If theLocksmith comes to collect, I’ll just do what I’ve always done.
Run.
I need to get the fuck out of this country.
Like now.
Except, transferring schools to study abroad the second semester of my senior year is going to be fucking hell, and truthfully, the chances of another college accepting me is very low.
I've already scheduled an appointment with my academic advisor, Kendra, but the earliest I can see her is next Monday, which is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. However, given the circumstances and limited time frame, Kendra made an exception.
Fuck.
It still feels so far away.
The pit of anxiety bubbling in my stomach rises, worsening the sickening urge to vomit. It’s our first day back from Christmas break, and the only reason I didn’t skip my ancient history class was because of the stupid fucking syllabus quiz worth five percent of my grade. It was sheer luck I overheard another student in this class complaining about it in my dorm hallway this morning as I was heading to shower.
But now that I sit here, sightlessly staring at my laptop screen, I wish I would’ve just taken the hit to my grade. I’m going to fucking fail it anyway. I haven’t absorbed a single question, and I’m nearly finished with it.
A tickle on the back of my head tears me from my erratic thoughts. Instinctively, my shoulders tense, and my eyes close in frustration.
“I can see why your father liked hair, you know,” a deep, rough voice whispers from behind me. He grips a small chunk of my dirty blonde tresses, lifting it for his inspection.
Because, of course, Dread ensured he’d sit right behind me. How the fuck else would he torment me so readily?
I tighten my lips into a thin line and look up, hoping Professor Downry noticed and will assume he’s copying my answers, but he’s leaning back in his chair as his thumbs angrily fly over his phone, his brow furrowed as he silently mouths the words as he types. It looks like he’s fighting with someone, which means he isn’t paying a single ounce of attention to us.
I lean forward, yanking the strands out of Dread’s grip, evoking a low chuckle from his throat. I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around it and ensure he can never make another sound, but I suppose that would make me just like my father.
And make Dread just likehismother.
Gritting my teeth, I seethe at my laptop and inhale a deep breath, a pathetically useless attempt to calm myself. Ignoring him doesn’t work, but I’m too exhausted to fight with him. Since Barry broke the news last night, I haven’t gotten more than an hour of sleep.
“Focus on your test, Dread. You might actually learn something other than what your own voice sounds like,” I respond dryly.
He grabs my hair again, this time pulling on it sharply, jerking my head back and eliciting a sharp hiss from between my teeth.
“Careful, darling. I might think you have a thing for my voice,” he purrs.
I roll my eyes and raise my hand. When the professor doesn’t notice, still engaging in phone-based warfare, I clear my throat loudly. Downry jumps, his head snapping up and his gaze finding me instantly. I’d imagine the bifocals over his eyes make it impossible for him not to see me.
“Ms. Adams? Is there an issue?”
Over fifty heads snap to me, but I don’t bristle beneath their attention. I’ve gotten quite used to being stared at.
“Yes,” I say, lowering my hand and straightening my spine. One sure way to piss off Dread is by using his real name—a feat most wouldn't dare do.
ButIdo.
“Kellan is sexually harassing me.”
Instantly, I feel him drop my hair, and I stifle my satisfied smile as his chair creaks, likely him settling back into it. It’s still a mystery how the thing doesn’t snap beneath his behemoth body.
If I peeked over my shoulder, I’m positive I’d find him grinning, but the sight would be as welcome as peering into the gaping mouth of a rattlesnake. Truthfully, I’m just as terrified of Dread as the rest of the campus, but I do my best to pretend otherwise.
Downry sighs and flicks an annoyed glance my way. It’s not the first time I’ve accused Dread of sexual harassment, and, just like every other instance, nothing’s done about it.
“Mr. Sharpe, please refrain from interacting with Ms. Adams. I would hate to report you to the dean for your behavior,” he says robotically.
