Every Broken Thing (Far From Ruined #1)

1. Cucumber Fucking Melon

1

Cucumber Fucking Melon

Okay, so, I wasn’t suicidal by any stretch of the imagination, but oh my God , did Shakespeare tempt me to consider my options. Don’t get me wrong, I loved running the sound booth for my high school theater productions, but I couldn’t stand Shakespearean plays. Unfortunately, the drama teacher didn’t agree, and like every all-American high school, Romeo and Juliet was non-negotiable.

Resigned to my fate, I sat in the booth above the auditorium and watched Romeo and Juliet confess their premature and ill-fated love for one another. Somehow, I resisted the urge to gouge my eyes out with a plastic spork from the cafeteria, but it was a close call. Even after spending half a semester last year studying Shakespeare in my Honors English class, I still didn’t understand what the hell the two actors on stage said, but my grumblings over the choice for the fall play fell on deaf ears.

Granted, I wasn’t a thespian—I merely worked the sound booth and managed the stage production. But that didn’t mean I wanted to listen to poorly spoken Shakespeare for two whole months. According to Ms. Acker, the theater teacher, “this wasn’t a democracy,” and my whiny suggestion went unheeded.

Ms. Acker changed the blocking slightly before waving at me to make sure I noticed the update. I gave her a thumbs-up as I wrote it down in my notes and adjusted the lighting accordingly.

Freshman year, the vast soundboard had intimidated me, but after doing it for three years, it had become second nature. It calmed me, sitting by myself in the back where prying eyes and insulting whispers couldn’t reach me as I worked the stage like a puppet master.

“Thanks, Silas,” Ms. Acker called from the stage as she and the two actors, Harris and Caroline, made their way to the side exit. “We’re done in here for the day, so you can head home.”

After I sent another thumbs-up, I shut off the stage lights and powered down the board. Gathering my things, I stuffed my notepad into my backpack between my economics study guide and sociology binder. I swung my bag over my shoulder and patted my jeans to ensure my phone and car keys were in the pockets. With everything accounted for, I plunged the booth into darkness and loped down the stairs.

This late in the day, the school was practically deserted, save for a custodian or two still cleaning the carpets or mopping the cafeteria floor. They waved at me as I made my way across the school, toward the gym-side parking lot exit.

One of my many bad habits was hitting Snooze on my alarm in the mornings. The result: being late to school more often than not, forcing me to park my second-hand Ford Ranger in the lot farthest from the auditorium. Sure, it was inconvenient, but on the plus side, it gave me the chance to ogle the athletic teams on my way out the door.

My sneakers squeaked against the floor as the carpet turned to linoleum underfoot, and voices echoed down the bare corridor, originating from the pool where the swim team practiced. I caught a glimpse of the basketball team running drills in the gymnasium opposite the pool, and as I ran my eyes over their glistening, sweat-soaked flesh, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t athletic.

Sure, I appreciated the view, but I would never subject myself to such physical torture.

As I meandered through the gym hallway, my bladder requested a pit stop, and I veered off course to answer nature’s call. I wasn’t in a rush to get home. There was nothing waiting for me there except an empty house since Dad traveled for work most days of the week and my brother was studying at UCLA in California. So most nights, it was just me, myself, and I at home.

Not that it bothered me. To be honest, I kind of enjoyed the solitude. Most of the time.

Once I’d emptied my bladder, I flushed the toilet and washed my hands. Retrieving my backpack, I gave a quick glance in the mirror to satisfy my vanity before rounding the corner to exit the bathroom. But instead of facing the opening to the hallway, I ran face-first into a hard chest.

The crash sent me sprawling on my ass, and my tailbone complained as pain ricocheted up and down my spine from my ungraceful landing. Vile curses built behind my lips as I fumbled to right myself on the dirty floor.

When I lifted my furious gaze to spew profanities at the guy who’d ran into me, my voice choked off. Eric Boyt glared down at me like I was the bane of his existence, and the insults died on my tongue.

Having learned a long time ago that remaining on the ground just made me a better target, I scrambled to my feet. His dark eyes tracked my every movement as a wicked grin spread his lips.

Well, shit! My evening just took a turn for the worse.

Eric had been my arch-nemesis since freshman year. Probably because, being short and scrawny, I’d been an easy target. Or because I didn’t have many friends and picking on the stragglers offered the least resistance. Or maybe it was simply because I batted for the other team.

Most of the student body didn’t seem to care, but Boyt and his group of douche-bag friends just couldn’t let it go. So he proceeded to make my life miserable for the next three years.I hated him with every fiber of my being.

“Watch where you’re going, faggot,” Eric spat, and I rolled my eyes at the overused slur.

“Maybe someone shouldn’t take up the whole hallway like an asshole,” I retorted before my brain could stop my stupid, fat mouth.

His face contorted in rage at my response, and I immediately regretted the insult. Don’t get me wrong, I quite enjoyed offending him because he was, in fact, an asshole.But I also liked my face the way it was and didn’t want him rearranging it. It was a real rock-and-a-hard-place situation.

Eric took a menacing step forward, rolling his thick shoulders as his muscles bulged obnoxiously against his tight shirt, and I took an answering step back.As one of the best wrestlers in our school, he won all of our physical altercations because, let’s be real, he was unfairly huge. On anyone else, the broad bulk might have been attractive, but since he was a human piece of garbage, his hotness was kind of lost on me.

“How about you get out of my way,” I said as I continued to back away with every step forward he took, “and I’ll be out of your hair. No harm, no foul—or not.” My back met the wall as he loomed over me. “This is just as good. Better even. You know what they say, the more in the bathroom the merrier .”

This close, I could see his overly dilated pupils and smell something harsh and acrid, like he’d been smoking something stronger than tobacco or weed. A trickle of apprehension slid down my spine, and I studied my surroundings for an escape route.

It was after school hours; there was no one around to interrupt the beat down, no teachers close at hand to intervene. I was on my own, and I’d never been much of a fighter. Flight was my usual response in these situations.

He was bigger than me, no question, but I was faster. Plus, he was clearly under the influence of something, which gave me an edge.

Right?

“Shut the fuck up,” he ground out as he fisted the front of my shirt.

Defiant till the end, I refused to cower. If I was going to get a beating, I was going to take it like a man, damn it.

“Fuck you, Boyt,” I sneered back, and he bared his teeth in a feral grin.

Regardless of how many times I’d taken a punch, it still hurt when his fist sank into my stomach. Air whooshed from my lungs, and I doubled over with a groaned gag.

“That was my liver,” I wheezed. “Hope that’s not important.”

He forced me to straighten as my body shrieked in protest. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“I hear it’s part of my charm,” I gasped, fighting against his hold on my shirt. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Or what?”

He raised his fist again, aiming for my face, and I kicked out wildly, shocking us both when my foot connected with his knee. He grunted and stumbled back, his grip on my shirt loosening just enough for me to spin free.

Using my full weight, I shoved him before sprinting toward the bathroom exit. I almost made it. He tripped me, and I tumbled to the floor, knocking my chin on the tile hard enough to rattle my brain.

I yelped as he hoisted me to my feet and slammed me face-first into the wall. My cheek stung, and I tasted blood from where I’d bit into my cheek.

“I hate you, you know that?” he seethed in my ear, his breath hot against my neck.

“Yeah, I’ve picked up on that, despite your subtlety.” I struggled against him, claustrophobia tightening my throat as he pressed me harder into the wall with his body weight. “Get off me, you psychopath!”

“Someone should really teach you some respect.” He twisted my arm at an unnatural angle, and I cried out as he continued to mutter under his breath, “Acting like you’re better than everybody else.”

When he added even more pressure to my arm, I whimpered. Holy shit, he was going to break it!

“Stop! Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

“You’re nothing but a little bitch, strutting around asking for it,” he continued, like I hadn’t even spoken. “Think you’re so damn special, don’t you? Like you’re better than me.”

I hated how pathetic I sounded as I choked out, “Let me go.”

He smiled, his chuckle ghosting over my cheek. “Beg me.”

And oh, that pissed me off. White-hot fury burned through my chest until I felt like I’d explode.

“Go fuck yourself,” I said through gritted teeth.

Instead of dislocating my shoulder like I expected, Boyt crowded against me, his free hand tangling in my hair and grinding my cheek into the wall. With my arm pinned between us, and his weight trapping me against the wall, I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe . He was everywhere, and genuine fear slid through my veins as something hard pressed against my ass.

Oh God, was that… was he getting off on this?

Terror replaced my anger, and I bucked against him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Think I’m gonna teach you some manners,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

“Get off me!”

“Why?” He somehow pressed in closer, and my stomach heaved as his erection dug into my back. “Isn’t this what you fags like?”

The next several seconds passed in slow motion, like I was moving underwater. Sound faded, and my brain glitched as Eric dragged me away from the wall. I found myself bent over the sink, the counter digging painfully into my stomach as he ground against my ass.

“Isn’t this what you want?” he panted.

And all I could think was, No. No, no, no. Please, no.

Fingers squeezed the back of my neck, pinning me down, and I froze. I just… froze. Inside, I was screaming and fighting like a wild animal. But my body just… laid there.

The counter was cool beneath my cheek. One of the faucets had a leak, and it drip, drip, dripped until it was all I could hear. There was congealed soap from the dispenser an inch from my eye, and it smelled like cucumber melon.

Cucumber fucking melon.

A belt clinked.

“No,” I whimpered.

A hand tugged at my jeans.

“Please,” I begged.

Eric Boyt said, “I’ll show you respect.”

And I just laid there.

Because this wasn’t actually happening. It just wasn’t. It couldn’t be happening. Not to me. To some sucker who looked like me, maybe. But he wasn’t me—he couldn’t be me.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember how to breathe.

Then the weight at my back was gone. Time surged forward in a rush, and I wasn’t underwater anymore.

With a broken sob, I shoved away from the sink. Scrambling away in a blind panic, I backed into the farthest corner to put as much distance between me and Eric as possible before he came after me again.

But he didn’t, because we weren’t alone in the bathroom anymore.