Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Hannaford is a writhing snake pit of gossips.
I didn’t even make it to my room after my tutoring session with Ash and Blaise before being asked about Samuel. It was late by the time we finished up, and I’d been forced to skip dinner.
My stomach aches the entire time I’m training, which is enough of a distraction to irritate me, and it’s clear I can’t afford to skip breakfast. Harley will also be pissed if he has to listen to the grumbling of my stomach all through our classes, so the choice is practically made for me.
The dining hall opens at five a.m. and I reason with myself that I’ll be safe to eat at that time.
What other students would be willing to eat that early?
I’m pissed to find that there is a whole heap of students waiting at the door for the dining hall to open.
It turns out the swim team, track, and the rowing team all meet at 6 a.m. to torture themselves.
It’s all elbows and swearing to get to the front of the line, so I hang back and survey the crowd.
Harley is on the swim team, but he’s not here.
The room he shares with Ash and Blaise probably has a fully stocked kitchen and a personal chef. Yes, I’ll admit I’m hungry and bitter. I need to come up with a better system to keep me from turning into a hangry bitch.
My mouth waters when I see the French toast, and I decide to risk a second roofie episode. I pile on the cream and strawberries, drizzle so much syrup it drips everywhere, and become a sticky mess.
I’m a happy, sticky mess.
When I’ve literally licked my plate clean, I dump my tray onto the pile by the door and start back toward the girls’ dorm for a quick shower before classes. My belly is full, and I even catch myself humming cheerfully under my breath. The perfect morning.
Strong hands grab me roughly and pull me into an empty classroom.
I shove at them, but I have a six-foot guy on each side of me, neither of whom I have spoken to before.
They’re upperclassmen for sure. I grunt and pull at their arms, only to have their hands tighten around my biceps.
Avery isn’t the only person who’s swift in their retribution.
I’m sure this is Samuel’s doing. I’m convincing myself to stay still and meek when a third student steps into the classroom.
Spencer Hillsong.
He’s the guy who approached me after the naked photos of me were sent out. I’d forgotten he even existed, but he hasn’t forgotten me.
Now that I know how much money is on the line for having sex with me, I’m sure that’s what he’s here for. Even rich kids must be tempted by seven hundred thousand, especially those who don’t have unlimited access to their parents’ wallets.
“My sweet mother would be so disappointed,” he says as he steps toward me.
He’s smiling cruelly, but he’s got nothing on Joey or Matteo. Still, he could rape me for the cash all the same.
“That you’d forced yourself on a girl? I should hope so.”
He laughs right in my face. I swear to myself that I’ll start carrying my knife with me from now on. It was stupid of me to believe I wasn’t in danger of this now that I’d dealt with Joey. I’ve only really handled him, not all of his blind followers.
“I would never put my dick in trash. Lord knows what commoner diseases you have. No, I’m going to show you what happens to girls who don’t do what they’re told.”
The crack of his hand across my face leaves me dazed.
He’s certainly not holding back on account of my gender.
I weigh my options while he looks at me with glee.
I could attempt to fight them off. Three to one, not great odds but doable.
They’re big guys, I can feel the muscular frames on the two holding me, so my chances of success aren’t great.
I tug my arms a little to gage the reaction and their grips tighten.
So they’re both committed to playing their part, neither of them seeming to care about me suggesting they were here to sexually assault me.
Spencer seems to be the only one interested in actually hitting me.
When he punches me in the stomach, I feel the guy on my left flinch even as my breakfast roils in my belly.
So, if I stand there and take the beating, I’ll only be hit by one guy.
If I pretended to be more hurt than I actually am, I might be able to minimize the damage.
I groan when he punches me again. It feels strange after having spent so much time learning how to stay silent, but I lay it on thick.
When he lands another blow to my head, this time behind my ear where my hair will cover the bruise—he’s a sneaky fuck—I see stars and swear roughly.
I could vomit, and I swear under my breath at the thought of wasting that beautiful, fluffy toast.
“You should think twice about messing with Joey. He owns this school. If he says jump, then the whole damn building moves.”
How utterly pathetic. Spencer is just openly admitting he’s Joey bitch. And for what? Doesn’t he realize that Joey doesn’t have the capacity to make friends? There’s no loyalty in him at all. Spencer is just another child playing a man's game.
I don’t have to fake the grunt that’s pushed out of me as I feel my ribs snap. It hurts like a bitch, and I’m forced to pant instead of taking deep breaths.
“Fuck, c’mon, Spence. The bitch is done. If you keep going, we’ll get caught for sure.”
Spencer is breathing hard and sweating from using my body as a punching bag. I don’t know how many hits I’ve taken, only that I’ve got a concussion and several broken ribs.
“Don’t be a pussy, Kyle. She can take a bit more. I’m sure she’s been slapped around before and fucking loves it.”
He pulls his arm back for one last hit, but the guy on my left drops me. I lurch to the ground, and the guy on my right drops me too. I manage to put my arms out to catch myself, but the intense roaring pain causes them to collapse, and I faceplant onto the carpet.
Every breath feels like I’m drawing glass into my chest cavity and it’s shredding my lungs to nothing.
I think I have at least two broken ribs, and I have to remember to baby them a bit so I don’t puncture a damn lung.
I know the score, I’ve done this all before, but I dream about the day that I never have to worry about being beaten again.
It takes everything in me to get to my room and changed into a clean uniform. The trip back down the stairs is almost my undoing, and when I arrive at my history class, the bell has rung and Harley is already sitting at our desk.
His eyes narrow the moment I appear in the doorway, and with every painful step I take, they darken until he’s watching me ease myself into my chair with a knowing look.
If the rest of the class has opinions about the state I’m in, I can’t say, because my entire focus is on the pain of every breath I take, and my eyes squeeze shut as I take a moment to get my shit together.
When I finally reopen them, the teacher has already started the class, and there’s a single sheet of paper and a pen laid out before me.
I’ve sat next to Harley in every class except choir since I transferred here, so I don’t have to look at him to know it’s his pen and paper, and he’s saving me from leaning down to rifle through my bag.
It’s also easy to see his train of thought on this one; I’m stubborn as hell.
If I’ve come to class beaten like this, I’ll?g notes as well.
It takes me a second to be sure I’m not going to sob or groan pathetically, but it’s only after I finally manage to murmur a ‘thank you’ to him that he speaks to me.
“Who did that to you?”
His voice is so soft; I know Avery hasn’t heard him. Whether he’s afraid to attract her attention or thinks she’s responsible, I can’t even begin to guess.
“A senior. Joey’s getting desperate,” I murmur back. I don’t want his help, but I can’t afford to have him say anything to Avery and get me into shit with her again. I physically could not fight her off right now.
“Which senior?”
He’s still whispering, but the words are distorted, like he’s barely squeezing them out.
I shift in my chair to look at him, and the move costs me dearly.
Black spots start dancing around the edges of my vision.
Harley’s not even looking at me, so it probably wasn’t worth the pain.
Instead, he’s taking notes in his beautiful, even handwriting, and no one would guess that he’s paying any attention to me.
I shake my head at him, and my own stupidity, before shifting my focus back on the lesson as I attempt to ignore the pain.
The teacher teases a pop quiz coming up, and the class erupts with groans and whining from the other students.
Harley uses the distraction to lean over to me to whisper into my ear.
My body is still firmly in defensive mode, so I startle, grunting at the white-hot pain that threatens to take my vision, sucking air into my ravaged lungs too quickly.
As I cough and hack into my hand, I can taste the coppery tang on my tongue, and I know the wet spot on my palm is blood.
Harley’s hand wraps around my wrist carefully but firmly, like he knows I’ll try and pull away from his touch.
Even with my whole body lit up with intense pain, my skin tingles underneath his palm as he looks down at the evidence of my internal bleeding.
“Tell me who the fuck did that to you or I’ll tell the teacher you’re spreading Mounty diseases by leaking blood everywhere.”
Typical Harley. He can’t even be sympathetic to my beating without acting like an ass. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. I don’t know what to do with what I see on his face.
He’s staring at me the way he looks at Avery, like I’m something precious, and my mind scrambles to figure out why. I gape at him and try to find my voice.
“Why would you care who did this to me?” I croak.