“Oh, before I forget. I have practice today at three.” He says it like it should mean something to me. It doesn’t so I don’t bother with a response.
“I checked in with your parents. Told them you’re hanging with me today, so you don’t have to worry about checking in. They know the deal.”
I wrap my hands around the edges of my desk to keep from throwing them in the air. “You spoke to my parents?” I hiss, barely able to control myself.
He doesn't look at me. “You can catch up on homework or read a book while you wait for me to finish. Your mom says you like to read.”
“I am not going to your practice.” Is this some sort of sick game to him? “We are not hanging out.” I stab my finger down on my desk. “After this conversation, I don’t want anything to do with you. Ever.”
He smirks, apparently finding my outrage funny.
“We’ll see.”
CHAPTER 11
GABRIEL
Cecilia spends all of class glaring at me. Then glares more when we get to her next one. She manages to avoid sitting by me, claiming a seat between two girls in the class just to ensure I can’t sit beside her.
She thinks she’s won until I claim the seat directly in front of her. I thought about taking the seat behind her, but where is the fun in that? This way, she’s forced to look at me for the entire period.
I can all but feel her eyes burning holes into the back of my skull, and I can’t help but grin.
She’s angry in a pissed-off kitten sort of way. Feisty and furious, but overall, harmless. If I had a heart, I’d humor her and pretend to care. Maybe apologize for what I know is a complete and utter invasion of her privacy. Problem is, I don’t care. Not about her feelings, and not about the lines I crossed to put myself in this seat.
After Felix pulled his bullshit with the Pier, I got to thinking. That fucker strongarmed me into dealing with my shit. There’s no reason I can’t do the same with Cecilia.
Force her to face her problems head on. To deal with them, so she can get over whatever pushed her into becoming suicidal. It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s a start, and it’s all I’ve got so I’m running with it.
I pulled out every card in the book. And to hell with anyone who thinks I should be sorry about it. This is do or die, and I have zero fucks to give.
I don’t know why she matters to me so much. I don’t know her. She’s just the girl I carried to the clinic. Weeks earlier, she was nothing more than a broken, nameless face.
But now she has a name. Cecilia Russo. And she has a face. It’s been pinched into an adorable scowl for the last hour, but it’s there. She is a living, breathing person with a life, and people who care about her. Knowing that changes things. It makes her real.
Finding her a month ago on the locker room floor never should have happened. I had no clue what I’d be walking in on, and trust me when I say there is no way you can prepare for that shit.
I froze. Stood there like a goddamn tree for a full three seconds before reality kicked me in the face and flipped a switch inside me. After that, adrenaline slammed into me and instinct took over.
I grabbed gauze from the first aid kit, wrapped her wrists as tight as I could manage to stem off the bleeding, and rushed her ass to a doctor.
I did what was needed for her to have the best shot at living to see tomorrow.
My decision was swift, but calculated. I didn’t overthink it or even allow myself to see her as a person. She was broken. An object in need of fixing, and the doctors were the ones who could do that—fix her.
I couldn’t let emotions get in the way, so I closed myself off. Ignored the fact that just over a year prior, I’d been the one to find my brother in a similar position. Difference was, Carlos was a determined fucker who gave everything his all on the first go every single time.
He’d always been like that. Balls to the wall. There were no half measures, not even when taking his own life.
Carlos slit his wrists across the vein, then dragged the blade vertically up his forearms until he met the hollow of his elbow. He cut through muscle and tendon. Tore open veins and exposed nerve endings. The amount of pain he put himself through to achieve his goal had to be insurmountable.
I knew he was gone the second I walked in the room, but it didn’t matter. I still dragged his heavy ass out of the bathtub. Wrapped towels around his arms—as if they did a damn thing—and pounded on his chest until the paramedics arrived. It didn’t make a difference.
The EMTs didn’t even turn the sirens on when they took him out on the stretcher.
He was DOA—dead on arrival.
I found out later, after the autopsy, that before climbing into the bathtub, Carlos swallowed an entire month's supply of antidepressants. He followed that up with a fifth of tequila. Every single drop. Then he went through with the cutting.
