ever forget. It’s a scream that isn’t a scream—a choked, guttural sob of pure terror.

She lunges away from me, hitting the headboard with a sickening crack and scrambling toward the corner of the bed. The crack of her skull against the wood is sharp enough that my stomach drops. She doesn’t even react to the pain—which is somehow worse.

She just folds in on herself like she’s trying to disappear into her own bones. She’s huddled in a ball, her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes wide and staring into the darkness.

“Scottie? Hey, I’ve got you—Scottie, wake up, it’s just a—”

“Don’t,” she hisses.

The sound is so raw it feels like it’s stripping the skin off my own chest.

“Don’t touch me. Get off. Get away from me.”

I freeze. My hands are up in the air, palms out, like I’m being held at gunpoint. My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I’m actually dizzy.

“It’s Finn,” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s just Cash, Scottie-girl. You’re in Philadelphia. It’s just us. Nobody is touching you. Look at me.”

Her eyes are darting around the room, frantic and glassy. She’s clutching her own shoulders so hard her nails are probably drawing blood.

Her lips are moving around words that never make it out. A frantic shake of her head. No. No. No.

One hand claws at the collar of her shirt, fingers fumbling against the fabric like she can’t get enough air.

Slowly, painfully, the fog in her eyes begins to clear.

She blinks, and for a second, she looks right at me. And the shame I see in them—the absolute, crushing humiliation—hurts worse than a hundred-mile-an-hour puck to the throat.

“I’m…”

She swallows.