He works his mouth silently for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. “I had no idea that she had so many problems. You’re sisters, okay? I thought she was tough, like you. I thought she could handle herself. I had no clue shit would go wrong, and I’m not a hero.” His smile is sharp and bitter. “I’m a fucking idiot for letting it happen. You think I don’t remember the way you looked at me that night, in the hallway? You think it makes me happy that you’re scared for your own fucking safety just being around us now? That you thought I somehow orchestrated the whole thing, because you actually think that low of me?” He flings his arms out, letting them fall limply, loudly, against his thighs. “And the thing is, you’re right to. I can’t even blame you. Because even if I didn’t set it up, it was still on me.”
He turns and walks off, shoulders curved dejectedly.
I stare at the locker in something akin to shock. I’ve seen him naked, I’ve even seen him in the throes of an orgasm, but that. That was Hamilton Bates, stripped bare. And fuck.
Fuck him.
Fuck Hamilton fucking Bates.
I kick the nearest locker, taking a moment to rearrange the shape of the universe in my head. It’s not a neat and tidy thing, not like having Hamilton to blame for what happened to Sky. But that’s the way it always is, isn’t it? Messy and complicated and completely maddening.
I turn and follow him, walking at first, and then breaking into a sprint to run him down.
When I do, darting in front of him, he stumbles back, looking down at me with dark, stormy eyes.
“Skylar does have problems,” I begin quietly, putting a hand on the box he’s holding between us as a gesture. Stay, listen. “And what happened that night proved they were worse than I knew—than any of us knew. And if you want to beat yourself up for treating us like dirt all these years, then trust me, I’ll find you a bat myself. But if what you’re saying is true—if you really didn’t have anything to do with that—then you can’t take the blame for her being there.” I inhale, chest shuddering. “I’m the one who could have stopped her. I never should have let her go.”
He stares at me, hard, eyes boring into me, searching. And then he bursts into a long, wheezing laughter. He laughs so hard he nearly doubles over, back convulsing with it.
I gape at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
He rears up, snorting. “Adams, you’ve been blaming this shit on me for seven months. I finally take a little responsibility and you want to take the blame yourself? You are the most fucking self-righteous martyr I’ve ever met.” He drops the box and it lands with a thud, the remaining supplies clanking together. He steps over it and approaches me. “What do you want me to do? Fight you for who should take the most blame?”
“No.” My heart hammers, because I know that look in his eye. It’s evil. Twisted. Aroused. I feel it in my belly.
He swipes a thumb over the corner of his lips, eyes scanning me. “What do you want then?” He looms over me, my back pressed up against the lockers, and his searching eyes lock right on my mouth.
All I have to do is ask for it.
I take a shallow breath. “I want—"
“Bates!” Heston’s voice carries down the hall. “Where you at, fucker? We’re all finished, and nobody drew dicks on the girls’ toilet stalls.” After a suspended moment of Hamilton and I staring at one another, Heston cautiously adds, “But if they had, the artistic rendition would have been impeccable.”
“Yeah,” Hamilton says, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip. “We’re finished, too.”
He bends and picks up the box, not giving me another look. They turn the corner and walk down the darkened hall. I follow behind, far enough that they can’t see me, but not too far that I can’t hear Heston ask, “What the hell was that all about?”
“Nothing. You know how she is. That goddamned mouth never stops flapping.”
“That’s what you get for talking to her like she’s real people.”
“Wilcox, I swear to God.”
Heston shrugs. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. That bitch needs a good hard fuck. Something to knock her down a few pegs, put her in her place. I would’ve taken a shot at her by now if it weren’t for—”
I don’t get to hear what comes out of his mouth next, because all I hear is the crack of Hamilton’s fist crashing into Heston’s jaw. The snap is loud, jarring in the dark silence of the hallways.
Heston lets out a pained squawk, and then, “Motherfucker! Are you kidding me?”
Hamilton doesn’t answer, he just keeps walking, leaving Heston leaning against the wall, holding his jaw. He spits on the floor—gross—before ducking into the bathroom. I use the opportunity to run down the hall and burst from the doors of the school. My feet stumble on the steps and I fall, except I don’t. Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. I barely have time to regain my balance before he drags me off the sidewalk and under one of the massive living oaks.
“Did you hear that?” he asks, hand flexing around my shoulder.
“Yes.” I swallow. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I can see the outline of his features in the moonlight, his eyebrows pulled together. “Punching Heston? I’d do it every day if I could.”
“For... defending me,” I say, “and for looking out for me, even if I didn’t know or understand it.”