Chapter 5 Dread #2
Not that they ever meant much to me, either.
I don’t swim for the attention or notoriety.
I swim because it’s the only thing keeping me from murdering someone most days, and being chained down by a strict schedule isn’t so bad when I don’t have to sleep behind bars at night.
Training for the Olympics keeps me busy.
I need to stay busy.
Except right now.
Right now, I need to fucking sleep.
“Dread,” Rogue growls impatiently, shoving my arm again and jostling me.
I creak open my eyes. When the hell did I even close them?
Rogue’s features are blurring, and I kind of want to deck him for disturbing me. Except, the thought of even lifting my fist sounds like too much goddamn work.
“Just shleepy,” I slur, my mouth too tired to form the words properly.
The crease in his forehead deepens, concern saturating his features. It’s an irritating sight.
“Dread,” he snaps louder, jerking my shoulder with more force. I snap open my eyes again, having no recollection of even closing them.
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck did you take? You can’t swim like this, dude.”
“S’kay. I just gotta rest my eyes…” Another jerk, and I’m opening my eyes again. They’re starting to burn now. “Jush for a shecond.”
“Dude, you have three fucking news stations here watching you like a hawk, and this is literally live on ESPN. You’re going to drown on fucking live television if you swim,” he berates, his voice sounding closer to a growl.
I glance around, searching for the cameras, but Rogue positioned his large body right in front of me, cutting me off from the world and, I guess, cutting the world off from me.
“If you don’t drown, then people are going to think you’re getting into hard drugs. Shit will come crashing down on your head faster than you can open your fucking eyes right now.”
“I have to shwim,” I argue weakly.
He scoffs, his frustration as potent as the chlorine in the air. “Did you take something? Are you on drugs?”
The accusation is enough to get my unfocused stare pinned to him for all of point-four seconds. “Fuck off, ashhole. You know I don’do that shit.”
His features twist with impatience. “Tell me what you ate and drank today.”
I shrug sloppily. “Jush my power bars and Gat’rade.”
I’m not sure how much time passes before he’s shaking my shoulder again, but it must’ve only been a few moments, long enough for me to let out a soft snore.
He’s holding up the Gatorade bottle I chugged earlier, as if it’s evidence of a murder scene. “Who had access to your Gatorade? You bring some chick into your room lately?”
“Rev,” I mumble.
His silence is loud—so much so, it’s successful in drawing my attention.
“There’s white residue at the bottom of your Gatorade,” he tells me, his tone grave. “How many did you drink today?”
“Three.”
His hand fists the bottle roughly, the plastic crinkling loudly from the force.
“Fuck, dude. Fuck!” he whisper-shouts. “Why the fuck was she in your room?”
I sigh and thump my head back against the wall. Somewhere beneath all the exhaustion weighing down my bones, there’s anger churning beneath. It’s just enough to keep my eyes open for longer than ten seconds at a time.
“She was getting hypo—hypo… therma.” I groan. “Not like we can jush kill her, so ’ad to warm ’er up.”
I peek at Rogue to find him staring at me incredulously.
“You fuck her?”
“Fuck no,” I spit. “Didn’t even touch ’er tits. She snuck out on me before I woke up.”
Rogue releases a heavy, frustrated sigh and runs a palm over his closely shaved hair roughly.
“She fucking drugged you. I knew this last prank was too far, man. She always bites back—every fucking time. Remember last time, when she put fucking red dye in our goddamn body wash? Our skin was stained red for fucking days, bro. Or the time before that, when she put sugar water in your gas tank? You had to get a whole new car.”
I nod along, growing annoyed with the reminders of only a few ways Reverie’s retaliated over the past several years.
“Dude. Weren't their seals broken? How did you not notice that?”
I scrunch my brows. I think I remember hearing them crack, but maybe I didn’t—I don't fucking know.
I made the mistake of opening that picture this morning and succumbing to a moment of weakness that still hasn’t released me. It distracted me all goddamn day, throughout both of my classes and up to this very fucking second.
I said I’d delete the picture, but I haven’t.
Every time I opened it, I could only stare at it, my thumb hovering over the trash can button yet never following through with clicking it.
Eventually, I went to open it again for the millionth time to delete it, and it was my goddamn screen saver.
When I did that, I don't even fucking know, but I haven't changed it, either.
My never-ending war with myself kept me thoroughly distracted. I barely remember drinking the first Gatorade, let alone the next two.
I clench my fists, though I release them just as quickly, too weak to hold on. It’s my own fault for bringing her into my room. Not for one second did I think I wouldn’t wake up when she did.
Fuuuuck.
I’ve never slept well—not since I was eight years old. I figured I’d sleep even worse with a snake coiled at my side. I was convinced I’d show up to this meet tired as hell, but at least without her untimely death on my hands.
Mission fucking accomplished, but only because the goddamn bitch drugged me.
Athletes and drugs have never not exploded in the media, and if officials think I’m doped up on national television, I can kiss the Olympics goodbye.
They take this shit seriously. It doesn’t matter that they’ll drug test me and find my shit clean, or if I tell them the stress and pressure got to my head and that I stupidly mistook my sleep meds for a simple pain reliever.
If I try to compete and make an embarrassment of myself, not only will I not qualify anyway, my reputation will never be the same, and this shit will forever stain my career.
A tendril of blackness swirls throughout my insides and licks every inch of me until I’m saturated in it.
One corner of my mouth lifts, a lazy chuckle shaking my shoulders.
“I’m gonna fucking kill ’er,” I mumble with another humorless laugh.
Rogue slaps my shoulder roughly. “No felonies for you, my guy. But we can sure as hell make her suffer.”
“Get Coash. Let ’im know what’sh happenin’,” I say. The harder I attempt not to slur, the worse I sound, but he understands me well enough to nod and head straight toward Coach.
He’s going to kick my fucking ass and put me through a grueling practice that will surely have me puking in the corner, but I’m losing consciousness every few moments, and I will literally die if I try to swim right now.
“Kellan.” I flinch at the gruff voice snapping my name with the disappointment of a thousand neglectful fathers who have unreasonably high expectations of their offspring.
Immediately, a shot of adrenaline floods my bloodstream, and it’s enough to not only get my eyes open, but keep them open.
At least, I think they’re open.
“I shwear, thish shit isn’t my fault,” I say, forcing my blurred gaze to Coach.
He’s the only person alive who not only can scream in my face and not get decked in the fucking mouth, but who can actually make me hang my head in shame.
He’s always been a tall, burly man—one of the few people who match my height. Forty years ago, he was an Olympic gold medalist. Now, his muscles have softened, and he has a bit of a potbelly, but I know even at his ripe old age, he could kick my ass.
Currently, he’s eye level with me, bent at the waist, hands on his knees.
An olive green hat sits atop his head that reads Master Baiter—his good luck charm—and his sharp, gray eyes study me carefully beneath knitted, bushy, white and gray brows.
The second he takes in my unfocused stare, he curses beneath his breath.
“You looked fine when you came in earlier. The fuck happened?” he asks, his weathered voice cracking like a whip.
“I meant to take shome Tylenawl. I think I took my mela-stonin inshtead by acshident,” I explain.
He’s always had pale skin with ruddy red cheeks, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen his entire face turn as red as lava until now. Tomato red, maybe, but fuck, he’s starting to turn purple.
“You goddamn fucking idiot, Kellan Sharpe. Do you know how many people are here to see you compete? Fucking ESPN is here— You know what? You’re going to give me a fucking stroke,” he rants, standing straight to swing his arms about during his tirade.
Just barely, he manages to keep his voice from traveling across the entire arena, but if we were alone, the goddamn astronauts in space would hear him.
I swear, the asshole loves me, but his delivery has always been blunt and harsh.
It’s what also makes him one of the best swim coaches in the nation, which is exactly why he was selected as head coach for the next Olympics. He doesn’t pull any punches, and he knows exactly how to torture someone until they swim up to his standards.
He parks one hand on his hip and the other over his mouth as he glowers down at me, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepening.
“Tell ’em I have a migraine,” I say. “Real bad one. Goin’ blind and shit.” I wave my hand to emphasize my point, but my hand just flops around like all my bones have turned to Jell-O.
“Jesus Christ, put your goddamn hand down and quit makin’ yourself look like a fucking nincompoop.”
Rogue quickly dips his head, releasing a quiet snort, his shoulders shaking, while I frown. “A what?”
He ignores me. “You and I are going to have a long fucking talk about this tomorrow, you hear me, boy?”
He points a sausage finger at me, which I’ve had in my face more times than pussy at this point.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
“You got anyone to take your ass home?”
“Olive and Junie are here,” I mumble.
Olive, my only other best friend, and her four-year-old daughter, Juniper.