It takes two hours to get my room back to normal. The piss had soaked through the floorboards, and I had to scrub my little safe clean as well. I have to go ask the cleaning staff for bleach and air purifiers, because the smell lingers, but eventually I can't smell it anymore and I manage to fall asleep around midnight.
Chapter 4
I'm cranky as hell the next day from lack of sleep. I'd kill for a hot coffee.
The boys all hear about the piss prank, and the whispering that follows me makes me grit my teeth. I'm so distracted by it all that I don't notice the extra attention the juniors have begun to give me.
Turns out I've caught all three sets of Beaumont eyes.
Lucky. Fucking. Me.
I'm at my locker swapping over textbooks—why does this school love hardbacks that weight more than I do?—when I get approached by one of Joseph's flunkies. I recognize him from the dining hall, and I eye him warily.
“Hey there, Mounty. Do you have a name? Everyone just calls you Mounty or trash, so I wasn't sure your family could afford a name.”
Kill me now and just put me out of my misery. I level him with my most deadly glare. I don’t like the feel of his eyes on my skin, it makes me feel as though I need to scrub myself raw.
“Do you need something? Your winning personality isn't exactly doing anything for me, and I have a class to get to.”
He smirks at me, and then makes a big show of working his eyes over my body lasciviously. I fight the urge to either cross my arms over my chest or smack him in the nose.
“So I've always wanted to fuck a Mounty. I hear you poor folk are wild in bed, and I'm willing to give it a go. When are you free this week for a quick fuck?”
I see red, and then my vision whites out, and then I think I'm having a full rage blackout. I'm a little concerned that when I come to, this dickhead will be dead. I hear his laugh and then, without meaning to, my hand shoots out and jabs him in the throat. The noise he makes is magnificent, and he sprawls back into the lockers like I've shot him. Sometimes my survival instincts are a goddamned blessing.
The hallway goes quiet, and I grin down at him maliciously. I speak quietly, but I know everyone can hear me. All eyes are on us.
“I wouldn't fuck you if you were the only rich dick left in this building. I wouldn't touch your disgusting cock for a million dollars.”
He manages to straighten himself, and then throws me a haughty look.
“We’ll see about that,” he rasps, and then turns on his heel to stride off.
I glance around as the whispers start up again, then roll my eyes. This place is exhausting. Surviving four years here may be harder than I thought. I start walking to my next class and try not to let the dread creep in.
Hannaford requires either a sport or some form of music as subjects, and picking between them was like choosing a method to die. I physically could not do anything that required strenuous use of my legs. I had five pins and two plates holding one of my legs together, which is a violent and dark story for another time, which means unless I could do basketball sitting down, I couldn't pick gym. Music was a very different beast. I can't play any instruments, but I can sing. Actually, I can fuckingsing.But I haven't been able to hear the sound of my own singing for years without my PTSD kicking my ass all over the shop.
I’ve managed to only open my mouth during group numbers and warm-ups so far, but I have a copy of the class syllabus, and I know my project is a solo. I need to ace this class to keep my score up, but it feels impossible to me right now. My past is royally screwing me over.
I have one last class before choir, and I round the corner to get to chemistry when everything changes.
My entire world view changes.
* * *
The door in front of me opens, and out walks Blaise fucking Morrison.
Blaise. Fucking. Morrison.
Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be at school with Blaise Morrison. I knew that he went to an ultra-exclusive private school and that he had dozens of privacy orders in place to make sure he could go to school like any other teenager, but I couldn’t have ever hoped that I would see him in the flesh, let alone breathe the same air as him.
I should probably explain why my entire existence is melting at this boy’s appearance.
Blaise Morrison, BlaisefuckingMorrison, is the lead singer and guitarist for Vanth Falling, which is my favorite band and, not to be too dramatic, is also my entire reason for existence. I first heard of Morrison when he was still solo and uploading covers of his favorite songs. I was completely struck by the fact he was my age and doing what I could only dream of doing. I have every song he has ever sung, even his earlier less-great stuff, and I sleep in one of the bands shirts every night. I have followed his entire career—of two years, but that is irrelevant—and I’m basically a walking encyclopedia on all Vanth Falling knowledge.
He is perfection. A living god.
My obsession for him is for his lyricism and his range. He is so talented, and a modern poet, and I respect him so much as an artist. Now, seeing him up close, I can also say with absolute confidence that he is panty-dropping hot.
