Chapter 27 Vale
Vale
“Yo, did you hear?”
Shrugging off my button-down, I glance over at Fletch approaching the bench. “Hear what?”
He balls up his blazer, chucking it into his gear locker. “They found drugs in that little psycho’s locker.”
I frown, my movements slowing. It didn’t take long for word to spread that the lockdown was for a drug search.
There aren’t any lockers on the third floor, which is why we didn’t hear anything.
Usually, though, they’d check out the bathrooms too.
But I didn’t give it much thought because I had other things on my mind.
Like how, once again, in spite of everything, I found myself humoring Aston.
Not only that, but getting close to him…
far closer than I knew better than to get.
When instead, I could’ve just fucking walked out, or at the very least ignored him.
He was…contrite enough—something I wasn’t expecting, and for reasons I’m…
well still kind of at a loss on. And he said it himself—he would’ve backed off.
Yeah, fucking right.
Still, I can’t help but feel like maybe there was some truth to it. Who’s to say he would’ve returned at all if he didn’t figure out it was me who stupidly sent some underclassman to go get answers from Eden? If he didn’t suspect I wasn’t yet done with him…
Not that that’s why I risked it.
Fuck, who am I kidding? That’s exactly why I did it.
I knew he’d put two and two together, or at least I…hoped. If only to prove I haven’t been entertaining the whims of a total imbecile.
Aston might come off like a total airhead at times, especially these days, but he’s smart. Cunning. At least the Aston I remembered was…the kid who could charm and manipulate others without any effort. The Aston who’d do what it takes to not just survive, but—
No. Don’t think about that.
Nothing’s changed just because—
“Vale? You good, man?”
I give myself a mental shake. Right, Fletch was saying something. “Yeah. Yeah, just fighting off a migraine. What were you saying?”
Fletch eyes me with a look I can’t place. “Your little psycho.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not my anything.”
“Right…” he says, dragging the word out. “Well, word is they found drugs in his locker.”
My attention snaps to him at that. “What?”
He yanks his shoulder pads on over his muscle tee, and it occurs to me I’m still half-dressed. Coach will be on our asses to get outside any second.
Plopping down on the bench, Fletch bends over to put on his cleats. We’re not alone, but the others are chatting amongst themselves, and aren’t paying us any attention. “Yeah, bro. They yanked him from class. Never came back.”
Fuck.
“They found drugs in his locker?” I say in disbelief. Sure, I figured the lockdown was somehow Aston’s doing, despite his insistence he had nothing to do with it. But to set himself up like that…
“Yeah, like a pound of weed, man.” Fletch chuckles, shaking his head. “Poor dude.”
My brow furrows. Sensing my confusion, he arches me a brow. “What, you actually think it was his?” He scoffs, and finishes tying his laces, before jumping to a stand.
“He was set up,” I murmur.
The lockdown wasn’t his doing…
I glance down at my hands, not really seeing anything. “Did he get expelled?”
“No clue. Like I said, he never came back. S’far as I know, no one’s seen him since.”
Fuck.
“But I wouldn’t be surprised. I mean, how can you prove it wasn’t him?” He shrugs, and scrubs his hand over his buzzed hair. “It’s no secret he creeps a lot of people out, teachers included. They’re probably happy for a excuse to get rid of him.”
Jaw stiff, I nod, unable to conjure up a response to that.
With a slap on the shoulder, he says, “See ya out there.”
On autopilot, I finish getting ready for practice. All the while wondering if I lured Aston back, only to lose him anyway.
Practice does little to quell the festering rage inside me. If anything, it just stokes the fury, heightening my aggression and my need to do something.
I hate feeling fucking helpless, but that’s how I feel.
All through running laps, then drills, in preparation for Friday’s big game—Homecoming and Senior Night wrapped all into one—my mind wanders to all things Aston.
Where is he? What’s going to happen? Is he coming back? What the fuck was I thinking earlier?
And the most concerning, depending on who you’d ask…
Who the fuck is responsible for this?
It’s fucking aggravating. Why do I even care?
A whistle blares. “Riviera! What the fuck are you doing, trying to break his spine?”
Growling under my breath, I jump to a stand and spit out my mouth guard. Behind me, some second-string is groaning and rolling on the green. Casey finds my gaze as I pass, eyes widening in silent question. You good, man?
No. No, I’m not good. I’m so far from good, I should be nine circles deep into hell.
I don’t know where my ability to shut out the noise and focus fucked off to, but hell if I can find it in me to worry about that right now.
Coach jogs over to me by the bench. “You gonna tell me what the hell’s up with you today?” he says, keeping his voice low enough so the others lingering don’t hear.
Mashing my molars, I shake my head and reach down for my water bottle.
All while I chug it down, I can feel Coach staring at me.
Studying me. I fucking hate it, but I’m also not so far past gone that I don’t know my behavior’s got to be raising some concerns.
This isn’t me. Coach knows this isn’t me.
And he also knows, thanks to Quentin, when to essentially… .pull the plug.
I know it’s coming before he even says the words.
“Take off early today. Get some air. Some sleep.”
My eyes close, and I suppress the urge to protest. To bite out something cruel. To punch him in the fucking face.
“Vale…”
Jaw working, I nod.
He sighs a breath of relief. And then, to add some brevity, he jokes, “Unlike these idiots, I’m not worried about your game. You deserve a break.”
I don’t fucking want a break.
I just want—
He slaps my back. “Get outta here.”
Despite knowing it’s for the best—at this rate, I’m more likely to snap someone’s neck than be of any use to the team—I still find myself storming off the field, fists balled at my sides.
I can feel the eyes boring into me, and it takes everything in me not to whirl around, and find all the faces they belong to, line them up, and drive my fist into each one.
Fucking Aston.
This. This is exactly why I’ve tried to keep my distance. Why, from the start, I knew it was imperative I steer clear of him. He’s a fucking parasite. An infection I can’t sweat out no matter how hard I try.
Maybe I just need to try harder…
After the quickest shower known to man, I throw on a pair of gym shorts and a hoodie, and grab my shit, only pausing to check my phone.
I tell myself it’s not because I’m expecting a text, but when I find nothing but a single unread message from Quentin telling me he’s going to be late getting home tonight, and to fend for myself for dinner, I find myself gripping the phone so tight, the case creaks, threatening to snap off.
Locking it, I shove it into the side pocket of my bag, exchanging it for my keys.
Outside in the parking lot, I’m so preoccupied with trying to get myself under control, I don’t immediately register the steps pounding after me, or my name being called. Not until I’ve reached my Audi and a hand grips my shoulder.
Assuming it’s either Casey or Fletch checking in on me, I growl low in my throat, and spin around, readying to deck them.
They know better. “Do you have a fucking death wi—” My voice cuts off mid-sentence when I come face to face not with either of my annoying best friends, but the shocked and worried brown gaze of my ex-boyfriend.
The breath leaves me in a whoosh, and I drop my arms.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
Shaking my head, I look around the empty lot, wondering where the fuck he came from.
Why is he even out here? Debate club or chess—whatever he fucking had today, because it’s always something—wouldn’t be letting out for another half hour or so.
I know this, because I’d typically drive Seth home after practice.
“Look,” I tell him stiffly, “it’s not really a good time right now. ”
“Are you okay?” Seth asks, ignoring me. “I saw you storm out. You looked…upset.”
Biting back a snappy retort, I refocus on his face and tell him, “I’m fine.”
His lips purse, telling me he clearly doesn’t believe me.
Jacking a thumb behind me, I say, “But I really gotta—”
“Can we talk?”
I rest my hand on the roof of the car, fingers flexing into the smooth, chilly surface. “I just said—”
“My house is on the way,” he says quickly, as if I somehow forgot in the week and a half since we broke up.
“We can talk as you drive. I just—” He cuts himself off and looks down at the pavement, wetting his lips.
“Please, Vale. I just want to…better understand what happened. We got cut off by the bell before we could talk it out, and I just…I’ve had a lot of time to think. ”
I roll my eyes. What more is there to fucking say?
I’m about to say as much when movement across the lot catches my attention, prompting me to straighten.
Aston emerges from the side doors of the school—the faculty entrance—with not just Jennings but his wife and kid too.
He’s got one arm clutching his bag to his chest, and with the other, he waves around a Blow Pop as he talks animatedly.
The woman—Jennings’ wife. Matilda, I think I recall Quentin calling her—shakes her head and reaches over to ruffle his hair before joining her husband’s side.
Why the sight of such a simple affectionate gesture has me seeing red, I have no fucking clue.
As if sensing the surge of rage tainting the air, Aston snaps to attention, his gaze swinging wildly around before coming to land on mine.