Not that I’ve glanced up from my phone more than twice in the last hour.
“Aren’t you freezing?” Melissa asks, eyeing my thin hoodie with concern.
“Rage keeps me warm,” I deadpan, not looking up from my screen.
It rained for a whole day before the clouds switched to hardcore mode, and slushy ice came down instead of water. That cleared up during the night, but even this morning’s bright sun couldn’t combat the chill that had seeped into everything.
But overcast skies eradicated that sunlight by mid-morning, and things aren’t looking good. The wind has picked up drastically and thick, gray clouds are organizing on the horizon as if they’re planning something eldritch.
My nipples can cut glass, but I couldn’t summon the energy to put on anything warmer this afternoon. Couldn’t summon the energy to do much of anything since Thursday, really.
Two days since I discovered Kai filmed me being assaulted like it was some fucked-up amateur porn shoot.
Two days since I made the spectacularly stupid decision to kiss Bastian.
Two days of hiding in my room, building a fortress of blankets and self-loathing.
But Melissa practically dragged me out today, because apparently I need ‘fresh air and school spirit.’ I tried telling her I wasn’t a houseplant, that I needed junk food and another season of Supernatural to tide me over until classes next week, but she wasn’t buying it.
So here I am, pretending to give a solitary fuck about touchdowns while obsessively checking my phone and trying not to freeze to death.
Three rows down and twenty seats over, I can see the back of Kai’s head among his fellow Neanderthals from NEX. He’s wearing a black beanie pulled low, hunched forward like the weight of his own douchebaggery is finally catching up with him.
I’ve been watching him tip a silver flask to his lips since kickoff. At this rate, he’ll be unconscious soon.
“Why don’t we bring flasks?” I ask Melissa when I notice how many frat guys are passing flasks between them. No wonder none of them are freezing their tits off. That…and, well, they don’t have tits.
“Because we’re fucking ladies,” Melissa says, handing me the neon pink Stanley cup she’s been clinging onto for dear life since we left the sorority. I wave it away. She wriggles it meaningfully. When I give her some bombastic side-eye, she leans in close.
“You want booze or not?” she hisses.
Oh.
I take the gigantic cup and sip tentatively through the thick straw.
My splutter is not ladylike at all, and neither is Melissa’s evil chuckle.
“Jaysus,” I rasp hoarsely, shoving the cup back at her. “What the fuck is in there, local anesthetic?”
“Told you I love football.”
I get it now. In fact, the sea of pink and blue and purple cups in the sorority bleachers makes a hell of a lot more sense now than when I first arrived. I’m even starting to understand why they’re kitted out with lipstick containers and cellphone holders.
Alcoholism hiding in plain sight.
It feels like my phone vibrates, but the screen is blank when I check.
Still no response to my last text.
Looking up, I glare at the back of Kai’s head hard enough that his beanieshouldspontaneously combust…but I guess the bad weather is affecting my pyrokinesis.
I bite my lip hard enough to hurt and type another message.
@lee.haven
I need that video.
He starts typing a reply. My heart gives an annoying little skip before I remind myself that I’d rather gargle battery acid than admit I feel anything but pure disdain for Kai Jordan.
