Breaking Hailey (Shadows of Obsession Book 1)

My eyes dart to the digital clock on the nightstand as soon as I jolt awake.

Shit. Eight forty-three am.

Seventeen minutes until my first class. Thirteen minutes late for breakfast. Damn it. I’ve not had any food since I left the hospital yesterday afternoon, too chicken last night to head downstairs for dinner and face the students’ scrutiny after the dean highlighted my unorthodox late arrival.

A pile of Lakeside College’s reading material is scattered across my bed where I fell asleep last night half-curled around the orientation guide and the map.

Untangling myself from the sheets, I scramble out, my shoulder protesting the sudden movement with a hissy fit. The breath lodges in my chest as I cradle my arm, waiting until the pain subsides.

My sling hangs over the desk chair but it’ll only slow me down so, instead of protecting my delicate shoulder from additional trauma, I dash into the bathroom, my feet skidding across cold tiles.

Yes, there’s an en suite bathroom, and if that’s not great enough, I don’t have a roommate. The room is a spacious single with a large bed tucked on one side, a desk by the floor-to-ceiling ornate window, a closet, a loveseat, and a small coffee table. The décor is simple: white walls, gray curtains that match the comforter, and a dark wooden floor.

Not too shabby.

I grimace at my reflection—wild hair, flushed cheeks, and wide, panicked eyes. I’ll make quite the entrance in class. Like I need to draw more attention…

First things first. I pop two painkillers, chasing them down with a splash of water straight from the faucet and, using my good arm, tame my tangled, blonde locks into a rough ponytail.

Three minutes later, with my teeth brushed and face washed, I dart out of the bathroom. My suitcases are pushed against the wall, all open, clothes spilling onto the floor in a messy waterfall.

I was—unsuccessfully—searching for a phone charger last night. Dad did a decent job packing but as I dig through the clothes, I realize everything, save for a few dresses I hung neatly in the closet, is wrinkled.

A dress it is. White with a flowery pattern. It seems my style has dramatically changed. None of my old clothes are here. Last I remember, my favorite color was black and I wore strictly jeans, never skirts.

Pulling the breezy dress on takes more tries than I care to admit, especially since my injured shoulder is throwing another fit. The pills haven’t had time to kick in yet.

Zipping myself up with one hand is an accident waiting to happen but, once successfully managed, slipping into my white sneakers doesn’t take long.

Eight forty-nine. Must be a record.

Checking my reflection once more I pull a disgruntled face at the bruises and scars. The old ones, the ones that melt with my complexion, don’t bother me as much, but the fresh red ones, shining like a beacon against my milky skin, do.

There’s no time to cover the shitty Pollock impersonation on my skin with makeup, so I rush back into the room, flipping through the clothes for a cardigan.

Just my luck that I can’t find any which don’t look like a dog chewed them up and spat them out.

Eight fifty-one.

Damn it! Either I leave right now, or I’ll be late.

Being late for class is suddenly tempting. I need ten, fifteen minutes tops to apply stage makeup and hide my imperfections, but the dean said punctuality is taken seriously around here.

Cursing some more, I huff a resigned breath, flinging a heavy book bag over my working shoulder.

Maybe people will have the decency not to stare…

I exit the room, caught off guard by the ghostly stillness of the building. Not a single soul in the hallway or downstairs, not one person roaming the campus.

Does everyone start at nine? No free periods?

I should’ve studied the guide more carefully. Instead, I focused on the map, though I don’t seem to remember much right now. I reach into my bag for it, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Shit. I left it upstairs.

My wristwatch says I don’t have time to run back up two flights of stairs and a maze of corridors, while my brain reminds me that close to none of the information I filled my head with yesterday survived the night.

The only thing about the theater I remember is that it’s a separate building. I break into a clumsy jog, my eyes darting between the path ahead and my surroundings.

There’s the boys’ dorm, there’s the main building, there’s the cafeteria… the theater should be right—

Bingo.

With less than two minutes to spare, I reach the door, burst through, then apply the brakes. Not only because I’ve made quite a loud entrance and everyone’s staring, but also because the architecture matches the main building, meaning this theater was here from the start.

Why would they build a theater for mentally ill patients? Was it therapeutic somehow?

In the heart of the stage on the opposite side, another stern-looking woman pins me with an icy-stare.

Everyone’s so stiff around here.

The woman is Angela Townsend. Acting coach, former Broadway actress. That’s all I remember from the orientation guide which lists the staff’s accomplishments beside professional headshots.

“Running late on your first day, Miss Vaughn?” she drawls, her voice echoing throughout the nearly silent room.

I guess that’s introductions done.

Good. I can’t imagine getting up on that stage to say a few words about myself. It would not go down well.

Hi, I’m Hailey. I’m from Florida which is apparently in Ohio now. I’m twenty, but in my head I’m eighteen, and I’m an amnesiac…

“Punctuality is not optional in my class,” Angela adds, tapping her heeled boot against the wooden stage.

“I’m sorry,” I wheeze, on the verge of doubling over and coughing up my lungs.

Who knew two weeks in bed would make me pant after jogging three hundred yards? Or maybe I hadn’t been in the best shape before the accident…?

Angela studies me a moment longer, her lips pinched as she points toward the front row. “This isn’t high school. Next time you’re late, you won’t be allowed to stay.”Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

Technically I’m not late. I still have a minute left, but I don’t argue the point. With a quick nod, I slink toward the indicated spot, head down, cheeks on fire as I pass my fellow students.

Everyone is staring.

It’s a small class, less than twenty, but they’re gaping at me, my scars, and my bruises, making me wish the floor would swallow me whole.

I block out the embarrassment, focusing on the grand theater instead. It’s a mini amphitheater of sorts, with rows of scarlet seats descending toward the stage. Framed posters depicting classic plays hang beside bright, modern ones, a timeline of America’s theater history. High ceiling, red curtains, a sleek, black piano in the corner.

“Given your late arrival, Hailey…” Angela’s stern voice draws my eyes back to her slender figure pacing the stage. Whatever she said while I was admiring the room went right over my head. “You have a lot of catching up. Acting class is no walk in the park.”

I nod, feeling the weight of the missed classes. She looks like she gives ten hours’ worth of homework every night.

God, I feel like I’m back in high school.

“Today,” she continues, addressing the class, “you’re performing a five-minute scene in pairs. I’ve already assigned your partners, so don’t get excited.”

A collective groan ricochets off the walls. I barely have time to feel my stomach drop at the idea of performing in front of strangers before she’s rattling off names.

“Hailey and Jensen,” I catch, among others.

A tall guy with messy brown hair nods at me from across the room. I nod back, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Fifteen minutes to prepare, then we start,” Angela instructs, stopping beside me with a bowl of ping-pong balls. “Pick a number. It corresponds to a script. You act out whichever you choose.”

I cast a sideways glance at Jensen. He’s crossing the room, flashing me a bright, reassuring smile that doesn’t ease my nerves. I guess his head tilt means I should choose a scene, so I dip my hand into the bowl and grab the first ball I touch.

“Thirteen,” I mutter.

Of course it’s thirteen. My luck dried out months ago.

Angela hands me two copies of a script and moves away, calling out another pair.

My eyes land on the page and my stomach churns as I skim the scene, absentmindedly handing Jensen his copy as he slips into a seat beside me.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I wipe my clammy hand down the front of my dress. This will not go down well.

“Damn. I hope you’re as talented as you are gorgeous because this…” Jensen waves the script in my face, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my lips, then lower to the swell of my breasts, “…won’t be easy, sweetheart.”

“I guess we’ll see how good I am,” I mutter, ignoring his obnoxious staring.

I doubt it’s my small boobs that caught his attention. It’s the scars and bruises the flimsy dress can’t hide. I glance back at the script, reading properly through the scene.

It opens halfway through a married couple’s heated argument. Nothing extraordinary were it not for the topic: how each believes the other’s way of grieving after they lost their son is not what grief should look like…

God, I feel sick.

I haven’t dealt with my mother’s death yet, filing it back for later, careful not to think triggering thoughts while I lay in the hospital bed in case Dr. Phillips wouldn’t discharge me.

“Hey, you good?” Jensen nudges my shoulder. “I know it’s an intense scene, but it’s only five minutes.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry.” I flip back to the first page. “Read through it with me.”

We fire back and forth, the line between acting and reality blurring inside my head. This is heavy… personal.

Way too personal in my current state.

“And Chloe.” Angela’s voice pulls me out of the scene before we’re done rehearsing. “You’re up first.”

I watch a cute, brown-haired girl make her way to the stage where she waits at least fifteen seconds for her partner. I know he’s a man before he climbs onto the stage, because of the heavy, measured footfalls which echo in the grand theater as he lazily ascends the steps from the back of the room.

The temperature around me drops a few degrees when he turns, his broad shoulders squared back, the expanse of his chest stretching the fabric of his black pullover.

I swallow hard, shifting in my seat as I scrutinize his bulky frame and confident stance.

Among the viciousness droning around him, there’s unexpected, twisted beauty. He’s… rugged, wild, unpredictable. All sharp lines, dark eyes, and full lips that don’t seem to smile.

There’s nothing soft about his face. The muscle in his jaw ticks when he takes in the room and that icy, expectant stare moves to me and pauses. A lazy sort of ire tainting his features makes me immediately drop my eyes to my knees.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a couple years older than your average senior.

I feel his dark brown eyes on me and my body responds with a mixture of intimidation and curiosity. Fear, but not the run-for-your-life kind. No, this is the exciting, reckless, cliff-diving kind of fear. Danger that makes you feel alive.

“Begin,” Angela urges, taking a seat in the first row.

I risk looking up, watching them. There are no props on the stage, but even without the bar or the drinks, I can imagine where they are.

In a dimly lit club somewhere, flirting.

He leans against the piano, eyes on Chloe. They’re not speaking, but they act with their body language, and I’m instantly captivated watching the heated looks passing between them. It takes a moment before Chloe glides toward him, stopping so close their shoes almost touch.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she says, holding her hand at an angle that suggests she holds a glass of wine.

“You weren’t paying attention,” he shoots back, seemingly disinterested, his voice like hot tar.

He looks over her shoulder as if he’s waiting for someone and she’s an annoying distraction, but then his eyes cruise down her body in a purposeful once-over.

Even though I’m not on the receiving end of that scorching gaze, my cheeks heat.

With a subtle shift of her posture, Chloe leans toward him. “Do you always watch people like they owe you something?”

A slow, deliberate smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes curves his lips. “Only when they do,” he retorts, his deep voice oscillating through the air.

He steps closer, diminishing what little space is left between them, his gaze not veering from hers.

I swallow hard. How Chloe’s still standing instead of pooling at his feet is beyond me. My stomach ties into knots at the electric tension crackling around them.

It’s a blessing that I’m not in her shoes right now. I’d be trembling like a kitten if he stood this close, towering above me.

She watches, almost breathless, as he lifts his hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair from her face. The gesture is tender, yet there’s a clear possessiveness that make my toes curl in my sneakers.

Chloe lets out a soft, almost inaudible gasp and I’d be willing to bet good money that wasn’t acting.

“I don’t owe you anything,” she whispers.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He leans in, grazing his knuckles from where he tucked her hair behind her ear all the way down to her hip. “You owe me a dance.”

The air thickens with anticipation, everyone in the room holding their breath, including me. I lean forward, waiting for Chloe’s line, my own script long forgotten.

“And cut!” Angela booms, rising to her feet and igniting a wave of disappointment in me. “That’s exactly the chemistry I’m looking for.”

The class starts clapping and I put my hands together, too, watching them stride off the stage, unaware of the impact they made.

“Hailey.” Jensen nudges my shoulder. “C’mon, we’re up.”

He stands, offering his hand to help me. I don’t take it, but my heart pounds in my chest, matching my throbbing shoulder as we step onto the stage.

How the hell are we supposed to follow Chloe and… whatever his name is? Our scene will break all of that delicious sexual tension.

Without much warning, Jensen starts, screaming the line at me with everything he’s got. “We can’t just ignore it, Emma!”

I take a second to get my head in the game. Staring into Jensen’s eyes I dive into the scene, summoning the grief I’ve stifled thus far and, at a snap of fingers, the air between us grows tense.

My response leaps out of my core, my anger matching his then knocking it out of the park.

It’s real, this anger.

Real and powerful because his words hit a nerve.

I’m taking this shit personally after obstinately pushing the memory of my mom out of my mind all week.

“So what do you suggest? You expect me to cry, scream, and curse fate? Is that it?”

“No,” he snaps back, stepping closer, his fury ringing true and fueling mine. “No, but… fuck!” That fuck isn’t in the script but it works. “We lost our son and you… you act like nothing happened! You need to grieve! Ignoring it…” He meets my eyes, stumbling over his words. That wasn’t in the script, either. I think he’s taken aback by my streaming tears. “Ignoring it won’t bring him back.”

“I know he’s not coming back!” I shout, shaking all over, my eyes burning as the tears wet my eyelashes. “It hurts, okay?! It hurts so much!” The dam bursts, every next line no longer a scene… It’s an avenue, an outlet for my pent-up emotions.

I’m poised on the edge of a knife, so confused I feel sick. Reality blurs with the past. There’s something familiar about this dialogue, like I’ve lived through it, but can’t place it.

Jensen keeps talking, his voice muffled as if through a wall. My mind fights for attention, summoning a memory… a memory of Mom or her death or something but it’s like it doesn’t know where to look.

I must’ve processed this grief, this raw pain last year. I had to. When Mom died, I probably fell apart over and over again before I accepted she was gone. And now I’m being forced to do it again?

That’s cruel.

Losing my memories is fucking cruel, but reliving my mother’s death is infinitely worse. I’d give up every other memory of the past two years in exchange for remembering how I dealt with it and moved on after Mom died.

I don’t want to feel like my heart is being torn apart piece by piece… like I’m slowly being fed through a meat grinder. As if my lungs are collapsing.

Which is why I refused to before. If this happened at the hospital, Dr. Phillips would’ve shoved a needle in my neck, sedating me before I could process the grief.

I buried those emotions deep within and now they’re geysering out, the paralyzing sense of loss puncturing the surface.

I scream.

I cry.

I’m so disoriented.

Back and forth, I swing from here to the memory that’s still out of my reach, so close, yet so far. I whack Jensen’s chest, blink, and I’m in his arms, my hands holding on for dear life.

How did I get here?

I blink again, finding myself halfway across the stage.

Blood drains from my face, every breath a struggle, my nose buried in Jensen’s chest.

Something’s wrong with me.

My heart pounds my ribs and fear wrings out my guts. Trembling all over, my head not far off exploding from the sensory assault, I grasp Jensen’s t-shirt, afraid I’ll collapse if I let go.

The performance goes on, but I’m not acting. I think I’m floating in and out of consciousness… in and out of the past I can’t see. I don’t know how much time passes before the scene transitions into the comfort part, lulling me into reality.

It’s over. The scene, the disorienting pull, the sensation of drowning while still pulling down air.

A weighted silence falls around. It stretches and stretches and stretches some more until a slow, measured clapping starts.

Not a student. Our professor is leading the charge, her eyes wide in stunned disbelief. Everyone’s face mirrors hers as they join the applause.

“Impressive,” Angela says. “Very impressive. You make a great team. Excellent work.”

I let out a shaky breath, wiping my cheeks as I step out of Jensen’s embrace.

“Shit, girl. You were fucking amazing!” He beams, eyes sparkling, white teeth peeking between his lips.

A half-laugh, half-whimper escapes me. My hands shake, and it feels like there’s no blood in my upper body.

I’m cold, nauseated, and… scared.

I had a panic attack at the hospital but this… this felt different. Surreal. I inhale a few steady breaths, counting my heartbeats to calm down.

“Hey, you good?” Jensen cocks an eyebrow. “You’re looking a little green. You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

“No,” I whisper, my throat dry. “I just… I mean, that was… quite the experience.”

Not how I’d choose to break down, but despite the unexpected detachment from reality, I feel lighter.