8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Bexley
"T he males barge and jostle one another to reach her, and several mates succeed, one after the other. Male right whales have gigantic testes, the largest in the world. They weigh a ton and produce gallons of sperm."
Why the hell am I listening to a documentary on sperm whales by Sir. David Attenborough?!
I stupidly wait until the end, checking to see if there's any indication of whose phone number this is. There's nothing, just the loud beep! signaling for me to leave a message.
"What the fuck?!" I curse, ending the call a few seconds too late.
Well, I guess I left a message.
It has to be Tai. He's the only person who could have gotten ahold of my cell and dialed a random number since he stole my bag. Speaking of which…
I survey the ripped remains of my books in front of me. Despite my earlier threat, I did end up staying at school. The rest of the day was tricky without the required material, and one teacher even threatened to write me up for not being able to use my textbook. It took all my effort to bite my tongue and just say sorry. Talk about victim blaming.
I'm finally able to get a closer look at the damage and as I suspected, he made sure to damage every single one beyond repair. At least I'm only carrying around what I need for each day. However, that’s three I’ll need to replace immediately if I don’t want to fall behind.
Even though I hated taking his advice, I did try the Willowbrook library. But even after being messed around and scolded by the librarian because I didn't have a library card, it turned out to be useless anyway. Apparently , someone had just checked out all the books I needed during second period. I only need one guess as to who.
"Bex?"
A soft voice travels in from the doorway, and I glance up from the bed, offering Mom a smile.
"Hey, you," I say, swinging my legs over the side and climbing off the mattress. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine, baby," she answers, rubbing her temple. "How long was I asleep?"
The honest answer would be that I don’t know. She was passed out again when I got home. Judging by her glassy, red eyes and softly spoken slurred voice, it was a bad day for her. But she's coming out of the intoxication fog, and I try to spare her from the usual guilt she harbors in these moments.
"Not long," I answer with a warm smile. "About forty minutes."
"Oh, good," she murmurs. "Want me to make us some dinner?"
She asks this almost every day, as if it's her way of reminding me that she's a mom that cares about her daughter. Even though she struggles to do much, she always asks to do things for me, despite her demons. I love that about her. As usual, I decline with my usual excuse about not being hungry, suggesting she go for a shower to freshen up instead.
I don't know the last time she actually ventured to the fridge, but we haven't had any food for days except raw pasta and cans of beans. Luckily, she gets paid this week, so I'll do the grocery shop.
On paydays, I wait for the funds to hit and immediately transfer a small amount from her account to my own to buy us food with whatever the food stamps don't cover and put away some extra for gas and utilities. It's always the same amount, and for whatever reason, she never questions it. Part of me wonders if she just checks the balance and assumes that's her normal SSI payment and rolls with it. But I think deep down, she knows what I'm doing, but she's too ashamed to bring it up. Which in turn, makes her just buy more alcohol to numb her feelings until the funds are gone until the next pay cycle. Rinse and repeat.
I'm just thankful that Dad paid out the mortgage during the divorce proceedings so that we had a roof over our heads. It was the least he could do since he abandoned us. I often wonder if he thinks about us—about me. If he ever thought about coming back… or if he even knows the damage he did walking out.
Does he know what we live like now?
Probably not. The guilt would eat at him, so I bet he avoids ever checking to spare himself the self-condemnation.
It's just a shame that we got nothing else from him. Sure, he paid a scrap of child support monthly once he landed another job, but the second I turned eighteen, they stopped.
We had to fight tooth and nail to get Mom on disability payments after he left. For months, we struggled hard, and more than a few times, I actually thought we were going to die. I'll never forget the summer where I would have needed a belt to hold Sierra's stupid skimpy shorts up.
Sitting back on the bed, I grab my cell and start to shoot off a quick message to Steele. I really need to cash in on that dicking those douchebags ruined. But before I can hit send, a text notification appears.
Unknown: Open your photo gallery.
What the fudge?
I have a suspicion I know who this is, so I quickly crosscheck with my call log. Yep— that number.
Ignoring the message, I hit dial instead, listening as it goes straight to voicemail. There’s no way he turned off his cell that quickly. It has to be DND mode.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I open up the gallery to see what I have to deal with. A squeak rips out of me as I drop my cell in disgust.
WHY IS THERE A PICTURE OF AN ASS ON MY SCREEN?!
That son of a bitch. It was already bad enough that he tore up my stuff and stole my number, but to taint my camera with pearly white globes? Hell. No.
Huffing, I go back to my inbox and punch out a reply.
Bexley: You're disgusting.
I really shouldn't waste energy responding, but I'm so mad at his sheer audacity.
It only takes a few seconds before his reply comes back.
Unknown: Come say it to my face, Bexley. I'll even meet you on your turf.
The nerve of him. Do these guys have a sensor on them that every time I want to get off, they have to interrupt?
Bexley: Hard pass.
While I wait for him to respond—because I know he will—I save his number to my contacts. When his next message comes through, I have a little giggle to myself.
Ball-less Paper Fucker: Suit yourself.
I take a screen shot, sending it through to show off his new title. Within seconds, there’s a reply–a retaliation screenshot, with the words Peach Queen followed by the associated fruity emoji plastered as my contact name.
Peach Queen: Come say it to MY face tomorrow, Tai. I owe you a date with the stapler.
Ball-less Paper Fucker: So, you wanna touch my balls, Peachie?
Peach Queen: Go fuck yourself.
Ball-less Paper Fucker: Already did, actually. You should try it. Might loosen up that attitude of yours. Feel free to use my peach as inspiration.
Peach Queen: Trust me. No one is using THAT as inspiration.
Ball-less Paper Fucker: If you say so.
Peach Queen: I’m blocking you now.
Grumbling and cursing, I block the number and close my cell screen, slapping the device onto the blanket. To be fair, it’s not the worst ass I have seen. Tai is all muscle and dammit it’s reflected in his glutes.
And there goes my libido, fighting for its life. Muscles are a weakness for me, but thankfully, my brain comes to its senses, fighting off the need to orgasm.
Lady boner deflating… and gone.
Sorry Steele. No snu-snu for you either now.
Mom walks past my bedroom on her way back from the shower, calling out an early goodnight, and I decide to follow suit. Shower, music, doom scrolling then sleep… that’s all I need.
Not an orgasm.
Nope.
Definitely not one of those.
The rest of the week goes smoothly oddly enough. I barely cross paths with any of the Three Musketeers, except for classes like gym, and as I later found out, chemistry with Hunter. Even worse, apparently, we all share graphic design. But despite the odd glares here and there, they didn't actually try anything.
Friday night rolls around and even though Arch asked me to reconsider, I put my name down for a fight.
It’s not my first time in the cage, but usually I let other people volunteer so everyone gets a fair turn.
Unsurprisingly, this week we had a record-breaking number of requests from people wanting to fight. Apparently, I’m not the only one that needs to blow off some steam.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Arch asks, the two of us standing outside the cage door.
“Absolutely.”
I’m listening to him, but my eyes are locked on the opponent in the ring. The girl waiting for me looks like she could be the younger version of Miss Trunchbull in a spring production of Matilda. She’s not quite as tall as me but damn she’s fit and muscular. I bet she slings around athletic weights as part of her chosen sport.
“Alright,” Arch concedes with a sigh. “Go get her, Tiger.”
Giving him a wicked smile, I step into the cage, looking around.
It’s been months since I last fought, but the feeling still gets me every time.
The first time I ever circled these metal walls, I wondered how people could concentrate with the surrounding crowd and noise. But then it all faded. The faces vanished, my ears fell quiet, and all I could focus on was my opponent.
It was a thrilling rush. Addictive, almost.
Miniature Trunchbull sizes me up with a smirk, already thinking she’s got this one in the bag. But she’s mistaken. What I lack in muscle size is compensated by speed, height, and best of all, the ability to read my opponents.
Sparring isn’t about who can throw the hardest punch. It’s a strategic dance and battle of wits. And if you walk into the cage underestimating your opponent, you’ve already lost.
I know she’s going to make me work for it. And hell, I bet I’ll be sporting some nice bruises tomorrow. But the pain is worth it. The escape is everything.
The crowd of blue cheer loudly and I can’t help but smile. They love seeing me fight as much as I love fighting for them.
This is what a good leader does–she faces the enemy straight on. No hiding or sitting on makeshift thrones like you’re scared to get hurt.
Unable to resist, my eyes dart over to them, wanting to see their reaction. They’ve seen me fight plenty, but this time, it’s personal.
This time, I’m out for blood to make a statement.
Hunter’s mouth twitches as he mutters something to Rylan. He nods, Tai leaning in to join the conversation. Their eyes stay on me while they speak, and I give a little satirical wave, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m going to kick your ass, Spencer,” the girl snarls.
Glancing back over to her, I shrug. “We’ll see. What’s your name so I can add it to my list?”
“Fuck you.”
“Odd name, but okay.”
She curses at me just as the bell rings, and immediately, goes straight for my face. It's clear she wants to make a statement too. Fists swing at me, and I jump into action, darting and blocking all of them. But I don’t throw a punch back yet. I wait.
Calculate.
Fuck You tries again, switching tactics and faking a punch before slamming her knee into my ribs. The crowd groans as if they feel the pain of her blow too, but I keep moving.This was all premeditated. You can't get a read on an opponent if you don't take a few hits.
Right. So, that’s her plan. She’s going to go for lower extremities since she knows I’ll block the face. It means she’s going to toss uppercuts, side hooks and knees into the grapple. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
When she comes for me again, I eye her stance carefully. When her knee tenses up, I count to a quick two before pivoting to my side, letting her knee brush past my stomach as she tries to launch it into me.
The move throws her off balance, so I swing to test the waters. As I suspected, she's not strong with reflexes. There’s no time for her to block, still stumbling to recover when my fist connects with her cheek bone.
Oof. That’s going to leave a mark.
Hissing, she takes a few seconds to shake it off, eyes flaring as she throws a side hook at my head. I speedily lift my arm into a L shape, deflecting the move away but her other fist comes out straight away, this time smashing into my jaw.
I rotate my neck to clear the little head spin. “Is that all you’ve got?”
The fighter, formerly known as Fuck You , soon to be known as Toast , smirks, the two of us dancing around in circles. “Not even by a long shot.”
“Good,” I breathe out, darting forward to drive my knee hard into her lower stomach.
She hunches over with a groan, struggling to pull up from the pain as she clutches her torso. I decide enough is enough and to put her out of her misery early. I'm not a monster.
Tackling her to the ground, I maneuver her onto her stomach while I push my weight into her back and place her into a choke hold.
One… Two… Three.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
And just like that, it’s all over.