Chapter 7
Sam
Ipractically throw myself into the classroom as if the hall is on fire.
“I hate him,” I mutter as I step inside, the words struggling out of my throat.
I slump into my chair and shove my bag onto the floor with more force than needed.
I toss my books onto the desk, still haunted by him.
His cock pressed where it shouldn’t be, that filthy mouth brushing my ear, his voice low, smug, and intimate in a way that makes my stomach flip.
And God, that fucking smirk. The one that dared me to react.
My fingers curl into fists. I can’t slow my heartbeat. My skin still pulses where he touched me, and where he didn’t even have to touch me to ruin me. God, I should’ve slapped him harder. Made it sting longer and wiped that look off his face for good.
Aubrey and Lola walk in a second later, laughing about something that dies the instant they see me.
Both of them zero in, concern snapping into place. They cross the room fast, chairs scraping as they pull closer.
“Are you okay?” Aubrey asks, eyes searching my face. “You look—”
“I swear to God,” I cut in, my voice shaking with rage I can barely contain, “if Reece Wilson comes near me again, I’ll rip his fucking dick off.”
That instantly grabs Lola’s attention.
“Whoa.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Okay. What happened?”
I run my hand along my ponytail and stare down at the scarred surface of my desk because if I glance up, I might actually scream. Or cry. Or do something worse.
“What didn’t?” I mutter, dragging my bag onto my lap and digging through it as if I’ve actually forgotten something important. I haven’t. I just need to keep my hands busy before I lose my shit. “He fucking pinned me against those lockers out there.”
My fingers close around a notebook, but I don’t pull it out right away. My chest tightens, heat rushing up my neck as the memory floods back in full color.
“And he…” I trail off, swallowing hard. “He said shit. Filthy, disgusting shit, right in my fucking ear.”
“He, what?” Aubrey says, her whole body tensing up.
I yank the notebook free and slam it down on the desk harder than needed.
“He just stood there,” I snap. “Boxed me in and let me feel him.” My voice drops. “With his cock pressed against me, like he wanted me to feel it.” I clench my jaw. “And I did. Trust me, I did.”
“Oh my God,” Lola breathes, eyes going wide. “Was it… you know, big?”
“Lola.” I shoot her a glare.
“What?” Lola shrugs, completely unapologetic, lifting one shoulder as if we’re talking about the weather. “Just asking. It’s Reece.”
“Exactly.” I snap the word like it’s a weapon.
“Reece. Fuck boy of the century.” My hands curl into fists on the desk, nails biting into my palms. “I swear that boy lives to piss me off. That’s his entire personality.
He doesn’t give a shit about school, or rules, or consequences.
He only cares for whatever girl is stupid enough to fall for his bullshit. ”
Lola opens her mouth, likely to argue, but Aubrey beats her to it.
“You better be careful, Sam,” she says softly, before exhaling slowly, like she does when she’s choosing her words carefully. “Guys like him don’t just mess around. He’ll ruin you if you let him.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My spine straightens, anger flaring hot and fast. “I’m not letting him ruin anything.”
Aubrey raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You sure about that? Because for someone who’s supposedly not interested, you’re giving off major I’ve-thought-about-him-naked energy right now.”
My mouth opens automatically. “I haven’t—”
The lie dies in my throat.
“Okay. Maybe once.” I swallow hard. “In the dark. When I couldn’t sleep. But I was stressed. And it didn’t count.”
Lola’s lips twitch.
Aubrey just stares at me.
“Stressed,” Lola repeats.
“Yes, I had a lot going on,” I snap, even though my heart’s pounding. “And it was brief. And stupid. And I didn’t enjoy it.”
The silence that comes afterward is deafening.
They both stare at me as if I’ve totally lost it and are waiting for me to finally tip over into madness.
I probably have. Because even now, with my face burning and my pride in shambles, all I can see is him smirking with me against the locker, hearing his voice in my ear, and all I can think is how badly I wish I’d hit him harder.
Aubrey tilts her head, studying me the way she does when she’s piecing something together. “At first,” she says. “I wondered what the hell was going on with you guys. Why he calls you Red like it’s his favorite word.” Her mouth twists. “As if it actually means something.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I mumble, eyes dropping to my workbook. I pick at the corner until it starts to bend, then bend it some more.
“It kinda does,” Lola sings, way too cheerful for where this is headed. “The way he looks at you—”
I whip my head toward her so quickly that my neck twinges. “Don’t.”
She ignores me. Of course she does.
Lola turns to Aubrey instead, smile bright, voice light, completely fucking oblivious to the grenade she’s about to toss. “Reece was her first kiss.”
Aubrey’s eyes widen. “Wait.” She blinks, then blinks again. “Reece was your first kiss?”
“Lola,” I grind out, heat rushing to my face, my stomach dropping out from under me. I glare at her, furious and embarrassed, wishing I could undo the last ten seconds of my life. “Why would you say that?”
Aubrey gasps, her hand flying to her chest as if she’s just received the juiciest piece of gossip. “Oh my god, Sam. He was your first?” She leans in, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You have to tell me everything.”
I let my hands fall on the desk and groan, then drag them back up to cover my face. This is my worst nightmare—public humiliation, served right before the first period of the day.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say into my palms, muffled and miserable.
“That’s a lie,” Lola adds, snorting softly. “Liz said you didn’t shut up about it for three weeks.”
I drag both hands down my face, palms pressing firmly, as if the sting might erase the image that flashes too easily in my mind.
“It wasn’t,” I mutter, dropping my hands and staring at the desk. “And it doesn’t matter.” My voice turns flat and defensive. “He just wants to mess with me. That’s all this is. A stupid game.”
“Sure,” Aubrey says, not buying it for a second. “But even if it is, you’re already playing.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again.
Lola lights up. “So tell me,” she says, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, eyes bright. “What does he taste like? I’ve always wanted to know.” She nods to herself. “I bet when he kissed you, he tasted like sour lollies and rebellion.”
Aubrey chokes on a laugh. “Jesus, Lola.”
“What?” Lola shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I want to know.” She looks between us, waiting. “Well.”
“I can’t remember,” I say quickly, eyes dropping to my books. I start rearranging them, stacking and unstacking, lining the edges up perfectly so I don’t have to look at either of them.
It’s a lie because I remember everything.
I remember how awkward it was, being too close and not close enough at the same time.
The way my heart pounded so loudly I thought he’d hear it.
How his mouth brushed mine first, tentative and unsure.
The way I froze for half a second before kissing him back, clumsy and inexperienced.
I was fourteen and believed the moment mattered more than it ever really should have.
I remember how I couldn’t stop smiling afterward, replaying it over and over in my head.
I push the memories aside and keep shifting my books around, pretending none of it exists.
“I call bullshit,” Aubrey says softly, but her tone makes it clear she knows.
I don’t lift my eyes, because if I do, I might admit that it used to matter, and even worse, that some foolish part of me is still afraid it does.
I don’t answer. I just sit there, straightening my books on the desk for the third time, even though it’s already neat. I can feel their eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. Like if they stare hard enough, I’ll crack.
When I still don’t look up, Aubrey’s voice softens. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy.” I exhale and finally lift my head, forcing a half-smile. “This is exactly why I don’t get involved in shit like this. Boys. Feelings. Drama.” I shake my head. “It’s all pointless.”
Lola hums next to me. “Yeah,” she says. “But it’s also kind of fun.”
“Fun?” I bark out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “You call being manhandled against your locker fun?”
She doesn’t even hesitate, just grins. “Depends who’s doing the manhandling.”
Aubrey snorts, then bursts out laughing, covering her mouth as if she’s trying to behave but failing miserably.
I groan and roll my eyes. “You two are no help.”
They’re still smiling when the bell rings, cutting through the moment. Chairs scrape against the floor. Voices rise in excitement. The classroom begins to fill with bodies, noise, and the familiar chaos of first period. People push past desks, bags hit the floor, and laughter echoes off the walls.
The English teacher walks in a second later, heels clicking, with a stack of papers tucked under her arm. “Alright,” she says, clapping once for attention. “Settle down. Books out. We’re continuing with poetry analysis today.”
Poetry. Of all things.
I open my notebook and try to lose myself in it. I highlight headings that don’t need it. I rewrite the date even though it’s already there. I tell myself to focus on the assessment—on anything that isn’t the cocky, chaotic mess of a boy who has somehow invaded every unguarded thought I have.
I try.
But all I can think about is him.
His breath in my ear. That heat pressing into mine. The rough edge in his voice when he said what he wanted to do.
My thighs tense up under the desk. I shift in my seat, rage sparking because the aftereffects of it linger against me. My body remembers something my brain is trying to reject.
It makes me furious.
This isn’t me.
I don’t daydream about boys. I don’t fixate on someone who only cares about getting off and causing trouble. And I sure as hell don’t obsess over pretty boys with good hands and bad intentions. Boys who smile like trouble and talk as if they already own you.
I don’t.
Except I do.
I stare at the board as the teacher begins talking about metaphors and symbolism, her voice drifting across the room. I nod at the right moments. I even jot down a few words. But it all sounds like white noise. Background static. Because my mind is still pinned against those lockers.
Still trapped in that narrow space with him.
I tighten my grip on the pen, knuckles turning white, as I struggle to stay still.
English blurs. The classroom fades.
He’s not worth my time, I tell myself. I repeat it in my head, like a mantra. Reece is not worth the spiral. Not worth the tight chest or the restless energy buzzing under my skin. But when the second class ends, and I step into the hallway; my resolve shatters. My eyes betray me instantly.
I search for him.
It isn’t a choice.
It’s instinct.
A pull I don’t want to admit exists.
My eyes scan the crowd automatically, passing over familiar faces, lockers, bodies too close together. Then I find him.
Reece is slouched against the wall near the science wing, one shoulder pressed against the brick, hands in his pockets. He looks relaxed, lazy, yet dangerous in that effortless way that makes my stomach sink. His eyes are already on me, dark and focused, as if he knew I’d be searching.
My heart pounds so hard it almost knocks me off balance.
For half a second, the hallway vanishes. The noise dulls. The movement becomes blurry. It’s just him and that look, fixed on me with a certainty that makes my stomach twist.
Heat floods my chest, spreading quickly enough to steal my breath. My pulse races again, pounding too hard, too loud.
He doesn’t smile. He just watches me. Waiting. Knowing.
That’s what really gets to me.
The fact that he’s already looking directly at me the moment I step into view, as if this moment always belonged to him and he depended on me doing exactly what he expected.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. My shoulders stiffen. I stay completely still because if I move, if I relax even slightly, I’ll break everything I’m trying to keep hidden.
I break eye contact first because I have to; if I don’t, I’ll stay there too long and let it turn into something else—something dangerous that he’ll interpret as permission.
And I refuse to give him that.
I turn down the hall and walk fast, boots pounding the floor harder than necessary.
My spine stays straight. My face remains blank.
I shape my expression into something calm and unaffected, even though my pulse is still tripping over itself.
Every movement is controlled, as if I’m holding myself together by sheer force of will.
I sense his gaze on my back, anyway.
It’s physical—a weight pressing against my shoulder blades. My skin itches, nerves buzz, awareness edging beneath my clothes. Even with him behind me and out of sight, my body remains alert to him, tuned in, waiting for something I can’t bring myself to name.
The hallway goes on, too long and crowded, with bodies brushing past me from all sides and voices echoing off lockers and walls. There’s no place to hide in it.
I keep my head held high and my stride steady, even though my chest feels tight and my skin still tingles.
I am painfully aware of myself—how I’m walking and how absurd it is that a single look from him can affect me this way.
That I can feel off balance in the middle of a crowd that doesn’t have a clue about what’s playing out inside my mind.
Get your shit together, Sam. You don’t fall apart over boys. You don’t spiral in hallways or replay moments that should already be dead and buried. You breathe. You walk. You move on.
So I square my shoulders and keep moving, pretending I don’t feel him lingering behind me or that this hasn’t already gone deeper than I want to admit.