I stare at my knees, at the worn threads of my jeans, the chipped black polish on my thumb. Anything but her face. Anything but the weight of what she’s asking. Every part of me wants to say no. My pride is practically yelling for it. Telling me to protect what’s left of my dignity.
But beneath all that noise is something else.
A small, traitorous voice that reminds me I miss him.
“He’s not going to graduate if he fails this class,” she says. “And I don’t think his aunt really cares enough about him to push him to pass.”
I know she’s right. Aubrey told us enough—about the aunt with the big house, the perfect lawn, and the locked doors. About Jace tucked away at the back in a run-down trailer, like something she didn’t want inside her perfect life.
“I’ll do it,” I say quietly.
Relief washes over her face. “Thank you, Lola. But he doesn’t get to pull his usual…” She hesitates, lips tightening. “I’m sure you know how he can be. He has to show up. And he has to do the work. You’re not there to save him, Lola. You’re there to keep him on track.”
“Okay,” I say, even though my stomach is already knotting.
“I’ll set it up for tomorrow afternoon. The library’s quiet. I’ll book a table.”
I nod once, the decision already made, then stand up. I sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Thank you, Lola,” she says again. “And if it all becomes too much for you, you let me know.”
“I will,” I reply, turning for the door.
My pulse pounds loudly in my ears as I walk back toward the main building. I avoid the lunch table because I can’t bring myself to sit there and pretend I’m okay.
Instead, I push open the bathroom door and lock myself into the last stall, pressing my back against it.
I run a hand over my face and stare at the floor, heart pounding.
What the fuck did I just agree to?
Chapter Two
Jace
The third-floor bathroom is always empty. No one uses it, probably because the lights flicker as if they’re on their last nerve, and the lock won’t click unless you know the trick. Pull the door back a little, lift the handle just right, and it catches. Oh, and it also smells faintly of old piss.
I don’t give a shit though. It’s private. Far enough from the chaos. No teachers wandering past. No curious assholes yanking on the handle. Just cracked tiles, a busted mirror, and space to breathe.
Space to disappear. And yeah, space where I can fuck if I need to.
Maya’s hands are braced on the wall, back arched, moaning as if she’s auditioning for a porn site that peaked in 2009.
It’s loud, performative,and desperate in a way that feels rehearsed. And honestly, fucking hell the noise grates as if she’s trying way too hard to convince me this is the best moment of her life.
I tighten my grip on her hips and thrust harder, mostly to shut her the fuck up. The whine jumps an octave, sharp and shrill, and it only makes me want this over with faster.
“Fuck, Jace,” she gasps. “You feel so… god, I’ve never—”
“Don’t talk,” I mutter.
She doesn’t listen. They never do. Silence terrifies them. So they fill it with noise—commentary, breathless moaning that sounds rehearsed.
They believe sex is like currency. That if they say my name enough times or moan it just right, I’ll soften, stay, and want more. But I don’t. I never fucking do.
Maya is just another body. Another distraction. A warm place to bury my cock for five fucking minutes and forget everything else. No attachment. Just friction and heat.
Her perfume is too sweet, as fake as the sounds coming out of her mouth. The way she throws her head back, arches her body, and gasps like she’s discovering fire for the first time.
