Chapter 1 #3
I’m mid-sip and immediately choke, sputtering punch across the table like a malfunctioning soda fountain. “Sure you have.”
He pouts, which makes me laugh despite myself.
“Don’t you believe me?” he asks, mock wounded.
“I don’t know. It just seems hard to believe.”
“Why? Because I’m the star quarterback?”
“Well, yeah,” I admit, half smiling.
“I remember when you moved here. Seventh grade. You had on a t-shirt with dogs dressed like ballerinas.”
My mouth falls open. “Wow. I’m surprised you remember that. I loved that shirt.”
“I know. You wore it all the time.”
Until one of the kids at my foster home spilled red punch all over it . It was one of the last things my mom ever gave me before she died. I kept it until the stains wouldn’t wash out anymore. That memory stings like a fresh scrape, and I push it down.
“So what,” I tease lightly, “love at first sight?”
He grins. “Not love, but I definitely noticed you.”
I don’t know how to do this. I’m not used to being noticed, let alone wanted. Until today, I figured I could disappear, and no one would even blink. And now, the most popular guy in school is acting like I’ve been in his orbit this whole time?
It feels too easy, like something bad is about to happen.
“Come on,” he says, like he senses me hesitating. “Let’s go sit with the others. Or…” his voice lowers a little, “we can find somewhere quieter to talk.”
“I’d like that,” I say before I can think too hard about it.
He smiles and gestures toward a picnic table near the edge of the lake. “I see a spot by the water.”
He tops off our drinks because apparently we need more gasoline in these cups and leads the way.
The sounds of the party fade behind us. Here, the night feels calmer.
Cicadas sing in the trees, and the water laps gently against the shore.
It should be peaceful, but I’m a knot of nerves and second-guessing.
I sit so I’m facing the lake. He slides in beside me, close enough that our thighs touch, and drapes his arm across my shoulders like it’s nothing. My skin prickles.
“You know,” he says, voice low, “Adele didn’t think you’d come tonight.”
“Oh?”
He nods. “Said you looked scared when she invited you.”
“I wouldn’t say scared. More like surprised. We don’t exactly hang out in the same circles.”
“Technically there aren’t circles anymore. Some of us already graduated.”
“True,” I murmur, taking another sip. “But I’m glad I came.”
He drains his cup and, without hesitation, tosses it straight into the water. Then he turns to me, eyes intense.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly.
“I knew Timmy. My brother was friends with him.”
The words hit like a slap.
Timmy. The bio kid from my last foster home.
Even though the night is cool, I suddenly feel hot and clammy. My clothes stick to my skin. I try to swallow, but it’s like my throat is made of sandpaper.
“He talked about you a lot,” Ricky continues, casually, like he hasn’t just opened a door I thought I’d locked years ago.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Oh?”
“I think that’s when I first decided I wanted to get to know you. All my life I’ve been raised to do things a certain way. You know what I mean, right?”
Not really.
“Being here, with you,” he says, his smile turning wistful, “feels like my first real act of rebellion. A taste of the other side. The wild side.”
Wild side?
And suddenly, I get it. I really get it. I’m not a crush. I’m not a secret longing from seventh grade. I’m a rebellion. A story. A deviation from his script. Something interesting for him to try before he jets off to Europe or LSU or whatever dream someone else paid for.
My skin crawls.
Timmy used to call me “wild,” but only because I fought back every single time he tried to touch me. God knows what he told Ricky, but it’s clear now that Ricky thinks something’s going to happen here. And it’s not.
“Look, Ricky, I don’t know what you heard, but I’m not like that.”
He snorts, cocky and dismissive. “That’s what you all say, just so you don’t feel bad in the morning.”
“Ricky, I?—”
Before I can finish, he grabs me, crushing his mouth over mine in the sloppiest, most invasive kiss imaginable. I gag on the taste of alcohol and spit. My hands shoot to his chest, and I shove with everything I’ve got and break free, stumbling back.
“I’m leaving,” I snap.
But before I can take a step, he catches my wrist, yanking me hard against him.
“Stop! You’re hurting me.”
“C’mon, Jo,” he murmurs, his voice slick and patronizing. “No need to play hard to get.”
“My name is Jo-Leigh , and I’m not playing anything. I don’t like you like that. Let me go.”
He laughs, dark and cruel. “Timmy said you liked to play the victim. That’s fine. I can work with that.”
Cold fear lances through me.
He lunges again, this time gripping me tighter, forcing my arms down as he forces another kiss. I thrash, trying to wrench free, but his fingers dig into my skin, locking me in place.
When he finally comes up for air, I don’t hesitate.
“Help!” I scream, the word ripping from my throat.
His hand whips across my face so fast I don’t even see it coming. The crack of it explodes in my ears. I hit the sand hard, cheek burning, ears ringing.
“Don’t do that,” he growls. “No one’s going to believe you didn’t want this. I’m the quarterback. You’re trash . ”
Tears spring to my eyes, but I grit my teeth against the pain screaming across my face and the sheer panic crawling under my skin.
He comes at me again, pressing his weight down as I scramble backward. His hips grind against mine, his arousal pressing against my leg like a nightmare made real.
No. No no no. Not again!
“Ricky, stop!” I cry, voice cracking. “I don’t want this!”
“Shut up,” he hisses, fumbling with the waistband of my shorts.
I kick. Hard. Catching him in the thigh. He growls and shifts just enough.
Suddenly he’s gone.
The weight vanishes off me and I gasp for air, scrambling to my feet, adrenaline flooding my limbs.
I bolt for the trees, branches slicing at my arms, feet sliding in the sand.
Just get away.
Then hands grab me.
I scream only for a large hand to clamp over my mouth.
“Quiet!” a voice hisses.
I freeze. That voice. Swag! I turn my head slightly, and there he is. Eyes sharp, jaw clenched, his presence like solid rock beneath the chaos.
“I’m going to move my hand,” he says lowly. “Don’t scream. Got it?”
I nod, heart pounding so loud it feels like it might explode. He slowly removes his hand from my mouth.
“What in the fuck were you thinking?” he snaps, his voice low but fierce. “That boy’s got trouble written on him from a mile away.”
I glance toward the beach. It’s too dark to make out anything clearly, but I swear I can still see the outline of someone on the ground. My arms wrap around myself like they can keep the shame and fear from sinking deeper.
“Well?” he pushes.
I shake my head, barely able to speak. “I didn’t… I just thought we were talking.”
“Your breath smells like alcohol.”
“I had some of the punch,” I mutter. “Is he okay? Did you hurt him?”
Swag lets out a humorless laugh. “Worried about your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap, a little too fast.
“Yeah, well, you should be more careful who you hang out with.”
“I get it. God!”
His eyes flash like cold steel. “Watch your tone, little girl.”
I flinch, biting back the thousand things I want to say. He keeps going.
“You could’ve gotten into some deep shit back there if I hadn’t shown up.”
I know he’s right. I saw Ricky’s face. The hunger. The cruelty. He wasn’t going to stop. Not until he’d taken what he thought he was owed. A full-body shudder rolls through me.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“I don’t need your fucking thanks. I need you to be fucking smart.”
Tears prick at my eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. “Fine.”
“Where’s your car?”
I jab my thumb toward the road. “That way.”
“Come on.”
He turns and stalks off without waiting. Part of me wants to scream at him, flip him off, anything . But I find myself following a few paces behind. His anger rolls off him in waves. I don’t understand why he’s so mad. I’m a nobody. Just a stupid girl who made a stupid decision.
He doesn’t even know my name.
We reach my car, and I fish around in my pocket for the key. Before I can get it out, he pulls a knife from his own and flips it open. One quick motion and the door handle gives with a soft click.
He steps aside, jerking his chin toward the seat. “Get in.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“I thought I told you to take your car by the shop.”
I glance up, then immediately wish I hadn’t. His eyes are on me. Sharp, tired, and unreadable.
“I had to work.”
He sighs like I’m the world’s biggest headache. “Do you work tomorrow?”
I nod, blinking fast to keep the tears in check.
“What time?”
“Six a.m.”
Another sigh. This one heavier.
“Not very smart, coming to a party the night before a shift.”
“I know,” I whisper, barely audible.
“Where do you work?”
“Sweet Caroline’s. It’s off?—”
“I know where it is.”
He looks at me, and this time there’s no anger just something quieter. Something almost like concern.
“I’ll swing by while you’re working,” he says. “Get your car fixed.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I already said I’m going to. Now get your ass home.”
The way he says it rattles something inside me. A flood of emotion swells all at once. Confusion, frustration, shame, and something I can’t quite name. Who does he think he is? He’s not my dad. He doesn’t even know me. And why does he care?
That’s the part that sticks in my chest like a shard of glass.
Why does he care?
If I were a well-adjusted adult, I’d tell him off for barking orders at me. But years of being talked down to, ignored, hit, dismissed trains you. It conditions you not to fight back.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I close the door like a good girl and start the engine.
Carefully, I back out, turn the car around, and head toward town.
The quiet inside the car is deafening. Was coming to the party a mistake? Yeah. Absolutely. I should’ve known better. Ricky’s words still replay in my head, looping like poison.
You liked to play the victim.
You’re trash.
I was only invited because of what Timmy said about me.
No one wanted me there.
No one ever does.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the rumble of a motorcycle behind me until I’m almost to the diner.
My stomach drops. Crap. Swag. Is he following me? Is he going to ask questions? I don’t want to explain why I’m not going “home.” I’m not telling him I sleep on the floor of a locked office, surrounded by mops and dry-erase schedules if I’m lucky.
Without thinking, I drive past the diner and turn into a nearby residential neighborhood.
One of the streets off Main. My first foster family lived here.
The house is still the same. White shutters, overgrown rosebush, and cracked driveway that hides the pain behind the front door.
I pull in like I belong, turn off the engine, and lift my phone to my ear in case Swag’s still behind me.
I feel the motorcycle cruise past, slow.
His eyes are on me. I don’t need to see him to know it.
But then I make the mistake of looking ahead and the driveway brings it all back.
The day the social worker dropped me off here.
Eight years old, clinging to a backpack and a plastic grocery bag filled with clothes.
I was scared. Angry. Hollowed out by a loss I couldn’t begin to understand.
My parents were gone, and somehow the world just kept turning.
I blink fast, willing the tears back.
When the coast feels clear, I start the car and back out. I don’t see the motorcycle again, but I can still feel the weight of Swag’s attention.
Part of me wonders what he’s thinking. The other part doesn’t want to know.
By the time I get back to the diner, I’m drained. I park around back and grab my sleeping bag and backpack from the trunk.
Today was a shit day. All I want is sleep.
Not peace. Not comfort. Just oblivion. I slip through the back entrance and head straight for Caroline’s office.
The walls smell like printer ink and lemon cleaner.
I roll out my sleeping bag on the floor between the filing cabinet and the mop closet, using my hoodie as a pillow.
The floor is hard. The air is cold. But it’s quiet and I’m safe.
I close my eyes, praying sleep will come. It doesn’t. Instead, all I see is Swag’s face. His steel-blue eyes, his gravel voice, the way he looked at me like I was something breakable and annoying all at once. Like I mattered.
And maybe that’s why I can’t sleep. Because no one’s looked at me like that in a very long time.
Maybe never.