I eyed Bronx to give him a warning, but he was staring at his feet, his hands in his pockets. Before I could rebuke his statement, he said, "I fucked everything up that night. You don't trust me to party without you, you hate Remington, who used to be your friend, and you won't admit that you have feelings for Ashtyn. The only girl you’ve ever liked for longer than a fuck. And the way she looks at you..."
My thoughts scrambled at his last statement. "How she looks at me? Like she wants to kill me? Like she wants to chop my body into a million pieces and throw me in the ocean?"
"No, West. She does it when you aren't looking at her. It's the way she used to look at you before the night that you two..."
There was no fucking way Ashtyn Hawthorne still looked at me the way she used to. She made it profusely clear that she would never have those feelings for me again. I knew the look he was talking about. On that night almost two years ago, her sixteenth birthday, she had that look. Her eyes were deep blue pools of admiration and lust. I got lost in them. I was so lost that I agreed to fuck her even though she was a virgin, and I knew it would change our dynamic. She was convincing with that look. She promised nothing would change between us. She promised she wouldn't fall for me. But she lied, and she did, and I fucked it up and hurt her.
"Why are we even talking about her? Up until two days ago I barely saw her. She was more of a ghost than anything, hiding away to fuck knows where. Now she's everywhere. She's on the benches before school, and the hallway between class, and our fucking lunch table–thank you very much for that. Oh, and in my art class where our motherfuckingteacherhas a massive hard-on for her and I have to watch him flirt with her all hour. And then she's passing out in front of us in the goddamned parking lot, where I feel obligated to act like the hero and save her and give her this idea that I'm a knight in shining armor, ever-present and waiting to rescue her from whatever ailments she has that day. It's too much Bronx. Too fucking much." I let out an exasperated breath as I concluded my monologue.
"Dude, you need to lay off the caffeine after five o'clock. I was just telling you my observation. I have no idea how she actually feels or why she's around all of a sudden. But I do like it and I like her, so you're going to have to get used to it. And get your shit figured out, you're being weirder than usual." Bronx turned and left the room.
I tried to be the level-headed guy of our family, of any group I found myself in. I kept my emotions in check. I could fly off the handle at times but those were few and far between. Something brewed inside me so fiercely and violently. I didn’t want to be around her, yet I wanted to consume her. It festered like a volcano, ready to explode at any moment. I needed to nip it in the bud before I did something stupid, like try to fuck her again.
What I had to do and what I wanted to do were two completely different things. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and typed out a text.
Me: Meet me at lunch tomorrow in the guys’ locker room.
9
Ashtyn
Dinnerwassomewhatofa luxury at my house. Up until I worked at Aces, I was eating one “meal” a day. With the extra tips, I was able to splurge and buy groceries once a week. The good thing about Mom being lazy and incapacitated most of the time was that she saw ingredients and turned in the opposite direction. I didn't have to worry about her eating my food if it required effort to prepare.
Mom snored on the couch as I made a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Nothing fancy but still delicious. I made enough for leftovers, which Mom would inevitably raid in a few hours once she was up from her vodka slumber.
Once I got back to my bedroom, I slammed the door shut, locked it, and placed my dinner next to the painting of a swallow I had been working on. I froze as I heard a loud, booming voice come from outside. It carried through the screen, and I recognized it immediately.
She's on the benches before school, and the hallway between class, and our fucking lunch table–thank you very much for that. Oh, and in my art class where our motherfuckingteacherhas a massive hard-on for her and I have to watch him flirt with her all hour. And then she's passing out in front of us in the goddamned parking lot, where I feel obligated to act like the hero and save her and give her this idea that I'm a knight in shining armor, ever-present and waiting to rescue her from whatever ailments she has that day. It's too much Bronx. Too fucking much.
That asshole. West was talking about me. Yelling about me.
I crouched down to the floor and crawled to the window. I slowly stood up to peer through the sheer curtain. West's bedroom window was cracked, allowing me to hear his conversation. I watched him carefully as he strode back and forth, wearing only a pair of gray athletic shorts that hung low enough to expose the V shape at the bottom of his abdomen.
Good lord, his body was that of a god. His back was covered with tattoos–most of which were blacks and dark blues–and his muscles. No teenager should have that many muscles.
He typed on his phone with a scowl and chucked it to the side. He exhaled deeply and looked out the window. I jerked back as quickly as possible so he didn't see me.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress and contemplated my next moves. I could confront him about what he said, but he would enjoy it too much. No, I would use his own words against him. If he wanted to complain about me sitting at his precious table, then I was going to sit there every single day. If Mr. Reynolds bothered him, I was going to rub his attention in his face for the entirety of class.
How dare he say he had to rescue me. I never asked for his help. He took it upon himself to do that. I would've been fine eventually.
West Moretti was going to get what was coming to him. He acted like he cared about me on the way home earlier but talked about me behind my back. Nope.
If he wanted to talk about me, I was going to give him something to talk about.
I'mgoingtohell, I thought to myself as I put my calculus book away in my locker. I hadn't seen West yet, but it was showtime. Lunch time. I made sure to get to school early and wait for my first class by the door to avoid seeing him in the parking lot.
The outfit I wore was a little risqué, but it needed to be for what I had planned. I was going to make West eat his words, and I would do it looking hot as hell. The top was one I wore when I worked at Aces. It was a leather bralette with laces that crossed the bodice and tied at the top, short enough to expose a strip of my abdomen. I paired it with a pair of black jean shorts that had rips across the thighs. The shorts were also courtesy of my Aces-required wardrobe, so they were shorter than short. I wore them with nude-colored fishnets that had little rhinestones attached, and the pair of black Doc Martens Gabby bought me for my birthday last year. My dark hair was in a messy braid that rested on my shoulder, and I added a thick black choker, a few bracelets, and decorative rings to complete the look.
"You look amazing! You're going to knock him on his ass," Gabby said as we walked to the cafeteria.
"Oh, I'll be knocking him on his ass alright. It's all part of the plan."
"To make him jealous."
I stopped short. "I'm not trying to make him jealous, Gabby. I’m just going to remind him of what he will never have again. He wants to look at my boobs, well, now he can get a real good look."
Was I trying to make him jealous? That would imply he had a reason to be jealous, which he didn't, considering how he spoke about me the night before. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to rub it in that he would never have me again.