The hairs on my neck stand on end.Stop panicking. Everything is fine. It’s just a PTSD response.Self-assurances don’t stand a chance against spiked adrenaline and anxiety. The metal teeth of my keys bite my palm as I strain to hear…
Muffled voices.
From Richard’s home office.
I creep down the hall, heart beating so loud in my ears, I can barely distinguish who is speaking. But as I approach, it’s abundantly clear it’s not my mother. Or any of her bimbo friends.
Holding my breath, I inch toward the ajar office door.
Broad shoulders clad in a custom made navy suit block my view of Richard’s large desk. Not a single deep golden hair is out of place on the back of the imposing stranger’s head. He’s not bulky, but he’s at least one and a half times my body mass.
A tremor begins in my fingers.
Richardnevertakes house calls.
Warning sirens scream in my brain.
“... destroy his entire career before it even begins. My son is straight, for fuck’s sake. He’s been with the same woman for four years now! He’s a good kid. Gets good grades, works hard, has plenty of friends. This is all just a big misunderstanding. He hasnothingto do with these ridiculous charges and I’m sure with you representing him, the athletic department will drop it,” the blonde man says in a smooth, condescending tone.
A sigh.
“He was found with possession of GHB and Tusi,” my step-father deadpans. Bile scorches up my throat. “Along with other incriminating evidence like video footage and witnesses.Theseridiculous chargesare serious and can’t easily be erased, Dr. Larson.”
Ice prickles over my scalp. Down my spine. To my toes.
Larson. As in…
Grant Larson.
My vision goes hazy. The floor is moving. I’m gonna puke.
A bitter chuckle. “Oh please, everyone has a price, Richard.”
Vomit fills my mouth.
Enough. I’ve heard enough.
So I do what I do best.
I run.
48
Remy
“Hey, um, can you stop shaking your leg?”
My phone falls on my laptop keyboard, head snapping to the girl beside me. She cringes. “It’s just kinda hard to take notes when…”
“Yeah, sorry, my bad,” I stammer. In truth, I hadn’t noticed. I’m once again ignoring a lecture in favor of texting my boyfriend. The one I was buried inside of last night. An endless loop of us tangled and touching and fucking replays in my brain. And even though I came in Win’s pretty mouth this morning, I’m desperate to fill him again.
Except, as usual, he’s shit at responding to me.
Professor Dundee rattles on about some rare, misdiagnosed mental illnesses, but it’s all white noise. I should be taking notes for the upcoming exam rather than daydreaming about thrusting balls deep into—
Oh hell. Now I’m bricked in the middle of class.
Checking my phone for the millionth time, I find my texts are still unread.
