Chapter 84 Mercedes

Chapter 84 Mercedes
Mercedes

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We'd been driving for hours, tracing the main roads out of the city, then the back roads, then the highways, looking for any sign of Luke and a black Escalade. 

We found nothing.

"Maybe we should call it," Mitch said, his voice rough with exhaustion. He'd been driving for the last three hours, his eyes bloodshot. "We're just driving in circles. He's not out here."

My stomach was a tight knot of frustration and worry. I wanted to argue, to tell him we couldn't give up, but he was right. We were chasing ghosts. 

The information we had was already over twenty-four-hours old, and it was barely anything to go on. 

My mind kept replaying the conversation about him at the restaurant, the words of the waitress, Emma, echoing in my head.

Now, we were pulling into my driveway, the first rays of a gray dawn painting the sky. The long night before had yielded nothing. We'd tried again tonight, a repeat performance of driving and searching and coming up empty. Luke wasn't answering his phone for any of us. His social media was dark. It was like he'd vanished off the face of the earth.

"We should just wait," Brianna said, her voice flat with defeat as she killed the engine. "He has to come back eventually. Fall break ends in a few days. He'll be at school. We'll see him then."

It was the only option left, and it tasted like defeat. We were giving up.

I got out of the car, my body stiff and aching from sitting for so long. "Fine," I said, slamming the door a little too hard. "We'll wait."

But as I walked into my empty house, I knew waiting was going to be the hardest part. 

And we were just going to have to sit back and wait until school started again to find out just how much trouble he was really in.

The house felt cavernous and cold without the noise of the car engine or the low murmur of Mitch and Brianna's voices. I locked the door behind me, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the suffocating silence. Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the house settling, sounded like an accusation. 

You let him go. You didn't fight hard enough.

I trudged up the stairs, my body feeling like it was weighed down with lead. My bedroom was just as I'd left it, but it felt different now. The posters on the wall seemed to mock me, the clothes on my floor looked like the discarded remnants of a life I no longer recognized. I collapsed onto my bed, not even bothering to change out of my jeans, and stared at the ceiling.

My phone felt heavy in my hand. I opened my messages to Luke, my thumb hovering over our last conversation. It was from weeks ago, a string of heart emojis and inside jokes that now felt like artifacts from a different civilization. With a surge of desperate hope, I started typing.

Hey, it's me. Just checking in. We're all worried. Please just let us know you're okay.

I hit send. The message delivered, a tiny checkmark appearing beneath it. I watched it, waited. Nothing.

My fingers flew across the screen again.

Luke, please. Whatever is going on, you can talk to me. Are you with your family? Is everything alright?

Delivered. Read receipts were off, of course. The three little dots that would signal a reply never appeared. I switched to the phone app, my thumb hovering over his name. My heart was pounding a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs. I pressed the screen and held the phone to my ear.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then, the click of voicemail. His voice, cheerful and distant, filled my ear. "Hey, you've reached Luke Holman. Leave a message."

I hung up before the beep. I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave a pleading, desperate message in the cold, empty space of his voicemail. I tried again. And again. Each time, the same cheerful, automated voice, the same dead-end.

I tossed the phone onto the pillow beside me, burying my face in my own. 

He wasn't on a solo trip. My rational brain knew that. A solo trip didn't involve a beautiful older woman in a black Escalade. A solo trip didn't result in a witness saying you looked "afraid."

But my heart, the stupid, stubborn, hopeful part of me, clung to the possibility. Maybe she was just a family friend he'd run into. Maybe she was giving him a ride. Maybe the whole thing was a misunderstanding. Maybe he was just taking some space to clear his head after our breakup, and he'd come back to me after fall break, ready to talk, ready to try again.

I missed him. I missed the way his laugh would crinkle the corners of his eyes. I missed the way he'd hum off-key when he thought no one was listening. I missed the warmth of his hand in mine. The ache was a physical thing, a hollow space in my chest where he used to be.

"Please be okay," I whispered into the darkness of my room. "Please just be okay and come back."

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force away the image of his masked smile, replacing it with the memory of his real one, the one he used to save just for me. It was a flimsy shield against the encroaching dread, but it was all I had. I had to believe he would come back. I had to believe that when school started again, he'd be there, waiting for me. It was the only thing that would get me through the next few days.

The exhaustion finally won, pulling me down into a restless sleep. The moment I crossed over, the cold, empty reality of my room dissolved, and Luke was there. The real one.

We were in his room, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, painting stripes of gold on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of him—clean laundry and something uniquely Luke. 

He was hovering over me, his elbows on either side of my head, his eyes dark and intense. He lowered his head, his lips finding mine, and it was like coming home. 

The kiss deepened, growing hungry and desperate. His hands roamed my body, relearning every curve, every hollow. I arched into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He moved down my body, his breath hot against my skin, until he was settled between my legs. 

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a love so pure it made my chest ache. Then he lowered his head, and the world dissolved into sensation. I could hear his panting breaths, feel the desperate way he held my hips, and through the haze of pleasure, his voice, muffled and reverent, whispered, "I love you so much, Mercedes. I love you."

The scene shifted. I was standing behind plexiglass, the cold air of the rink biting at my cheeks. The roar of the crowd was deafening. 

I was wearing his jersey, the number 17 feeling like a second skin, a declaration to the world. On the ice, a blur of motion, he was a force of nature. He scored, a beautiful, impossible shot that flew past the goalie, and the arena erupted. He didn't celebrate with his team. He skated directly to the glass, his eyes finding mine instantly. He pointed his stick at me, a grin splitting his face, and in that moment, all the cheers in the world were just background noise.

Then there was his car, a sleek sports car that smelled like leather and him. I was sitting on the hood, the metal still warm from the sun, waiting for him. 

Practice was over. He walked out of the rink, his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair damp with sweat. When he saw me, his tired face broke into a smile. 

He dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting me off the hood and spinning me around. "I missed you," he'd murmur against my neck. 

We'd argue sometimes, in that car. Our voices would get heated, words sharp and careless, but it never lasted. One of us would always break, reaching for the other, and the argument would dissolve into a desperate, apologetic kiss, a silent promise that we were more important than whatever we were fighting about.

The dream shifted again, to a sun-drenched beach. The one family vacation I'd ever taken with him and his parents. 

The sand was hot and white, the ocean a brilliant turquoise. Luke and I were in the water, splashing each other like kids, his laughter echoing across the waves. 

Later, his dad had taught us how to skip stones, his mom handing us towels that smelled like sunscreen. That evening, the four of us sat around a bonfire, the flames casting a warm glow on our faces. Luke sat behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. 

We watched the fire crackle, his parents talking softly nearby. I felt so safe, so completely part of something. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, and he kissed my temple. It was perfect. It was a glimpse of a future I thought was guaranteed.

But then, the sun began to set rapidly, the warm orange light bleeding into a cold, ominous purple. The sound of the waves changed, growing harsh and loud. The arms around me tightened, no longer feeling like Luke's. They felt restrictive, possessive. The bonlight flickered, and for a split second, the faces around the fire weren't his parents. They were strangers. I tried to turn, to look at Luke, but his face was in shadow. I could only feel his breath, cold against my ear, and when he spoke, it wasn't his voice. It was a low, husky whisper I didn't recognize.

"He's mine now."

I woke up with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs, a cold sweat slick on my skin. The dream was gone, but the feeling lingered. The warmth had been replaced by a chilling dread, the beautiful memories now tainted, corrupted by the end. 

I was alone in my room, the gray morning light filtering through the window, and the phantom voice echoed in the silence. 

He's mine now.