Chapter 4 #2
My head snaps to the side, heat exploding across my cheek, skin burning as if she branded me. My pulse roars, blood rushing hot and fast, and for a split second, everything goes white.
Lola gasps loudly.
Mason lets out a laugh he tries and fails to hold back.
Someone swears under their breath.
I lean back slowly, my tongue pressing against the inside of my cheek.
I watch her turn back around in her seat, spine straight, chin lifted, as if she didn’t just light me the fuck up in front of half the class.
“Jesus,” Liz mutters. “You deserved that.”
The slap still stings. My cheek throbs, heat radiating each time I move my jaw. But my smile remains. Crooked and dark, because her cold shoulder I can handle. But that slap… That’s fucking foreplay.
Sam doesn’t acknowledge me for the rest of the class, but she’s tapping her pen hard enough to crack the table. Her leg won’t stop bouncing.
She’s not unaffected.
And that’s the thrill I live for.
I spend the next forty minutes pretending I don’t care, which is complete bullshit.
My knee won’t stop bouncing, and no matter how hard I try to focus, my eyes keep drifting back to her.
To the back of her neck. That pale strip of skin between her collar and her hairline feels obscene in how much it pulls at me.
I keep imagining what it would be like to press my mouth there, to see if she gasps or if she breaks and lets out a quiet moan she can’t stop.
Lola passes her a note, sliding it across the desk with a grin, and they snort quietly together. Lola leans in, whispering something under her breath that makes Sam smile.
Mrs. Whitman drones on about thesis statements and structure, her voice blending into background noise I can’t latch onto.
Pens scratch. Pages flip. I don’t write a single fucking word. My notebook stays blank, open to a clean page that mocks me every time I glance down.
Sam fills an entire page. She underlines something twice, pressing hard enough that the pen almost tears the paper. She cares about school. About things that don’t include me, my mouth, my cock, or the mess I want to make of her.
Because while everyone else is half-asleep and checked out from hearing the teacher drone on, she’s fully present.
The bell rings, and the room bursts into movement.
Chairs scrape loudly as students jostle to get up.
Bags zip shut. Voices rise sharply as everyone pushes towards the door.
Sam is on her feet immediately, her bag already slung over her shoulder, moving with determination.
Lola’s at her side, Liz close behind, the three of them weaving through the crowd.
Behind me, Jace stands. “You done poking the bear or what?”
I look up at him. “She’s not a bear.”
He grins. “Sure. She’s more dangerous.”
I should laugh. Normally I would. This is the part where I’d toss something back, shrug it off, act like it’s all good fun. But my eyes drift to the doorway where Sam disappeared.
Jace and I linger, watching the room empty around us.
Papers litter the floor. Mrs. Whitman’s already gone, heels clicking down the hall.
Jace nudges my shoulder as we finally make our way to the door.
“You should pay up now,” he says, smug as ever, that bullshit smirk glued on. “No way in hell you’re fucking that wildcat.”
I meet his gaze.
“Just watch me,” I say. “I’ll get there.”
“You’re serious,” he snorts.
“Dead serious. Have you ever known me to fail?”
Jace eyes me for a second; his grin fades slightly before it snaps back into place.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he says.
The next day at school drags on. Midday classes are already boring as hell, the kind that drain your energy before lunch even hits. Teachers talk. Pens scratch away. The clock hangs there, unmoving, as if it’s got a personal grudge against everyone stuck in the room.
Jace and I skip the next lesson silently, exchanging just a look that says enough.
We cut across the oval and duck behind the old sheds where no one ever bothers to check. It’s our spot. Out of sight. Out of mind.
We smoke. We talk. Sometimes we just let the silence do the talking.
Not many people know much about Jace and me.
We keep our lives quiet on purpose. Smart mouths. Careless grins. Jokes sharp enough to slice through anything real before it gets too close. It’s easier when people think they’ve got you figured out. Easier when they stop digging, stop asking, stop noticing the cracks.
Noah knows some of it. Enough to understand why Jace and I behave the way we do.
Why we don’t trust so easily. But he doesn’t know the whole story.
He goes home to Ken, to a place that feels secure, to a dad who genuinely cares and shows it every day.
Food on the table. Stability. Someone who shows up.
Noah has a version of life where adults don’t let you down over and over.
Jace and I don’t have that.
Jace knows my shit because I know his. We don’t sugarcoat it. We exchange truths the same way we pass joints, no judgment, no pity. Just understanding. That kind that comes from surviving similar messes.
He lives in an old trailer dumped out the back of his aunt’s place, rusted and cramped and barely holding together.
She’s the type who smiles sweetly in public, all generous and selfless, telling anyone who’ll listen how she took him in.
Behind closed doors, she’s a real cunt. Cuts him down every chance she gets.
Reminds him he’s unwanted. Ensures he knows he’s a burden she never asked for.
Same story, different packaging.
People reckon she’s a saint. Jace knows the truth.
My old man is a prick in a subtle way. Not loud about it. Not obvious. The kind you don’t notice from the outside unless you know where to look.
He sort of gives a shit. There’s always food in the house.
Cans in the cupboard, something frozen if you’re desperate.
The lights stay on. Rent gets paid. He heads to work every morning without fail, steel-toed boots by the door, lunch packed, routine locked in.
On paper, he does what he’s supposed to.
The basics. The bare minimum that lets people say he tried.
But he’d rather drink himself numb than build a relationship with his son.
Always has. The bottle takes what I don’t—his patience, his attention, any warmth he might have had to give.
By the time he gets home, he’s already halfway gone, eyes dull, voice short, shutting the world out one drink at a time.
It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
I don’t even know what happened to my mum.
I don’t remember her. Not her face. Not her voice.
Nothing tangible. Just a blank space where something important should be, a hole you don’t notice until you hit it.
He never talks about her. Not once. Not a name.
Not a memory. And I learned early that curiosity wasn’t welcome.
I remember being a little kid, standing in the kitchen, asking where she was.
Just a kid wanting an answer, nothing more.
The room turned cold. His face flushed red.
The smell of alcohol hit me before the yelling did.
He grabbed me by the collar and threw me onto the floor so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
Told me to shut the fuck up.
So I did.
I learned quickly. Realized that some questions aren’t worth the pain they cause. That silence keeps you safer than curiosity ever could.
When the bell finally sounds, we head back up to the cafeteria, smoke still clinging to our clothes, heads a little quieter than before.
The halls are already loud—lockers slamming, voices bouncing off the walls, everyone spilling out all at once.
We calmly make our way through everything and head to our usual table.
Noah’s already there with Aubrey and the rest of the girls, bags dropped, laughter easy and familiar.
This is the part that fucks with me more than it ever should.
This is why Sam now runs deeper under my skin than she ever did before. Being so close to her is a problem I didn’t see coming.
Back when we sat at our old table, watching the hierarchy unfold each day, she was distant.
A flash of red hair in the hallway. A presence I noticed without meaning to.
Even though I always had a thing for her, it was manageable.
I could look, file it away, lose myself in someone else, and forget about it by the end of the day.
Distance made it easier.
Now there is no fucking distance.
She’s right there. Across the table. Close enough that when she leans forward, I catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to hear her laugh. It does something to me every time. Tightens something in my chest I can’t quite name.
It’s changed now. And it’s worse.
I can’t pretend she’s just a passing thought when she’s sitting five feet away, when her knee bumps into mine under the table. I can’t bury it because there’s nowhere to fucking hide from it.
That’s how it is for me right now.
Sometimes I miss our old table because of this constant pull, but when I look up and see Tia and Nicole holding court, asserting their fake dominance with smiles and whispered poison, the nostalgia quickly fades.
The drama of it all is draining. I wish the two bitches would have a proper fight and finally end it.
See who comes out on top and save us from this never-ending circus.
Jace often tells me that they should get down into their bras and panties and let the crowd decide.
I always find that funny because even if one of them lost, it wouldn’t change a thing.
The loser would still have a fucking problem.
Still be jealous that the other has a leaner body, better hair, more attention.
Some petty, warped shit that never actually goes away.
There’s always something else to compete over, some new angle to twist it into. That’s just how it is.