Chapter Two
Jace
The third-floor bathroom is always empty. No one uses it, probably because the lights flicker as if they’re on their last nerve, and the lock won’t click unless you know the trick. Pull the door back a little, lift the handle just right, and it catches. Oh, and it also smells faintly of old piss.
I don’t give a shit though. It’s private. Far enough from the chaos. No teachers wandering past. No curious assholes yanking on the handle. Just cracked tiles, a busted mirror, and space to breathe.
Space to disappear. And yeah, space where I can fuck if I need to.
Maya’s hands are braced on the wall, back arched, moaning as if she’s auditioning for a porn site that peaked in 2009.
It’s loud, performative, and desperate in a way that feels rehearsed. And honestly, fucking hell the noise grates as if she’s trying way too hard to convince me this is the best moment of her life.
I tighten my grip on her hips and thrust harder, mostly to shut her the fuck up. The whine jumps an octave, sharp and shrill, and it only makes me want this over with faster.
“Fuck, Jace,” she gasps. “You feel so… god, I’ve never—”
“Don’t talk,” I mutter.
She doesn’t listen. They never do. Silence terrifies them. So they fill it with noise—commentary, breathless moaning that sounds rehearsed.
They believe sex is like currency. That if they say my name enough times or moan it just right, I’ll soften, stay, and want more. But I don’t. I never fucking do.
Maya is just another body. Another distraction. A warm place to bury my cock for five fucking minutes and forget everything else. No attachment. Just friction and heat.
Her perfume is too sweet, as fake as the sounds coming out of her mouth. The way she throws her head back, arches her body, and gasps like she’s discovering fire for the first time.
It’s all a badly rehearsed and overdone act, as if she’s performing for an audience that’s not even there.
I grab her hair and pull, tilting her face so she looks at me. “You don’t have to pretend.”
She blinks. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.”
I pull out halfway, then slam back in.
Her mouth opens, probably to say something, but I’m already gone. I’m already flipping the switch in my head that shuts everything off.
The pressure ramps up quickly once I focus only on my own body.
I tune into the rhythm. The heat. The inevitable release climbing up my spine.
My fingers dig into her hips with enough force to leave marks.
I fuck without mercy. Her breath stammers, catches on something that almost sounds like a sob.
Real or fake, I don’t give a shit.
My cock pulses and I come hard, filling the condom as the release crashes through me all at once. For a split second, it’s heaven—white-hot and blinding. Everything narrows to that brutal rush, and nothing else exists.
Then it vanishes.
The high drops out from under me. The silence that follows feels heavy and ugly. That’s how it always goes. A few seconds of fucking pleasure, then nothing but the quiet, hollow shit that comes afterward.
I pull out my cock before she can fake her orgasm.
She stumbles forward, catching herself on the wall with a shaky hand, knees wobbling.
I don’t reach for her or steady her when she sways. I don’t even look in her direction. Whatever she does with herself after this isn’t my problem. That isn’t my job. She can fucking catch herself.
I peel off the condom and toss it in the trash. Then I tuck my cock back into my jeans and zip up. Automatic. Muscle memory.
Maya stands in front of the cracked mirror, fixing her hair and smearing her mascara back into a manageable look. She opens her mouth again, hope already gathering behind her words.
“That was—”
“Don’t,” I say. “You got what you came for.”
Her expression briefly crumples before she reins it in, lips pressing together as she smooths down her skirt. Pride patched back on, cracks and all.
I pick my bag up off the floor, the strap sliding over my shoulder, and turn away. I unlock the door, push it open, and walk out, without looking back.
The door slams shut as I walk into the hallway, the sound echoing through the empty corridor. My boots slap against the floor as I move because I’ve got nothing but time and zero fucks to give.
I flex my hands. They still smell like Maya’s cheap perfume. It clings to my skin as if she’s trying to leave a mark, and it pisses me off more than it should. I rub my palms against my jeans as I walk, trying to wipe it away, as if friction alone can erase the last five minutes.
I round the corner and see her there. Ms. Mallory, standing dead center in the hallway with a stack of papers held tight to her chest, posture straight, spine stiff—every inch of her shouting control.
Black pencil skirt. High heels click loudly as she shifts her weight. Dark hair twisted into a neat little knot that probably took longer to perfect than it should have. She looks polished. The kind of woman who doesn’t spill, stammer, or lose her grip on anything.
She’s fucking hot. I’ve thought about that tight body beneath her good girl exterior more times than I should admit. The way she keeps herself so carefully, with every inch wrapped in restraint and rules.
I often wonder how she fucks. Whether she’s quiet or vicious about it. If she keeps control or finally lets it snap. You just know there’s something filthy buried beneath all that discipline. Something she never reveals.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and my brain short-circuits for half a second.
Not because I’m scared—I don’t do fear—but because she’s looking at me like she knows exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing.
For a brief moment, I wonder if she heard Maya’s moans echoing through the pipes.
She steps forward and blocks my path, heels clicking against the floor.
“Jace.”
I lift my chin, force my mouth into something that could pass for a smile. The kind I use when I don’t give a shit but want people to think I do.
“Ms. Mallory.”
Her gaze drops for half a second to my half-buttoned shirt, just long enough to notice the faint, sugary scent of cheap perfume clinging to me. I’m sure it hits her nose the same way it hits mine—loud, obnoxious, and impossible to ignore.
She doesn’t smile.
“Where were you just now?” It’s blunt, controlled, leaving no room for bullshit.
Yeah. She fucking knows.
“Bathroom,” I say, shrugging, running a hand through my hair as if this bores me. “Had a lot to get out of my system.”
“You’ve got four months left until graduation,” she says. “And you’re barely hanging on.”
I arch a brow because if she’s going to corner me, I’ll make it uncomfortable.
“That a threat,” I ask, voice lazy, mouth crooked, “or a pep talk?”
“A warning,” she says. “You don’t have the luxury of screwing around anymore.”
I snort, leaning back a bit, hands relaxed at my sides. “Screwing around’s kinda my thing.”
She completely ignores the bait, which somehow annoys me even more. “You’ve got potential, Jace. You just need to put in the time. I’ve seen it.”
“Are you watching me, Ms. Mallory?” I say. “Now I’m blushing.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of a reaction.
“I’m watching your grades,” she says coolly. “And your attendance. And the fact that you’re one bad week away from failing.”
I shrug again, because it’s easier than admitting anything. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” she agrees. “Especially when you waste it. This is it, Jace. You either do the work and graduate, or you throw away what little future you’ve got left.”
I snort. “Newsflash. I don’t have a future.”
“Not with that attitude.”
She pulls a sheet of paper from the stack in her arms and holds it out to me.
“I lined up a tutor,” she says. “Someone who actually agreed to help you. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I don’t need a tutor,” I reply, not bothering to take the paper. I keep my hands where they are, loose and uninterested, because admitting you need help is its own kind of weakness.
Her eyes stay on mine. Calm. Unflinching.
“Do you want your life to change, Jace,” she asks, voice steady, measured, “or are you planning to keep living exactly the way you are now?”
I go still.
That house flashes through my mind. My aunt’s place.
It’s big, clean, and warm. And then there is me, shoved out back in that damn trailer.
Thin walls. Rusted steps. A heater that barely works.
I work shifts at the diner to keep food on the table, to buy whatever crap I need to get through the week.
All while she pretends I don’t exist unless it’s to remind me I’m a problem she never asked for.
That battered tin box is my future if nothing changes.
“You’re smart,” she continues. “I know that. You just don’t think you’re worth the effort. I disagree.”
I exhale through my nose. “Fine.” I take the note from her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she says calmly. “What was that?”
I grit my teeth, jaw tightening until it aches. Pride is a stubborn bastard. “I said fine. Fuck. I’ll do it.” I shift my weight, irritation creeping up my spine. “Who is the tutor?”
She pauses.
“Lola Bellamy.”
My head snaps up before I can stop it.
I blink once, then twice.
Out of everyone in this damn school, why her?
“Lola?”
The girl with those quiet eyes and that sharp mouth. Bells. The one who looked at me as if she saw something worth saving before she learned better.
My grip tightens on the paper, as my pulse pounds in my ears, and for the first time all day, my cock is the last thing on my mind.
Ms. Mallory narrows her eyes. “Don’t screw this up, Jace.”
“No promises.”
She sighs, already fed up with me, and walks away.
I stay put for a second longer, still grinning.
Lola fucking Bellamy.
Bells.
I haven’t heard her voice in weeks. Not since everything went sideways and silence took over our back-and-forth. Now she’s stuck with me. This time, she won’t be able to ignore me when I speak.
I glance at the piece of paper in my hand.