Brynn's fingers tightened around the baseball bat in her hands. She'd never played the sport, or any sort of sport involving such equipment, when she was younger, but she was chilled to the bone and terrified to death, with no doubt in mind that she would be able to cause some pretty serious damage.
She sat like she had been electrocuted, legs tucked beneath her on the soft-as-a-cloud mattress (she'd laughed when the hotel manager had told her that. How could a bed be as soft as a cloud when clouds literally had no texture?). If it wasn't for the adrenaline coursing through her veins, Brynn would've crashed by now - the only sleep she'd gotten in the past week were precious stolen seconds between interviews and concerts. This couldn't go on any longer, or the news would be broadcasting her funeral rather than her red carpet outfits. "16-year old star, found dead in bed from exhaustion" the headlines would read.
That was if someone else didn't get to her first.
Her eyes didn't move from the door that closed off her bedroom from the rest of the suite. If only Andrea had listened when Brynn had told her she needed a suite with a panic room, instead of just laughing it off while patting Brynn's cheeks. What an extreme action for night terrors, she had said.
Brynn was sixteen. For the past three years, management had been her family, Andrea the closest thing she had to a mother. She had no permanent residence to become haunted, and the only person she truly feared was locked away in high security prison. The only terrors that came to her in the night were ones that were very, very real.
In the dark room, even her breathing was too loud, like she sat on the verge of an asthma attack. Groping at her side for her Ventilin and then staring at the bedside tables in the dark because she was too petrified to move, she realised she'd had the stupidity to leave the puffer in the entrance room with her purse. She remembered asking Elliot to bring it for her when he'd gone down to buy her lunch, but the burly guard must've forgot.
The realisation she didn't have her puffer only served to labour her breath even more - while she struggled around dust and spray deodorants, Brynn's asthma was primarily brought on by stress.
Shit. She couldn't have an asthma attack at a time like this, not when she knew she wasn't safe, when someone was after her. Outside her window, an owl hooted, high and shrill, sending Brynn's blood pumping and her arms instinctively raising the bat. Her heart, the second loudest noise in the room, thumped on inside her chest. Thank goodness hearts worked like clockwork, ticking on their own accord, or Brynn's would've stopped long ago.
Part of her brain ached (literally. She'd had a pounding headache for days, one that no amount of pills seemed to cancel out) to fall back into the pillows and rest, to forget the fear that had left her electrocuted for the past three days.
The other half knew that meant she was dead.
There had to be somewhere safer to hide, where she would never be found. Maybe even the ensuite bathroom - at least it had a functioning lock. There was no giant window to escape through like in her bedroom, but she was 120 floors above ground level anyway, so it wasn't like she could jump out.
Bathroom, she decided concisely. Really, she just needed to move. The adrenalin souring through her needed to run and jump.
As quietly as she could, she unfurled her legs from beneath her and inched towards the edge of the King-size. Her fingers never left the bat as her bare toes reached down to touch the carpeted floor, almost expecting a hand to snatch out from under the bed and whisk her away. One foot followed the other, and she hesitantly took a step towards the bathroom.
