I can’t blame them. If Quinn hadn’t cleared his throat and gathered our attention, we would still be at my father’s house, imagining all the dirty, naughty things we would do when we were finally alone. I’m not even kidding or making assumptions for either of them, I’m speaking for myself, too. I wanted to rip the clothes off their bodies. Take Ellis in my mouth and lose myself in ecstasy while Asher pounded my hungry pussy. I want to hear their guttural groans and soft sighs of satisfaction as all three of us lost ourselves in passion.
Even with Callum taking me the way he did last night, I’m still hungry for more. What we did with each other awoke a ferocious hunger inside of me to have all of them. I can’t seem to get enough; their touch, taste, and soft, kind, sweet words. It’s a disease overtaking my body, ruining me for anything else.
“We wanted to support you, babe,” Ellis says, smirking.
Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he wanted to do. If his wolfish gaze from earlier could speak for itself, I’d peg he wanted to bend me over Quinn’s car and make me scream his name.
And I’m sooo not opposed to that idea.
Not even a little.
“Well, thank you,” I reply, grinning.
Asher turns around, walking backward towards the car. “You can thank me later tonight, hot stuff!”
I can’t help the bout of huffing laughter that leaves me. I don’t even dignify his goading with a response as we all come to a stop near Quinn’s car and pile in. It’s time to head to school, get my life back to a semblance of normal, and keep my eyes on the prize: my future, college, and possibly, a career.
While the bruises on my ribs are still there, the wounds on my head healed up quite nicely. My doctor was able to take the stitches out and release me as long as I promised to take it easy. Should be simple enough, especially with the guys surrounding me.
Except, even I know they will only be able to do so much. If the reporters from the other day is anything like what I’m expecting when I walk back through the doors of SCH, then it will be a bloodbath. My peers will try to get me to talk about it, tell them how I did it or who I got to clean up my mess. I just know it will be a shit show, but it’s not something I can help if I expect to get into college. It’s a necessary evil.
As we pull into the parking lot at school, I’m relatively glad we got here a few hours after classes began. Now we can slip in with little fuss, and I can hopefully make it to Mr. Bexley’s class. That’s if the son of a bitch doesn’t get all cocky like he does most of the time. It’s wishful thinking, of course, but dammit, nothing will rain on my parade today.
I’m free! Even with the artificial injuries still plaguing my body, I’m free. To go where I want. Do what I want. And be exactly who I want.
After making a stop at Mr. T’s office, and nearly vomiting all over them because of their fake condolences over Debra’s passing, Asher and I break away from our group and make our way to Bexley’s class, while the other two go to Math.
The moment Asher opens the door for me, leading me inside with his hand at my lower back, complete and total silence exudes through the room. Mr. Bexley, while in the middle of teaching, stops and cranes a look over his shoulder. His eyes widen marginally before he remembers himself and a scowl falls over his features. It’s like he’s trying to be a dick, which doesn’t make a bit of sense. Many people would like him better if he were more laid back and acceptable.
“Tardiness is unacceptable, Ms. Savoy.” No, strike that, people will still hate him. There’s just something about his grating, nasally voice.
“Oh, Mr. Bexley, don’t punish Jessalyn. Have some compassion, please. Someone did just murder her mother, then left her bloody and cold for her to find,” Bree’s sickly-sweet voice filters through the tense air, but I’m not falling for that shit. I catch a smile of sickening triumph on her face when I peer toward the back of the room at her.
She meets my stare head on, probably looking for any weakness her words caused. She won’t find any weakness here I’m afraid. She has no idea it doesn’t bother me in the least that Debra is dead. In fact, it takes everything I have not to smile and dance some fancy jig on her grave. Because yes, that bitch is dead, and yes, I’m thrilled. Probably the happiest I’ve been in a long time.
Bree St. Clair is nothing more than a bully. But if she expects to get a rise out of me, she will need to find a different subject to torment me with. Something that I’ll actually care about.
“Yes, I’m quite aware of her situation, Ms. St. Clair,” Mr. Bexley fumes with a tight smile, and it’s kind of satisfying, in a way, that I don’t seem to be the only person he’s inherently evil toward. “But that does not mean I condone tardiness.”
I roll my eyes. I really need to stop doing that before my eyes get stuck that way, but it’s hard when you’re dealing with assholes and twats, like that of Mr. Bexley and Bree. There is some idiocy you can’t ignore.
“Do you think both of you can put your pettiness to the side so I can go sit down now? Because, honestly, this is getting kind of old.”
“Ms. Savoy.” Mr. Bexley furrows his brows, but stands stock still, like his words are warning enough. Yeah, not likely.
I may need to take things easy, but they should not label my situation as a vulnerability. I’ll show them that my version of weak is not the same as theirs. I will do it in the strength of my actions, and I’ll make them eat their words.
Nothing about me is weak. According to the guys, I fought off the person who killed Debra. I survived a fall that should have paralyzed me, or worse, killed me. But I walked away with some stitches, a tiny bout of amnesia, and some bruised ribs. I’m a fucking bad ass. I am that bitch.
“Mr. Bexley!” Asher barks, having enough of the pissing contest between Bree, myself, and Mr. Bexley. “That is enough. To be frank, I will not tolerate your bullying tendencies toward my girlfriend any longer. We do not allow our peers to do it, and we will no longer allow teachers. Got it?”
“Mr. Shawcrass!” Mr. Bexley’s face turns an unhealthy shade of red. But I have a sneaky suspicion his anger falls along the lines of Asher calling him out than what it is he said. “You may talk to your peers how you wish, but you will not—”
Asher cuts him off, growling, “Derek, I said enough!”
My jaw threatens to unhinge. I look between Asher and Mr. Bexley, then back toward Asher once more. He’s staring Mr. Bexley down, murderous intent glimmering in his vicious eyes. His body is tight, muscles jerking against his restraint. The hand on my lower back clenches, bunching up my bomber jacket in his fist, like Asher is trying his best to withhold from swinging at our teacher.
This has to be a coincidence. There are many people named Derek in this town, so I’m probably getting my panties in a twist for nothing. But I can’t help the feeling that I could be one step closer to solving the puzzle that is my life, even if it is fucked up and jagged.
Mr. Bexley says nothing as Asher breaks their non-verbal standoff and pulls me along with him. When we make it to the back of the room, where he locates his seat, I branch off to go to mine. Except, Asher grabs my jacket, holding me hostage. When I peer over toward him, face scrunched up in confusion, he shakes his head from side to side. With the look on his face, I don’t even fight him. He’s on the edge, and It will not be me that pushes him over.
He looks down at the kid seated in the desk in front of his. “Move,” he barks.
When the kid gets up, I release a steadying exhale. Tossing my bag on the ground, I side eye Asher, who’s wearing a satisfying smirk. But even I know he’s still upset from his and Mr. Bexley’s earlier spat. I can tell by the clenching of his jaw and the stiffness in his shoulders. He wanted to hit Mr. Bexley—Derek … whoever he is—and it was only me that stopped him from doing it.
“You didn’t have to be so brisk with him,” I whisper.
His smirk widens. “Oh, you still don’t get it, do you?”
My brows shunt inward in question, but before I c
an ask him what that was about, a loud uproar in the hallway snaps us all to attention. It sounds like someone’s fighting right outside Mr. Bexley’s door. My gaze jerks toward the door, then to Asher in rapid succession. The last time we heard something like that, it was Asher beating the fuck out of three someone’s that had plans for me after school. Which means it could be any of the guys. Dear, God.
He must see the question lingering in my gaze, because he grabs my hand and we race toward the door, bumping and jostling by kids jumping up out of their seats. Someone pulls my short locks, causing me to cry out at the pain. But I quickly dislodge their hold and keep pace with Asher. The moment we step out of the door, overwhelming disbelief has my jaw nearly hitting the floor.
Coach Rice fights against two well-built policemen. The cops grunt from his efforts, while Coach Rice goes rabid in their arms. He’s twisting, yelling, and kicking at them as they slap a pair of handcuffs on one of his wrists.
In front of the entire school.
I feel a small smile tugging at my lips, and I have no idea why, either. I don’t know if it’s because this is some sense of poetic justice, or that Coach Rice did something he wasn’t supposed to and now it’s caught up with him. Whatever he did, he probably deserves this. He’s been nothing but a bonafide asshole toward me since the beginning of school. More so than he ever was before.
“What’s going on?” I whisper toward Asher.
His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“You are under arrest!” A cop shouts in frustration.
“What are my charges?!”
I watch in silence as the cops lead a very irate Coach Rice through the halls of SCH. When they get to the bend, all the students congregating look toward me and Asher, as if we have something to do with this. Maybe something has passed through the rumor mill and we’re just not privy to it yet. But even so, that doesn’t explain why they’re all glancing toward me with various states of rage, amusement, and others shooting me looks of outright disbelief.
There’s no way this has anything to do with me, so why are they looking at me like that. This is my first day back, so they can take that shit elsewhere.
“What are my charges?!” Coach Rice screams once more, but they ignore him.
He starts fighting them again, twisting and spinning in their grip as they try to handcuff the other wrist. Fury lives, breathes in his actions. His free arm gets loose, and he uses that to elbow one cop in the stomach, forcing him to double over and grunt in pain. The other tries to get everything under control, but even I know when you corner a wild animal, they’ll come out with their teeth and claws bared.
“You will stop resisting!” One cop shouts, bringing out his baton.
Coach Rice cries out in pain when the cop bashes him across the middle of his back. My mouth threatens to unhinge at the brutality of it. I’ve been in a lot of situations in my life, but nothing like this has ever happened. Silver Creek law enforcement has never been this effective and brutal toward anyone. Instead, they prefer being paid off just like the rest of the people in this town. Thus, not giving anyone a reason to truly be afraid of their authority.
“Is this happening?” I ask Asher.
“Tell me what my charges are!” Coach Rice roars as he face-plants onto the hallway floor.
“Fine,” the cop growls. “You have been charged with the murder of Debra Savoy!” I gasp, slapping a hand over my open mouth.
I don’t even bother looking toward Asher, keeping my eyes trained on all the kids staring at me. No wonder everyone is looking at me like that. Someone must have known about this, and it did, in fact, go through the rumor mill. Open hostility, I’m used to it. But nothing like this. Some of these kids look like they want to murder me, like I should be the one to be arrested.
“Yeah, it is, babe,” he replies, grabbing my shaking hand. “Come on, we need to find the others.”
CHAPTER 17
I stare, open mouth, at Quinn. I must be hearing things, because there’s no way he can possibly be serious. What he’s speculating is on the far side of crazy even I wouldn’t touch it.
“Just think about it, sweetheart,” he says, going through his explanation once more. “From what the police stated, he killed your mother. They have to have probable cause to arrest someone, even if they turn out to be innocent. You’ve told us yourself that something felt off about him all year. Too much lines up for it to be a mere coincidence.”
“He’s not the stalker, Quinn!” I cry out.
Nothing about Coach Rice screams obsession. He may want to wring my neck most of the time, but that does not mean his aggravation morphed into some over-the-top manic infatuation.
“Look at the date of the last text that person sent you.” He points at the screen of my phone. “You’re telling me you don’t find any of this suspicious? That guy’s had a hard on to get you away from us since we started hanging around you. He’s been an asshole and short-tempered. This text came to your phone a few days before the attack, when Rice stopped us in the hallway. Remember?”
My stomach sinks as I glance between my phone and Quinn’s worried face. I hate to admit this, but there is a bit of truth to his statement. It is too suspicious.
Yet, something about it still doesn’t feel right. It’s as if we’re trying to put the puzzle pieces together and we’re bending and cutting the edges to make them fit. Coach Rice may have been an asshole, but I don’t think he’s the stalker and rapist. I don’t believe he’s the one that did all this.
Either that, or I can’t accept what’s glaringly obvious when it’s thrust into my face.
There’s also that paper Asher and I found in Debra’s attic. If we read it right, there’s no way Coach Rice is the person of interest. Because Debra contacted that person before Rice even came to Silver Creek. About three years before to be precise, which would have made me twelve. So, there’s no way.
If that paper is right, then that means the person who murdered Debra isn’t the same person who raped, and is now, stalking me. It just can’t be. It’s a physical impossibility.
We didn’t have enough time last night with everything that went on with Callum. Then, today, with the doctor and arrest. But now, I don’t believe I can withhold it any longer.
“Can one of you get Callum away from that wench and bring him to the house later?” My gaze meets Asher’s, and he nods once, giving me permission, before I peer back toward Quinn and Ellis. “Asher and I have something we need to show you all.”
***
I pace from one side of my bedroom to the other, waiting for my guys to arrive. It’s been hours since Quinn dropped me off and took off without a word. They’re supposed to be here by now, but every car that passes by my father’s front gate does not bring with it four brooding assholes.
My rope is thin, frayed—breaking off bit by bit until there’s little more than tiny strings holding me together. I need a toke of Mary to mellow me out, because my nerves are a jittery mess. I’m tempted into going next door and swiping some off Davis. That fucker may play football, but he’s as big of a toker as I am.
Wringing my hands in front of me, I huff out a breath of exasperation. The sound of a car coming closer forces my body to race toward my French doors. My heart knocks heavily against my ribs. But again, I deflate when I see it’s just another car racing by toward their destination.
I run my fingers through my hair, then finally make my mind up. I can’t take this anymore. My nerves are on the precipice of shredding, and I need to calm down. Striding toward the door, I swing it open and storm down the hallway toward Davis’ room. I take no time to think, I simply raise my hand and knock hard. I know he’s here, because I heard him moving around in here earlier. And since his door hasn’t slammed open or shut, I know he’s inside.
At least, I’m giving him this much. I could just storm in and demand he give me some Mary. You know, like a bitch.
“Who is it?” I roll my eyes.
/>
“It’s the police. Open up.” I hear some shuffling around the room, then low murmured whispers. I huff out a laugh. “Hello, Karma.”
Before I can utter another word, his door swings open. I have to fight the urge to look down when I see he’s not wearing a shirt, and—oh, shit … “Pants would be nice, dude.”
“You’re the one that came banging on my door, sweetheart, so don’t go getting things twisted,” he snaps.
I chuckle. “Interrupt something, did I? I’m just here for some Mary.”
He growls, yet says nothing as he pushes off the frame and makes his way back into the room. He doesn’t open his door any more than the two or three inches he did when opening it, but I’m not about to stand out here all night while he gets his shit together.
Shoving open the door, a girlish squeal catches me off-guard. Again, I roll my eyes at Karma without looking her way as I make my way inside.
I will rib her so much at school it’s not even funny. She’s been sneaking around, breaking rules and taking names, and that’s my thing. Shutting the door behind me, I allow myself to glance over at her.
“Karm, what are you—” My mind flusters. Horror coats the inner lining of my stomach. I’m in pure disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap my gaze toward Davis, who looks like he’s about to vomit. “Davis, what the fuck?!”
“Later.” Is all he says.
Later? How can he say that when fucking Gia Darling is lying in the middle of his bed barely covered by a sheet? How the fuck can he do this to Karma? Why? He was just fucking her in the same bed last night, or was that Gia, too.
Love Me, Baby: A High School Bully Romance (Silver Creek High Book 3) Page 12
