12 - Caught Red Handed
Logan
Cee: Who the fuck even are you?!
The text was the wake-up call I didn’t need.
I’d already been questioning my moral compass without Casey’s contribution, thank you very much.
Despite not being my girlfriend anymore, she always signs her texts off with a single x, but it’s nowhere to be seen.
She obviously can’t believe the level I’ve stooped to.
Neither can I, to be honest. Murder? Yes. Torture? Yes. Stealing a girl’s virginity in the bed my best mate shags all his one-night stands? Definitely wasn’t on the cards. Potentially impregnating said girl after failed contraception? Shouldn’t even exist in the damn stratosphere!
I don’t message Casey back because I genuinely can’t give her an answer without sounding like an insensitive bastard.
Cordelia’s been ignoring me at the academy for weeks now.
In fact, she struts around avoiding me like she’ll catch the bubonic plague if she goes within a foot of my aura.
The posts on her IG have become more regular.
Since they’ve upped in frequency, I’ve taken to stalking her with heightened efficiency.
Perhaps it’s me over-analysing, but there’s been an unhealthy amount of ‘guy pictures’ just recently.
And by an unhealthy amount, I mean more than zero.
It’s always one of three dudes and judging by their poncy French names they’re her friends from back home.
I’m 99.9% sure she’s doing it on purpose to piss me off.
It’s working.
Her and Lucien grinning at the camera, both clutching colourful cocktails.
Her and Phillipe standing back-to-back, hands posed like they’re holding imaginary guns.
If she doesn’t kick this newfound habit soon, I’m going to start fucking commenting. And she will not like that because my restraint only stretches so far, and she is pushing it to the brink.
It won’t have slipped past her that I’ve scrolled through her account like a crazed stalker, liking every one of her posts except the ones with her male companions in the frame.
I’ve already started my daily scroll with my morning protein shake.
It’s become a ritual to start my day. Not just hers, but her friends too.
What? Don’t judge me. Cordelia features in some of their posts.
And when I scrolled back far enough—which I obviously did because I’m already invested, I found photos of her from her younger years.
Which made my black heart melt into a heap of sludge in my chest. Cordelia’s always been beautiful, always had that same mischievous sparkle in her big blue eyes but now, as an adult, she is divine.
All milky skin and soft curves—a temptress to my depravity.
I freeze, thumb hovering against the glass when my eyes fall heavily on her most recent post.
Her planting a sloppy kiss on Theodore’s cheek.
Alright. It’s not just me. She is baiting me.
My fingers slide across the screen, and I hit send without a second thought.
@Cordelia.attitude(fitting fucking handle, right?) Do you like your friends, sweetheart? You’re going the right way to make them disappear…
Too much with the sweetheart bit? Nah, fuck it.
@BikerboyCox Let me introduce you to my middle fucking finger *middle finger emoji. Smiley face emoji*
@Cordelia.attitude Your finger says fuck you. But your body says fuck me.
@BikerboyCox My body doesn’t rule me like your puny cock does.
I blink. Twice. Three times.
@Cordelia.attitude We both know my cock isn’t puny, Cordelia. Now sit the fuck down and behave.
CocoClo: ooh, pretty-boys jealous!
CocoClo is her French friend, Chloe. Lives in Nice. From what I can gather from her posts, she’s a promiscuous thing, with a habit for wearing little more than her underwear in public places and an obsession for sketchy literature.
A terrible influence on my vixen, for sure.
LucienHearthrob: Err. This photo was taken years ago. Chill.
@Cordelia.attitude Is this guy threatening me, Dee?
Dee? My eyes narrow instinctively.
Fucking Theo. Drama Dork. What a shitty screen name.
Yes, you little prick, that’s exactly what’s happening here. Frustratingly, I can’t see much of the kids face in the photo. He’s wearing a white baseball cap with his head angled to the floor, flaunting the stupid slogan emblazoned across the front.
Not my problem.
I’m about to make it your fucking problem, kid. Clicking on his profile does nothing but stoke the pissed-off demon lurking beneath my skin. The bastards got his accounts set to private and I highly doubt the little shite will be my best buddy now I’ve threatened his life.
With a grunt and zero regrets, I click send.
@DramaDork It’s not a threat, kid. It’s a fucking promise *skull emoji*
TheMafiaMan: Woo! It’s getting hot in here *fire emoji*
That last comment draws a chuckle from me. Trust Clarke to bring shit back down to his level.
To top off her new hobby of goading me, Cordelia’s not been herself lately. She’s absent from countless lectures and taking more toilet breaks than would be acceptable in an old folk’s retirement home.
When we sit down for psychology classes, her perfect rear hardly ever graces the seat.
On the rare occasion that she is sitting between us, she doesn’t utter a single word.
Clarke and I often exchange knowing glances behind her back because we both know something’s up.
Even he must sense the looming unease because he’s not attempted to strike up conversation or use his cocky-boy charm to mock her.
She’s gone from sassy little madam to a fucking mute all in the space of a few short weeks.
I get halfway through my second lecture of the day before I’ve finally had enough of her shit and decide it’s time to confront her.
Even if I have to back her into a corner.
Even if I have to hold her hostage. Cordelia’s a serial liar by nature and she might think she’s pulling the wool over my eyes, but I’ve always excelled at reading people’s body language.
And hers, though concealed well, tells me all I need to know.
There’s something eating away at me: a niggling suspicion in the back of my mind that started off as a fleeting notion. I just hope to every god in existence that I’ve got the wrong end of the stick.
Cordelia raises her hand high in the air, excusing herself to go to the toilet- for the third time in the twenty minutes since class began. At this point, Mr Morgan doesn’t even acknowledge her spoken words. He points and returns promptly to teaching the rest of us.
I don’t bother asking for permission. I stand and follow, trailing behind her at a safe enough distance, and slipping through the door leading to the ladies’ toilets.
She’s squirreled herself away in one of the cubicles by the time I’ve breezed in.
The unmistakable sound of retching, followed by violent choking and splattering, has me jumping to cover my own mouth.
Still, I stand there, listening to the guttural spasms. Her soft groans a plea for help, but I don’t say a word.
Knowing what a devious little minx she is, if she’s aware I’m here, I guarantee she won’t come out.
And then I will have to tear the door off its fucking hinges to get to her.
We’ll try not to escalate to those extremes yet.
I’m not known for being a patient man, but for her, I’ll wait.
As time goes on, the realisation that my inclination is seeming closer to the truth turns my stomach to lead.
Hollow. Heavy. I pace up and down to occupy myself, fingers shoved firmly between my lips.
To distract myself from the overwhelming fear festering, consuming every fucked-up recess inside my head.
What if I’m bang on the money?
The door swings open, startling me from my panicked musings.
She spots me and stumbles, trying to slam it in my face.
But I’m faster and manage to wedge a foot in the frame before it closes fully, unperturbed by her attempt to crush it with the weight.
My arms fill the space on either side of the narrow cubicle, blocking all possible exits.
Her pretty eyes grow wide, darting around before landing back on me.
I level my gaze with hers, measured and sure.
“What on earth happened to you?” She blurts out, mouth agape, eyes flitting over my face. Split lip, fading black eye, swollen nose. It’s all healing and looks a hell of a lot better than it did.
“You’re pregnant.”
Even as the words tumble from my lips, I can’t believe I’m saying them. Cordelia stares daggers at me, straight on the defensive, which is her first tell. I don’t need her to admit anything though; it’s as clear as day. She scowls at me, hands on her midriff, popping a hip.
“This is the ladies’ toilet, dickhead. You’ve got the wrong door.”
The sarcastic jab goes over my head. It’s an avoidance tactic that I’m not buying.
“It’s mine, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Cox,” she growls.
With the bare crumb of strength she can muster, she shoves me to the side to wash her hands.
Not that she probably needs to; I doubt she’s even been to the toilet - just had her head down it.
But it’s a clever ploy to try to put me off the scent.
Unfortunately for her it’s not going to work. I step back into her personal space, once again blocking her way to the exit.
“Stop it,” she snaps, eyes glued to the mirror, dull and heavy, lacking their usual defiant twinkle. Like she’s searching for a version of herself that’s not crumbling to little pieces. Cordelia won’t look at me- second tell that gives her away.
I hold my hands up in mock surrender.” I’m not stopping anything, darlin,” I reply. I step up behind her, meeting her gaze in the shiny glass. “I’m just finally seeing it.”