Chapter 5
FIVE
I get less than three hours sleep and maybe it’s the fatigue, but I’m a raging bitch the moment I drag my corpse-like self out of my room the next day.
Typically, the iced coffee carafes are all empty, and when I ask one of the kitchen servers about a hot coffee, she gives me some lame excuse about safety regulations and school policies, like I haven’t seen hundreds of students walking around this place with their thermos steaming and smelling like my only drug of choice.
At this point, I’d gut half the student body for a hot coffee.
My day only gets worse when it becomes clear that the boys have all heard about the bullshit Avery pulled on me, and the whispers that follow me around the building have my jaw clenching so hard I start to think my teeth my will snap off.
I'm so distracted by it all that I don't notice the extra attention the seniors have begun to give me, until one of them approaches me after my first class is over.
The hallway that’s lined with the juniors’ lockers is more of a space where students loiter than a real thoroughfare.
No one else ever seems to use theirs, but this school loves hardbacks that weigh more than I do, and I refuse to drag them around all day, especially with classes spread over three floors.
I’m trying to jam the biggest of the stupid things into my bag when I sense someone creeping up behind me.
My hand moves to my side instinctively, but I left my knife back up in my room.
I decided the risk of being jumped wasn’t high enough to outweigh the danger of being expelled for carrying a concealed weapon on campus. As my blood runs cold and my hackles rise, I’m rethinking that.
“Hey there, Mounty. Do you have a name? Everyone just calls you Mounty or trash, so I wasn't sure your family could afford a name.”
Kill me now and just put me out of my misery.
I turn to find one of Joseph's flunkies leaning against the locker next to mine. I recognize him from the dining hall, and I level him with my most deadly glare. The look on his face barely falters, his smirk only tightening a fraction. He just stands there staring at me expectantly when I don’t immediately answer him.
I don’t like the feel of his eyes on my skin, it makes me want to scrub myself raw.
A group of sophomores walk past us both, whispering, and I’m this asshole to just leave me alone.
“Do you need something? Your winning personality isn't exactly doing anything for me, and I have a class to get to.”
He smirks at me before making a big show of working his eyes over my body lasciviously. I fight the urge to either cross my arms over my chest or punch him square in the nose.
When he’s sure he’s got my hackles up, he all but drawls at me, “So I've always wanted to fuck a Mounty. I hear you poor folk are wild in bed, and I'm willing to give it a go. When are you free this week for a quick fuck?”
The thread holding me back snaps.
I see red, then my vision whites out, and I think I'm having a full rage blackout.
I'm a little concerned that when my senses return, this dickhead will be dead.
I hear his laugh and then, without meaning to, my hand shoots out and jabs him in the throat.
?The noise he makes is magnificent, and he sprawls back into the lockers like I've shot him, sputtering like he’s.
Sometimes, my innate reactions are a goddamn blessing.
The hallway goes quiet, and looking down at him, the grin on my face is maliciously sharp. I speak quietly, but I know everyone can hear me. All eyes are on us.
“I wouldn't fuck you if you were the only rich dick left in this building. I wouldn't touch your disgusting cock for a million dollars.”
His face gets three shades darker, glancing around as the quiet and somewhat hesitant laughter starts up around us like the students can’t help themselves. He manages to straighten himself and throws me a haughty look.
“We’ll see about that,” he rasps, then turns on his heel and strides off.
I glance around as the whispers start back up, then roll my eyes when it’s clearly still at my expense.
This place is exhausting. Surviving here with these idiots may be harder than I thought.
I start walking to my next class and try not to let the dread at what the rest of the day holds for me creep in.
It distracts me from the confrontation, but not in a pleasant way.
Hannaford requires either a sport or some form of music as electives, and picking between them was like choosing a method to die.
I physically can not do anything that requires strenuous use of my legs.
I have five pins and two plates holding one of my legs together, which is a violent and dark story for another time.
But that means unless I could play basketball sitting down, I couldn't pick gym.
Music is a very different beast. I can't play any instruments, but I can sing.
Actually, I can fucking sing. But I haven't been able to hear the sound of my own singing for years without my PTSD kicking my ass all over the shop.
I’ve managed to only open my mouth during group numbers and warm-ups so far, but I have a copy of the class syllabus, and I know my project is a solo. I need to ace this class to keep my score up, but it feels impossible to me right now. My past is royally screwing me over.
I have one last class before choir, and as I round the corner to get to chemistry, everything changes.
My entire world view changes.
The door in front of me opens and out walks Blaise fucking Morrison.
Blaise. Fucking. Morrison.
Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be at school with Blaise Morrison.
I knew that he went to an ultra-exclusive private school and that he had dozens of privacy orders in place to make sure he could go to school like any other teenager, but he’s never been the type to perform in dive bars or the Bay club scene, even when he was just starting out, so I couldn’t have ever imagined that I would see him in the flesh, let alone breathe the same air as him.
This is bad.
It’s immediately apparent that no one else is having the same earth-shattering revelation as me right now, and if I don’t get my shit together soon, I’m going to shame myself horrifically.
For the first time since arriving at this place, it feels like the stakes are catastrophically stacked against me.
Given my upbringing and experience in the Bay, it makes zero sense that my entire existence is melting at his appearance.
That doesn’t stop a flush from spreading over my face, down my neck, and across my chest, until my entire body is on fire. He’s practically a god to me, and now I’m attending the same school as him; walking the same halls, eating the same food, studying at the same library.
What if we share a class?
Jesus fuck.
We’re the same age—he’s a junior, too—what if—there’s no possible way I’m going to be able to speak to Blaise fucking Morrison, so I better pray we don’t get partnered up on any assignments.
Would you look at that; I finally found a silver lining to Hannaford’s archaic seating charts and obsession with alphabetizing everything.
Anderson and Morrison are far enough apart that I’m safe.
My knees are weak at just the sight of him, and I’m sure I look like a deer caught in the headlights. My brain finally catches up with my body and I move out of his way, holding my breath as he passes me by without a glance in my direction.
It’s the single greatest moment of my life.
Blaise Morrison, Blaise fucking Morrison, is the lead singer and guitarist for Vanth Falling, which is my favorite band and, not to be too dramatic, is also my entire reason for existence.
I first heard Morrison when he was still solo and uploading covers of his favorite songs.
I was completely struck by the fact that he was my age and doing what I could only dream of doing.
I have every song he has ever done, even the less-polished stuff, and I sleep in one of the band’s shirts every night.
I have followed his entire career—of three years, but that is irrelevant—and I’m basically a walking encyclopedia on all things Vanth Falling.
He is perfection. A living god.
My obsession with him is due to his lyricism and his range. He is so fucking talented, a modern poet, and I respect him so much as an artist. Now seeing him up close, I can also say with absolute confidence that he is panty-droppingly hot.
His last round of promo photos came out during mid-summer break.
His hair was dyed a blue-black color, and long enough to fall across his face while he sang.
Long hair for the male students and unnatural colors are both against the uniform code here, so his hair is short now, honey-brown curls starting to form with what little length is left.
always thought the darker color of his hair set off the hauntingly luminescent green of his eyes the best. that now seem to dance as he peers around like he’s searching for someone.
He's tall and leanly muscled, filling out his uniform in a mouth-watering way, and I want to rip it off him.
He doesn't notice my meltdown, thank God, and he continues to swagger down the hall with an air of confidence that would be so obnoxious on any of these other rich dicks, but on him, I am swooning.
Swooning.
Lord save me, because I may die from the very presence of this guy.
I duck behind a potted plant to stay out of his eye line because, honestly, I'm making a complete fool of myself, and my heart stutters just a little. Sweet lord, there’s his trademark dimples. It’s entirely unfair for anyone to be so fucking hot.
Then my world-view fucking shatters.