Brooke Bait

by Rachel Kiss

  So, I’d given myself a pep-talk. ‘At least I’ll have the girl’s locker room all to myself,’ I told angry, tired me.

  Seriously, at least there was that. And I was actually sort of jazzed about it. A little bit. To have the outlets and a mirror all to myself. (Silly, I know, but the rest of the week I have to fight twenty [20!!] other girls for them. Twenty!! All of us trying to get ready for school at the same time. It’s a cutthroat madhouse.)

  So, this morning when I hopped into the locker-room shower, washing the pool’s chlorine out of my hair, I was trying to be all upbeat, thinking: “Well, at least I’ll have the luxury of my very own outlet to plug in my hairdryer.”

  The thought didn’t exactly make up for my lack of sleep this morning. But it was all I had, so I worked it. But THEN!!! When I got out of my shower … my locker was empty. Empty!! Not one scrap of clothes (or even my frickin’ hair dryer). Nothing!

  I just had my phone ‘cause I took it in the shower room with me so I could listen to my tunes in the shower. But well, I couldn’t exactly wear my phone, could I? I could only yell at my stalking ex-boyfriend, Brian, with it—via text, ‘cause if I actually called him I’d get laryngitis from all my yelling.

  “Brian—again—I know it was you. First you steal my emails. Now you steal my clothes??? If you don’t bring them back in the next three minutes you’ll be sorry.”

  Brian smugly texts back: “Sorry how? … You’ll break up with me?—break my heart? You’ve already done those things, Summer. You have nothing else to threaten me with.”

  I squeeze my phone, pretending it’s Brian’s head. “This is your last chance, buck-o. Are you bringing them back or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t.”

  I crumble against my locker. I’m so frustrated, I could scream. Or rip out all of my hair. (Well, Brian’s hair.)

  Ugh! I’m close to crying. I won’t do it, of course. Break down and cry. But Brian is seriously making my life unbearable. He’s hacked into my computer many, many times—changed passwords, stolen emails. (My advice?—never date a computer geek … unless you have another one around to save you after the one you dated goes berserk after you break up with him. And if you have a spare one, don’t date HIM or you’re screwed. Like me.)

  Ugh!!! School is going to be starting soon.

  I text my best friend, Anna, asking her to bring me some clothes, praying she gets my message on time. Or at all. I love the girl, but she has a habit of not charging her phone. It’s enough to make me scream, ‘Just plug it in every night before you go to bed!’

  Okay, I’ve screamed it at her a couple of times. Emergencies come up where you need your best friend—like when you get your clothes stolen.

  She texts back, “I’m running late. But I have a spare outfit in my locker. Help yourself.”

  Thank goodness!!

  Ha-ha, Brian!! Anna has way better clothes than me, so really—the joke’s on him. Well, anyway, the joke kind of backfired on him. At least there’s that, right? Right???

  I do Anna’s combo, which I know by heart, because she’s my girl. But then when I see her “spare” outfit, I about have a meltdown. Not that the outfit isn’t attractive. It is. Big time. But now I remember what it’s here for. It’s her giving-Tate-a-smile-outfit. I mean, the outfit is … hot. It’s a mini (not super short, actually [just letting you know that]), but she wears it with these long, sexy boots. ‘Heart stomper boots,’ her boyfriend, Tate, calls them.

  The boots get Tate to do whatever Anna wants. Not that he doesn’t do that anyway. Tate is a sucker for Anna. Always has been. But with the boots? He dissolves.

  Slowly, slowly, I pull the boots out of Anna’s locker, wincing as I do it.

  Great. This is so not what I need—a jaw dropper outfit. Not at this moment in my high school career. I mean, I’ve had enough drama with boys lately to last me until I’m thirty. Seriously. Boys are crazy.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ I think as I hike the boots on, ‘this’ll show Brian he didn’t win. That I’m not in any sort of panic or despair over his stupid prank.’

  In fact, instead of being able to gloat about a victory, he’ll be eating his heart out. Big time. ‘Cause I guarantee it, this look will make him drool. Only, unfortunately, it will also make the rest of the male population at our school drool. And like I said, I don’t exactly need that. Or want it. Ugh! Oh well, it’s not like I have a choice—it’s either this, or the towel. (And the towel would let Brian think he won.)

  The thing is, though—I’m curvier than Anna. Wayyy curvier. So, what looks innocent and sweet and fun on Anna, looks, well—not sweet and innocent on me. It looks sexy. Bordering on yowza. And makes it look like I want attention from guys. Which, believe me, I don’t. I get way too much of it these days as it is. Way too much.

  So, I look in the mirror and shudder, knowing I’m in for a long day.

  I plug in Anna’s blow-dryer and I’m messing with my hair, giving it an ultra-body, sexy look to go with my outfit. (‘Cause, well, if you’re going to go hot—make it burn, right?) All the while, I’m fantasizing ways to get back at Brian. I mean, besides just making him drool, ‘cause really I don’t want to do that. You know, since he’ll like it. Instead, I want to make him see stars—from being knocked out, or I want to blow things up … like his computer … or his head.

  As I’m fantasizing that stuff—violence—I get another text. This one’s not from Brian though. Supposedly. The name and number come up as “Blocked.” The message says, “Missing something?”

  I blink, staring the text. I’m thinking: Yeah, my clothes.

  Oh!

  A chill runs down my spine as a scary thought crosses my brain.

  Suddenly, I’m wondering if the text is actually related to this somehow—me missing my clothes.

  I swallow down bile. No. No way.

  Still, I suck in my breath. And for a second close my eyes. Then with trembling fingers I finally, hesitantly click on the attachment that came with the text.

  Oh man.

  My stomach rolls.

  I have to grip the sink for support to keep from doing a nose-dive.

  The attachment is a picture of me.

  At my locker.

  Wet and naked.

  CHAPTER 2

  Okay, just to be clear—in the picture you can “tell” I’m naked. But you can’t actually “see” anything. Not exactly. The “view” is partially obscured by my open locker door.

  What I mean is, in the picture, my locker door is open, partially blocking my body. The major stuff. But, you get a “partial view”—which is way, way too much. I mean, there’s a lot of skin.

  I freak out.

  And quickly text “anonymous.” “You’re so dead.”

  The “person”—(Brian!!)—quickly types back. “You’re so NAKED.”

  Then he types, “I could send this picture to the whole school.”

  “Do it and you’re even more dead.”

  He types: “You think you’re so hot…. Seems like you want me to send it.”

  I text back: “Seems like you want your face smashed in.”

  “Ohhh Summer, you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”

  My stomach falls to the ground.

  I stare at the message, my heart slamming against my chest. This really doesn’t sound like Brian. I mean, he’s truly gone off the deep end. Sure, he steals my emails … and my clothes. But taking pictures and THREATENING me??? He’s turned off of Stalker Boulevard and on to Psycho Street.

  “No, YOU’RE going to get what’s coming to you!”

  Shivering, I click off my phone. Sort of terrified he means what he said—that he’ll send the picture out—to the whole school. But what’s just as terrifying—or actually even way MORE terrifying is that he had been here—in the locker room. And had seen me naked. And snapped a PICTURE of me naked.

  The thought sends a shudder thro
ugh me.

  Oh, he is so dead!!!

  CHAPTER 3

  I storm out of the locker room. Well, half-storm … but half-run. I mean, I’m mad. Of course. But I’m also scared. Scared the crazy psycho is still in the locker room with me.

  Until I got that dirty picture from him, I just thought of Brian as a nuisance. Very, extremely annoying. But fairly harmless. Fairly. Just your normal run of the mill stalker. Pretty much. I mean, sure he’s creepy. No doubt about it. (Though I strangely used to think he was cute. I mean, before the stalking.)

  But he’s definitely a proven bona-fide psychopath stalker. Besides the fact he keeps hacking into my email account and stealing messages to me from boys and friends—mostly boys. Now he’s taking dirty pictures of me??? And THREATENING me? Well, it’s too much. Way, way, WAYYY too much. He has to be stopped. Right this second. But I don’t know how to make him do that—how to make him stop … but Mason will. Mason can.

  Mason is my secret weapon.

  CHAPTER 4

  I clomp around the school hallways in my heart-stomper boots getting whistles (not even kidding) and leers and risqué remarks from boys (some playful, some I’m not so sure) but I ignore them all. I’m on a mission, hunting up my secret weapon, my ex-step-brother, Mason Archer. (AKA: trouble.)

  When we were in eighth grade, Mason’s dad was married to my mom for about ten minutes. (Well, actually I guess it was a little, tiny bit longer than that. But not much. They didn’t even make it to their one-year anniversary.) But anyway, Mason became dear to my heart during that short time. Ultra-special and important and everything like that. But now … well, now we never talk. Ever. It breaks my heart, but … yeah, we stay away from each other.

  Anyway, when I’m almost to Mason’s locker, I start getting trailed (and harassed) by one of Mason’s hockey teammates, Jake Edwards. The guy is huge. And a loud-mouthed ruckus-maker (that some girls fawn over for some reason. I have absolutely no idea why). The guy makes my skin crawl.

  “Heyyy, looking good, Summer.” Somehow Jake backs me up against the nearest wall of lockers, getting way, way too close.

  I push at him, more annoyed than anything else—though I have to say, big guys scare me. Especially when they get too close—and back me against things. My nerves fray.

  I clench my teeth and order (though it sounds more like a yelp), “Get away from me, Jake.”

  “Just admiring the view up close,” he drawls, his gaze dripping down my body. Gag.

  Immediately, he’s jerked away from me—violently—by Mason.

  “That’s my sister, Jake,” Mason growls, sounding like Watch it or I’ll pound you to the ground.

  Jake grins sheepishly, since he’s been told by Mason many times to stay away from me. Far away. Jake juts his chin about the sister-thing (‘cause it’s not quite technically true anymore), “Yeah, but she’s still hot, dude.”

  “Still my sister.” Mason’s rough growl has a dangerous edge to it—so not fooling around. (He’ll beat a guy to a pulp for me—I’ve seen him do it. Many times. But like I said, we never talk anymore. Ever.)

  Mason pulls me with him towards his locker with one hand, while using the other to shove Jake warningly (since Jake’s somewhat trailing us and still eyeing me like I’m a piece of candy he wants to devour). Mason’s eyes are an inferno. “Don’t look at her. Back off.”

  We get to Mason’s locker, and he shoves it open. For a minute it’s like I’m not even here. Then, without looking at me, Mason says, “Summer, what do you need?”

  That’s not the nicest greeting. It squeezes at my heart, since we used to be so close. I purse my trembling lips. “Can’t I just come here to talk?”

  His eyes flicker to me a moment. Then he shuts his locker with a throaty grunt. “You can. But I know you didn’t. What do you need?”

  I twirl my hair nervously. Something I do a lot when I’m around Mason. ‘Cause he gets me all stirred up. He’s gruff at times—achingly gentle at others. And he’s ripped and hot … and not really my brother. Not really my anything anymore. (Just my secret weapon … that I try to never, ever use. Ever. ‘Cause he’s a weapon of mass-destruction.)

  I wet my lips, still twirling my hair. “What makes you think I need something?”

  He eyes my twirling, then his stare drags back to mine. “Because you wouldn’t even be talking to me unless you needed something.”

  Heat rips through me. Because what he says is completely true. I try to avoid him these days. I do. Mason is trouble. But now I seem to be in trouble and it seems Mason is my only answer.

  I draw out a long breath, then stammer out, “Okay, yeah. I need a favor.”

  His eyes wash over me again, not like before, when he was trying to do it subtly. Now he does it blatantly. Sparks flicker in his eyes. “Did you dress like that for me?”

  I gasp. “What?!”

  His eyes meet mine. “Did you put that outfit on thinking: ‘I’m going to ask Mason for a favor’?”

  My jaw drops. “No!!”

  He leans back against his locker and closes his eyes. “Just checking.” Without opening them he asks again, “What do you need, Summer?”

  I hesitate—for a long moment—then grimace. “Can you beat up someone for me?”

  “Yeah,” he says with a shrug. Totally matter-of-factly, though kind of curious sounding, since I don’t usually ask for that kind of favor.

  His brow lowers. “Who?”

  “Brian Johnson.”

  Mason blinks, like he’s surprised. Since Brian is known more as a computer geek than someone who needs his butt kicked. But then Mason shrugs again like, whatever. “Where is he?”

  CHAPTER 5

  I lead Mason over to Brian, who’s at his locker looking through a computer magazine. Or maybe it’s a game magazine. Whatever it is, he looks very peaceful and happy and content. Like life is good. Couldn’t be better. Of course he doesn’t see us coming. Or he’d scream like a girl. Because Mason is huge. And scary. (And okay, gorgeous. But that part wouldn’t make Brian scream. That part would just make him mad—because Mason is next to me and everything. And Brian is a stalker.)

  Without saying a word, Mason grabs unsuspecting Brian and pounds him in the face—hard.

  Brian falls back against his locker, covering his bloody nose with his hands, his magazine falling to the ground.

  “That’s for the picture,” I snarl at him.

  Both him and Mason look at me questioningly like, what picture?? Then they both ask it—only sounding completely different. Brian sounds baffled and terrified. Mason sounds furious and like Brian is a dead man. He grabs Brian by the collar, looking like he’s going to kill him.

  Brian yelps out, “I don’t know anything about a picture—I swear. I just took your clothes.”

  Mason’s grip on Brian’s collar tightens, and the veins pop out in his neck like he’s going to rip Brian apart. “You took her clothes?”

  He swings his arm back as though he’s going to punch the lights out of Brian, but Brian blurts out in a terrified rush, “As a joke, only a joke. I left her a clown suit in the bathroom.”

  Mason narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t carry through with the punch. The muscles in his jaw tick. He seems intrigued. His voice tight, he threatens, “You better talk—fast.”

  Brian gulps. “I took her clothes from her locker—while she was at swim practice. But I didn’t take a picture—or even see her naked, I swear.” He adds quickly, talking a mile a minute—at least, “I didn’t hang around the locker room, I just left her the clown suit for her to put on—that’s it. I swear. Go check.”

  Mason looks back at me like, What do you want? Want me to kill the punk?

  I bite my lip, my whole body stiff. I feel sick. Brian sounds sincere. I actually believe him. What he’s saying is way more his thing than the picture and threats. More his lame style—a clown suit to show me he’s nobody’s clown. Well, ha-ha. Anyway, his sorry attempt to show that. Only now he’s groveling a
nd terrified. With maybe a broken nose. Poor clown.

  “I didn’t take a picture of you, Summer,” Brian says.

  Even in his condition he takes a small moment to eye my outfit longingly. Even while his nose is gushing blood. He leans his head back against his locker and closes his eyes with a wince. “I might threaten stuff like that. But you know I wouldn’t do it…. I was hoping we could get back together.”

  Mason’s dark eyes narrow. He looks at me again, his brow lowered and his gaze hopeful, as though hoping for confirmation that he can now continue to beat Brian’s sleazy face in. But unfortunately, I believe the jerk.

  “Let him go,” I tell Mason with a shaky sigh. I feel nauseous.

  Reluctantly, Mason lets Brian go—but with a violent shove, his dark eyes blazing. “Don’t ever threaten her again,” he growls, his angry tone scary deep. Pure anger. “Or I swear, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  Mason’s narrowed eyes cut to me. Probably sees that I’ve turned white and light-headed. Blood does that to me—and he knows it.

  He grunts, and grabs me, wrapping his strong arm around my middle. Instantly, he turns completely gentle as he walks me towards my next class, basically holding me up, since I feel woozy and sick—not only from the blood, but from my huge, horrible mistake. I mean, Brian was gushing blood. His nose was probably broken … and the loser didn’t even take the picture! Groan!

  Guilt washing through me, I stop in my tracks. Can’t take it. I hate violence. So much. And I’d brought it on. Caused it. Asked for it.

  I clutch my stomach. “I feel bad,” I whisper to Mason. “I need to go apologize.”

  Mason’s hot hands tighten around me. He pulls me back to him and keeps making me walk towards my class.

  He growls near my ear, tugging me in tight, “Don’t apologize to him.” His warm breath tickles my neck, though he has no idea. He goes on, sending heat through me with his rough, dark voice. So haunting. And beautiful. “He shouldn’t have pulled that crap. Or threatened you.”