Chapter 16
Stan
The truck cab felt like a coffin.
My hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned. My knuckles were white. My breath came in short, jagged gasps, fogging the windshield.
I had done it.
I had looked the woman I loved in the eye and told her she was nothing. I had watched her face crumble. I had watched the light go out of her eyes, replaced by shock, then pain, then hatred.
I hate you, Stan Kowalski!
Her scream echoed in my ears, louder than the radio, louder than the wind.
It was the sound of my salvation. And my damnation.
I looked down at the footwell. The amber necklace lay there on the muddy floor mat. The silver chain was tangled, catching the dashboard lights.
I reached down and picked it up. My hand shook violently. I curled my fingers around the rough stone, pressing it into my palm until it hurt.
"It had to be done," I whispered to the empty truck. "It was the only way."
Was it?
The doubt was a snake, coiling in my gut.
What if she hadn't sent the photos? What if the Enforcer lied? What if I had just destroyed the best thing in my life for a fabrication?
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
Wolfowitz: Is it done?
I stared at the screen. I wanted to throw the phone through the window.
Me: Done.
Wolfowitz: Good. Come to the house. The Enforcer wants a debrief.
I dropped the phone.
I didn't want a debrief. I wanted oblivion.
I put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the highway. But I didn't go to the Coach's house. I drove in the opposite direction. Away from campus. Away from the Pack. Away from the wreckage of my life.
I drove until the gas light came on. I found myself at a dive bar called The Rusty Nail on the outskirts of the next town over.
I walked in. It smelled of stale beer and desperation. Perfect.
I sat at the bar.
"Whiskey," I told the bartender. "Leave the bottle."
He looked at me—at the wild look in my eyes, the expensive jacket over a t-shirt, the way I was vibrating with suppressed violence.
"Rough night?" he asked, sliding a bottle of Jack Daniels toward me.
"You have no idea," I muttered.
I poured a shot. I downed it. It burned going down, a welcome fire in the emptiness.
I poured another.
And another.
I drank until the edges of my vision blurred. I drank until the voice of the Wolf—usually so loud, demanding to go back to her, demanding to fix it—was muffled under a blanket of alcohol.
But I couldn't drink away the memory of her face.
You bastard. You absolute monster.
"I am," I toasted the air with my glass. "I am a monster."
Rachel
The sidewalk was cold.
I sat on the curb outside my dorm, my knees pulled to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. I was shivering, but I didn't feel the cold. I didn't feel anything.
I was numb.
A hollow shell of a person where Rachel Miller used to be.
Just a warm hole for the winter.
The words looped in my mind, a cruel, mocking soundtrack.
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have believed him? The amber necklace. The "I love you" over pancakes. The promise of a future.
It was all a game. A long con.
He was bored. He was broken. And he had used me to fix himself, and then discarded me like a used bandage.
"Rachel?"
I looked up.
Chloe was standing there. She was wearing her pajamas and a coat, looking frantic.
"Oh my god," she breathed, rushing over to me. "I saw... I saw his truck leaving. What happened? Why are you sitting on the ground?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Just a dry, hacking sob.
Chloe dropped to her knees. She wrapped her arms around me.
"Hey," she soothed, rocking me. "Hey. It's okay. Talk to me."
"He..." I choked out. "He ended it."
"He broke up with you?"
"He destroyed me," I whispered. "He told me... he told me I was a charity case. That he never loved me. That I was just... for fun."
Chloe stiffened. Her grip on me tightened.
"I'm going to kill him," she hissed. "I swear to god, Rachel, I'm going to key his truck. I'm going to burn his house down."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "No. Just... take me inside. Please. I feel sick."
Chloe helped me stand. My legs were like lead.
We walked into the dorm. The fluorescent lights of the lobby were too bright. They hurt my eyes.
We got to our room. Chloe helped me out of my dress—the dress I had worn for him, the dress he had said made me look like royalty. I threw it in the trash can.
I put on my oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt. Not his t-shirt. I had burned that one mentally already.
I crawled into bed. I pulled the covers over my head.
"Do you want tea?" Chloe asked softly. "Or vodka?"
"Vodka," I mumbled. "And darkness."
Chloe turned off the lights. She crawled into her own bed, but I knew she was watching me.
I lay there in the dark.
I tried to cry. I wanted to cry. But the tears wouldn't come. I was too shocked. Too empty.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
I reached out and grabbed it, hoping against hope that it was him. That he was texting to say it was a mistake. That he was sorry.
It wasn't him.
It was an email notification.
From: Dean Patterson
Subject: Urgent: Disciplinary Hearing
My heart stopped.
I sat up and opened the email.
Ms. Miller,
You are hereby summoned to a disciplinary hearing regarding allegations of academic misconduct and inappropriate fraternization with a student-athlete. Evidence has been submitted suggesting you accepted financial compensation in exchange for completing academic work for Mr. Stanley Kowalski.
Hearing Date: Monday, 9:00 AM.
Failure to appear will result in immediate expulsion.
I stared at the screen.
Financial compensation? Academic misconduct?
It was a lie. I had tutored him, yes. But I hadn't taken money. I hadn't written his papers for him; I had helped him outline.
Who submitted evidence?
And then it hit me.
Financial compensation.
Stan's father. The checkbook.
Stan hadn't just broken up with me. He had framed me.
He had told them I took the money. He had told them I cheated for him.
He wasn't just leaving me. He was destroying my future to save his own.
The numbness vanished.
It was replaced by a rage so hot, so pure, it felt like it could burn the dorm down.
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud.
"Rachel?" Chloe whispered.
"He framed me," I said. My voice was calm. Scary calm. "He told the Dean I cheated. He's trying to get me expelled."
Chloe sat up. "What? Why?"
"To discredit me," I realized. The logic was cold and brutal. "If I'm expelled... if I'm a cheater... then anything I say about him, about the Pack, about the secrets... nobody will believe me. I'll just be the disgraced ex."
I laughed. A bitter, jagged sound.
"He's smart," I said. "I'll give him that. He's a predator. And he just went for the throat."
I got out of bed.
"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.
"I'm not going to let him win," I said. "He wants me to curl up and die? He wants me to run away in shame?"
I walked to the mirror. I looked at my reflection. Pale. Hollow. But fierce.
"No," I whispered. "I'm going to fight."
I turned to Chloe.
"Do you still have that bottle of vodka?"
"Yes."
"Pour it out," I said. "I need a clear head. I have a defense to prepare. And I have a war to win."
Two Days Later
Stan
I woke up on the floor of my cabin. My head felt like it had been split open with an axe. My mouth tasted like ash.
I sat up, groaning.
The room was a mess. The coffee table was overturned. Books were scattered everywhere. There was a hole in the drywall where I had put my fist through it.
Sunday morning.
The game against Denver was a blur. I remembered skating. I remembered hitting people. I remembered the anger fueling me, making me faster, meaner.
We had won. I had two assists and a fight. The scouts were happy. Wolfowitz was happy.
My father was happy.
He had called me yesterday. You did the right thing, son. You showed strength. The girl is handled.
Handled.
I stood up, stumbling to the kitchen. I drank water from the tap, splashing it on my face.
I looked out the window at the woods.
I wondered where she was. I wondered if she had left town yet.
I hoped she had. For her sake.
Because if she stayed... if I saw her... I didn't know if I could keep up the charade. I didn't know if I could stop myself from falling to my knees and begging for forgiveness.
My phone rang.
Rizzo.
I answered. "What?"
"Dude," Rizzo said. He sounded serious. "You need to see this."
"See what?"
"Check your email. The student-wide blast."
I hung up and opened my email app.
There was a message from the Student Government Association. Subject: Petition for Transparency.
I opened it.
There was a link to a video.
I clicked it.
It was a recording. A cell phone video.
It showed Rachel.
She was standing at a podium. It looked like a student forum. She looked tired, pale, but she was standing tall. She was wearing the black t-shirt I had given her.
Armor.
She spoke into the microphone.
"My name is Rachel Miller," she said. Her voice was clear. "I have been accused of academic misconduct. I have been accused of taking bribes. I am here to state, for the record, that these are lies."
The camera zoomed in on her face.
"I am being targeted," she said. "Because I know the truth about the Athletic Department. I know about the pressure put on players. I know about the cover-ups of injuries. And I know that certain players... are protected no matter what they do."
She looked directly into the camera. It felt like she was looking at me.
"I loved someone on this team," she said. "And because I loved him, I was threatened. I was told to leave. I was told I was a liability."
She took a deep breath.
"I am not leaving," she said. "I am not a liability. I am a student. And I demand a public hearing. I demand that the evidence against me be shown in the light of day. Because I have nothing to hide."
She paused.
"And to the person who tried to destroy me," she whispered, "you missed."
The video ended.
I stared at the screen.
She hadn't run. She hadn't folded.
She had doubled down. She was demanding a public hearing.
And she was wearing my shirt while she did it.
A mixture of terror and pride exploded in my chest.
Terror, because a public hearing meant the Pack would be scrutinized. The Enforcer would be furious. My father would be apoplectic.
Pride, because she was magnificent.
She was fighting the Alpha. She was fighting the system.
She was my mate.
And I realized then, with a sinking feeling, that I hadn't saved her at all.
I had just started a war that was going to burn us both to the ground.
My phone rang again.
It was my father.
I didn't answer.
I grabbed my keys.
I had to get to her. Before the Enforcer did.
Because if she was going to fight this war... she wasn't going to do it alone.
Not anymore.
I walked out the door.
The Butcher was dead.
The Rebel was born.