Page 32 of Freestyle (Boys of Frampton U #2)

Rowyn

I t’s been days since I heard from either of them, Gray or Nix. No texts. No blackmailing as I pass through the quad. No carefully timed insults wrapped in silk and sandpaper. Just... nothing .

I hate that I miss it. The tension, the way Gray’s eyes would track me like I was something worth watching, even if it was with a wicked smile on his face. The way Nix always had something cruel-but-clever to say, just loud enough for me to hear. It twisted me up inside. Still does.

Part of me exhales. Maybe they finally got bored, and moved on to someone else to corner and toy with.

But then there’s the other part, the one that won’t stop bracing for the next hit because silence from anyone never means peace.

It means buildup. Storm clouds on the edge of the horizon pretending to be sky.

Have they really let me go? Or are they just changing tactics?

Now that they’re gone, it’s like part of my day fell silent. Empty in a way it shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t want to be filled with that noise. That heat. That edge.

What kind of person misses the people who made her feel caged? What kind of girl wishes they’d look at her again, even if it could ultimately get you burned?

Maybe the kind who’s only ever been wanted for what she could give, never truly seen for who she is.

Frank let me have my job back. I pleaded, promised, practically begged, and he agreed, with one condition; if either of them so much as looks at the threshold while I’m behind that bar, they’re done.

My shift, my sanctuary. Finally, a little corner of the world that’s mine. No Gray, no Nix, no games.

I should feel safe now. I should , but my skin still prickles. The fourth time the bell chimes, I don’t even look up. It’s muscle memory by now; check the door, scan the crowd, keep breathing. Most nights it’s nothing. A regular, a stranger, a buzzed couple looking for cheap drinks and colder air .

But tonight, I feel it before I see it. That shift. Like someone turned down the temperature without touching the thermostat. The quiet hum in the back of my head, rising to a scream no one else can hear.

I glance down, and there it is. Another note. Folded once, tucked beneath a glass on the bar like it belongs there.

I glance around, but the faces don’t give anything away.

A college kid with earbuds in, nodding to a beat only he can hear.

An older woman nursing a single glass of wine, eyes lost in thought.

A couple arguing in low, heated whispers at the corner table.

No one is looking at me, and there’s no one watching the bar like they just left behind something sharp and folded.

I don’t open it right away. I wipe down the counter first, and pretend I’m not shaking. Pretend I’m not falling apart, that I don’t miss the way Nix and Gray would always insert himself between me and anything that breathed too close.

Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? As twisted as it was, they never let anyone else near me.

I unfold the note like it’s alive, like it might snap its paper spine at me if I’m not careful.

“You don’t have to come to me, Rowyn. You just have to stop running. I’ll do the rest.”

My heart caves in on itself. I don’t need a name. That handwriting is carved into a corner of my memory I never want to visit again.

For a second, I just stare at it. Everything around me; the clink of glass, the low murmur of conversations, muffles like I’m underwater and the world forgot how to reach me.

He’s here, or close enough to leave this behind. Close enough to know I’d be the one to find it.

I slip the note into my apron. My fingers buzz, my skin goes cold. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here.

I glance toward Frank, but he’s deep in conversation with a guy whose laugh is too loud and too loose. I could walk over. Tell him. I could say, “I need to go. I have an emergency.” But the words evaporate before they form.

So I pour a drink for someone I don’t really see. I smile like my hands aren’t shaking, and pretend the floor isn’t threatening to disappear beneath me.

I got out. I started over. I built walls. But now? Now I feel every brick shiver.

I can’t work like this. I’m suffocating. I could call a ride share so I don’t have to walk back to campus.

I slide over to Frank and whisper, “I’m having feminine issues. Can I cut this shift short?”

I’m already untying my apron when Frank throws the guilt at me like a towel soaked in sweat.

“Rowyn, I just gave you this job back. Are you really wanting to risk it?”

I nod, not because I have a good excuse, but because if I try to speak, the words will fracture in my throat. I mumble something vague, “It’s medical”, and hope the lie lands softer than the truth would.

Frank exhales through his nose. He’s not buying it, but he lets me go. “One hour docked from your check,” he says.

Fair.

I’m out the back door a heartbeat later, and the night swallows me whole. It’s humid and close, like the air’s trying to hold me down. I half-run, half-walk, unsure what direction I’m even aiming for— just away . My skin crawls with the kind of dread that doesn’t scream. It whispers.

I don’t stop moving until my lungs burn and my vision fuzzes.

Only then do I duck into the alley behind a liquor store, breath shredded, hands shaking like I never left that house with the peeling paint and the door that didn’t lock unless he let it.

I slide down the brick wall, knees tucked to my chest, and press my forehead to them.

I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just stop because if I move, I might break.

I pull out the note again. That one line stares back at me like it’s proud of the chaos it planted.

You don' t have to come to me, Rowyn. You just have to stop running.

I'll do the rest.

He’s here. Maybe not with hands, not yet, but presence can bruise too. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be untethered from this grip he has on my mind.

That note, that handwriting, that one line and I’m nine again. Cornered in the dark, taught to stay quiet, rewarded for silence.

I claw my phone from my pocket, and I think of calling the police for real this time, of telling Frank.

I think of texting Gray or Nix, not because I trust them, but because they’ve always paid attention.

Twisted attention is still attention, and right now I just need someone who would notice if I vanished.

But I don’t call anyone except for a ride share. I have to get out of here before he finds me again.

I tap the app with numb fingers, requesting the ride like it’s any other night. Not like my past just caught up to me and slipped itself into my pocket, not like I feel his eyes in places I can’t see.

The little icon blips across the screen, three minutes away. That’s all. Just three more minutes and I’ll be out of here. Not safe, but... moving.

I pace the alley like there’s oxygen in the cracks. My arms wrap around myself, not for warmth, just to keep from spilling over. I want to disappear into the dark, but every sound feels loud now. My own breathing. My own name looping behind my teeth like a curse.

The car pulls up. Blue sedan. Right license plate. But I check the driver’s face three times anyway before I open the door. Trauma teaches you that trust is a luxury.

I get in. I don’t speak, I just nod when he confirms my name. Then I press my forehead against the cold window and close my eyes, like the city outside will forget me if I don’t look back.