Glass Heart Savage: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Glass Heart Academy Book 1)

by Lindsey Iler

  “But maybe you’re capable of change.”

  “Those who respect you don’t ask you to change, Palmer.” I stand. “Enjoy your pretzel.” I pause for a split second and hate myself for it.

  What do I expect her to do? Stop me and apologize for something she doesn’t even realize she’s doing? No, and I’m in no position to demand anything of her. This will have to go at her pace with little interference from me.

  I’m not a patient boy. She will come off the shelf again, but this time, she’ll be something cherished. Not a toy. Not a collectible. She’ll always be something more than that.

  ******

  “You’ve walked me to and from class for the last three days, Marek.” Palmer stops on the steps of her dorm. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you making yourself late for football practice. State championships are tonight, right?”

  I lower my head and hide my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Marek, give me a little credit. Your coach is having your ass, isn’t he?”

  I glance up and grin, holding my fingers a tiny space apart. “Maybe a little bit.”

  She laughs, and it isn’t forced like the few she’s slipped over the last couple of days. Our time together is short-lived here lately. Every second we spend together makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier. I said I’d keep this at her pace, but every day we aren’t together makes the possibility feel less likely. Waiting is something most girls make me do.

  “I’ll make you a deal.” She pulls the strap of her backpack a little tighter, gripping it like it will somehow make whatever she has to say easier. “Since you didn’t catch the hint on Monday when you said you’d end this charade, if you stop walking me to and from class like some rabid watchdog, I’ll come to your game tonight,” she offers.

  “Seriously?” I lift my eyes, not trying to hide how happy that makes me.

  “Will it get you to stop making yourself late?” Her eyes soften as she inspects me.

  “What is in it for you?” I nod my chin at her. This seems like the beginning of a trap.

  “You mean, watching you beat the fuck out of some poor guys isn’t incentive enough?” She shrugs. “And there isn’t really anything in it for me. Plus, I already told Breaker I’d be there.”

  Fucking Breaker.

  “I think you’re warming up to me, Palmer Weston.” I wag my finger at her, slinking away before she can change her mind.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself!” she shouts.

  The amusement in her voice has my stomach flipping around like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy with his first crush. Fuck me. I may need to find some way to remind myself of the guy I was before Palmer.

  “Can’t wait to see your cute ass up in those stands!” I yell, catching everyone’s attention.

  A blush creeps onto her cheeks. “Still think you’re an untrustworthy asshole.” She turns her back and heads inside the dorms, where I know she’s safe.

  “But you’re still thinking of me. That’s all I need to know.” Even though she can’t hear my quiet murmur, saying it makes me feel better.

  I head to the field, a bit of relief settling in to our new normal.

  Football will be a good distraction. On the field, everything else falls into place and my mind clears. It’s just me, my quarterback, and the ball. This sport is effortless. Green grass. Leather ball. An intense current running through the entire team, preparing for war.

  This is our last game as a team. Seniors will walk onto the field tonight, some of us carrying heavier baggage than others, but under those bright lights, none of it matters. We are a team.

  War is something I’m ready for.

  Speaking of . . .

  “You’re late again.” Byron is waiting on the cement path and follows me down the corridor that leads to our locker room.

  “You keeping tabs on me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. We’ve tiptoed around each other for the last month. Our distance is starting to be our normal.

  “It’s about time we have this conversation.” Byron bashfully tucks his hands into his pockets.

  “It’s all done and over with,” I brush him off.

  “You and I both know that isn’t true.” He grabs my arm, and I jerk away from his touch. “Come on, man.”

  “I have a game to play. I’m trying to let things get back to normal. Everyone else seems to be, so why can’t you?”

  “Because”— he slams his hands against the cement wall— “this shit isn’t done.”

  “You made sure it was done the moment you sliced that knife into Palmer’s leg. The moment you decided your shit was far more important than the rest of ours, you made the decision for us.”

  “You know this isn’t done, not as long as—”

  I cut him off. “She’s dead, Byron. No amount of searching for her killer will make that any less true,” I sigh, an influx of sadness settling into my chest.

  “At the time, I did what I thought I had to do.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” I tap my temple, slamming my finger into the hard flesh. “You’re delusional if you actually think it had to go that far. It’s about time you start moving on. The rest of us are.”

  “Real cute coming from the boy who held a knife to Palmer’s throat,” he goads. “What, didn’t think I’d notice the marks on her neck? We aren’t so different, so stop acting holier than thou.”

  My heartbeat whooshes in my ears. Overcome by anger, I clench my hands at my sides, holding myself back from lunging at him.

  “All this over a stupid girl,” he hisses.

  Ever hear the expression ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’? Consider myself broken.

  I lunge forward, my fist connecting with Byron’s cheek. The bone is harsh to my knuckles. He stumbles backwards, losing his footing and hitting the cement floor. He’s not much of a fighter unless he’s certain he can win. When he stands, I roll my shoulders and turn my back on him. Nothing else needs to be said. He knows what he’s done.

  In the locker room, I grab a paper towel and dry the blood from the split knuckle and toss the rag in the trash.

  “You ready for this tonight?” Coach asks, walking through the locker room on the way to his office.

  “I’m not too worried.” I spin, pinning Dillon to his locker with a glare. “What about you, Johnson? You think you’re ready?”

  “You two will need to work together tonight.” Coach pats me on the back, then hides behind his office doors.

  Dillon Johnson is a fucking asshole. That much I’m certain of. We’ll work together in the beginning, but if at any point we’re ahead enough, I’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him. Breaker has mentioned Johnson’s been eyeing Palmer lately. I haven’t noticed because my eyes are always on her.

  “Let’s call a truce, Hawthorne,” he says as I’m pulling on my pads.

  I eye his offered hand, refusing to give him my own. “Let’s get through this game.”

  Keeping my distance in this locker room is damn near impossible, but I manage. With my headphones on, I sit on the bench, focusing on the one thing I can control. This game. I get to decide how hard I push myself, how fast I’ll run, and how tight I’ll hold onto the ball. I control the score. The only thing standing between us and a win is me.

  Stepping out onto the field is a rite of passage at a home game. Cheerleaders line the track. A banner waits for us to barrel through, and smoke and fireworks fill the sky. It’s a sight to see. Glass Heart Academy has a reputation for theatrics. We live for this shit. It’s in our blood.

  With my team, I run out onto the field, stopping when we hit the sidelines. I turn towards the crowd, scanning the student section that’s buzzing like a livewire tonight. I spot Dixon and Breaker instantly. Girls surround them, and the boys give them their breathing room, right in the middle of the crowd.

  I hold out my hands, asking Breaker a question he immediately responds to with a quick point. Palmer is walking up the ste
ps, the sea of students parting for her, much to their dismay. She sits down in front of Breaker and leans back into him to whisper something.

  He grins, eyeing me the whole time. I mouth fucking asshole, which he clearly reads. An entertained middle finger is waved at me. Palmer circles back around, skimming the sidelines. Our eyes lock, and she visibly sighs, offering me a bothered wave.

  She needs me to know she’s here, but not happy about it. Or that’s at least what she needs to tell herself as she sits in the stands. She’ll pretend as if she isn’t watching me stretching, and she’ll turn away when she catches herself searching for my number among the sea of jerseys.

  Dillon plays a strong first half, making the right choice by throwing long passes to me deep down the field. There’s a reason why we win. I’m running the ball into the end zone as the time runs out on the scoreboard, signaling the end of the first half.

  I jog towards the stands. The guys high-five me, and the girls gaze at me as if I’m something. To them, I am, but their approval isn’t something I chase.

  “Where is she?” I yell to Breaker, checking around the stands for any sign of her.

  “She said she was going to the bathroom,” Breaker calls out.

  “That was a while ago, though,” Delaney adds, standing to scan the area.

  I jump the guard rail and race below the stands. The bathrooms and concession stands are beneath. If she’s gone to the bathroom, then she has to be down here somewhere.

  Unwarranted panic sets in when I don’t see her. I open the girls’ bathroom door and yell her name. A group of women yell at me, telling me to get the hell out.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  My chin falls to my chest, and I turn to see Palmer standing with a bag of popcorn in her hands. She pops a piece in her mouth and smiles.

  “I, umm . . .” For fuck’s sake, could I sound any dumber? “Where were you?”

  Her eyes shift from her coveted popcorn to me. “I came down here to answer a phone call from my parents, and thought maybe I should get something to eat because I’m starving. What are you doing down here?” Her eyes narrow. “Wait a second, were you worried about me?”

  “And if I was?” I shrug. “There’s still someone out there who attacked you. I’m sorry for worrying. When I didn’t see you, I thought the worst.”

  “Because you like me.”

  “Whatever.” I head towards the stairwell that leads to the field. “I’m glad you’re not dead, is all.” I smile to myself and pull on my helmet.

  The second half of the game goes just as I suspect. We get a decent lead, and after Dillon makes a couple comments about Palmer, I have no choice.

  “Don’t block for him,” I say to our largest lineman, Max Edwards.

  “But . . .” he pleads.

  I’m a believer in a team. He and every other person on this field wearing our school colors knows it.

  “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” I offer, hoping to get my point across.

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that sweet little thing up in the stands, would it? Overheard him plotting some shit the other day in the locker room.”

  “Like what?” I pat him on the back.

  “I don’t know, man.” He waves the idea off. “Johnson is harmless, so I can’t imagine it would be anything worth worrying about.”

  He’s right. The only thing big and bad about Dillon Johnson is his father. Lord knows that mother fucker throws that weight around campus.

  I stand in the backfield, watching as Max sets up. I continue like the play is important, running my hardest route, already knowing the outcome I’ve orchestrated. When I turn, I see it. If I wasn’t looking for it, I’d miss the whole thing. Max follows through for me.

  Dillon hits the turf, hard and deadly. The guy from the other team stands over his limp body, talking shit as expected. The ref shoves him away, and everyone falls to one knee, showing good sportsmanship. Only two of us know the truth.

  Max turns back, and we exchange glances. I nod once, and he turns back around, focusing on Dillon’s writhing body.

  No one needs to know this is a message to Johnson.

  With the help of our athletic trainer, Johnson is hauled off the field, dragging his lifeless legs behind him. The game resumes as if nothing happened.

  “He got thumped,” Max says before we make it to the huddle.

  “It won’t fall back on you. You got my word.” I pat him roughly on his shoulder pads.

  “I’m not worried.” He shrugs, dismissing my promise.

  Once in the huddle, I check on my boys. They look to me for guidance on and off the field, and tonight will be no different. Our second-string quarterback joins us, fear in his eyes. After a quick speech, we clap once and play like everything is normal.

  We finish the game with a closer score than I’m comfortable with.

  “You almost screwed the pooch on that one, Hawthorne!” Breaker yells to me from the stands. “Palmer was biting her nails the whole time.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Palmer punches him in the stomach and turns to face me. “Good game, Marek.”

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Wait for me. I want to take you somewhere.”

  “I don’t know.” She shakes her head.

  “Please.”

  Who knew one word would make her putty in my hand?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Palmer

  This is such a bad idea.

  I sit on the hood of Marek’s truck, after begging Breaker to leave me here alone. He’s overprotective to the point I’m starting to think I need to dodge him.

  Delaney is trying her hardest to understand the weird friendship between Breaker and me. I’ve begged her not to bother, when I don’t even understand it myself. Over the weeks following the boys’ orchestrated attack, Breaker’s made it his mission to prove himself to me.

  On more than one occasion, I’ve asked him why he’s hell bent on proving to me he’s not a monster. At first, he didn’t have an answer for me, but then one day, he sat in front of me, sincerity in his eyes.

  “We don’t prey on the weak. We acquire the strong. That was our first mistake with you. We underestimated every fiber of who you are.”

  After that day, I stopped questioning everything he did for me and around me because it no longer mattered. He’d earned my trust by giving me what I’d needed, the reassurance that I’m not seen as fragile.

  “What has you daydreaming, beautiful?” Marek drops his bag on the ground and hops on the hood next to me.

  “You’ve never called me beautiful.”

  “Well, that’s my fault, then.” His stare takes in the empty parking lot. “I should have told you before because you deserve to know.”

  “That I’m beautiful.” My words are slow, as I try to digest everything Marek is saying.

  “That you’re more than the sum of your parts. That you aren’t a means to an end. That you aren’t a chess piece in our game.” He slides down the hood and offers me his hand.

  I reluctantly take it. That seems to be a speed lately. He’s somehow weaseled his way back into my life, after everything, and that shit will drive a girl crazy, like straightjacket insane.

  “You can trust me,” Marek says, releasing my hand and opening the door for me.

  Our five-minute drive is spent in silence. Marek glances over at me when we stop at red lights. Once they’re green, his eyes return to the road.

  You can trust me.

  Can I though? Showing up to walk me to class every day doesn’t erase everything he’s done. All the lies, the betrayal, and cruelty.

  How do I trust someone who’s an emotional bomber? He dropped it right onto my chest, blowing my heart right out of my body. How do we move on from that? How do I sit next to him and not wonder if he’s plotting something new?

  “Don’t think too hard.” Marek cuts the truck off and turns to me.

  “All I do lately is think,” I admit, star
ing out the front windshield.

  Marek unbuckles my seat belt, reaches over my body, and shoves open the door. “Get out and stop thinking.”

  I do as he says, meeting Marek at the front of the truck. “What is this place?”

  “My favorite place in the world.” He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers like an eager kid begging for candy.

  Cautiously, I place mine in his, taking his advice to stop thinking. It isn’t long before I notice the sign above the old building. The brick is crumbling at the corners. It looks nothing like a place a rich kid would spend time.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Palmer. I’m not a complete snob.” He pulls me towards the building and opens the door.

  Sounds, smells, and lights overtake my senses. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating at the same time. I haven’t been inside an arcade in years, not since I was little. Our nanny would take Reed and me on rainy days.

  We stand, hand in hand, and it dawns on me that I may not be the only one who he’s shared it with.

  “Did you ever . . .” I point towards the rows and rows of games. My insecurity leaks from every unspoken word.

  “No, I never shared this place with her.” A faint, understanding smile breaks across his face. “Come on.”

  Marek heads to the counter where he exchanges cash for little gold tokens. This place is so old school it doesn’t have reloadable cards.

  “Here you go.” He hands me a paper cup. The tokens jingle, and I grin. “What? What’s with the wicked look in your eyes?”

  “I just . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “You don’t seem like the arcade type. You chase me through the woods and pin me against trees. Taking a girl to an arcade seems too normal for you.”

  “I’m where normal meets crazy, Palmer. Embrace it.” He enters the main game room and slides a handful of tokens into the Skee-Ball machine.

  I stand back, watching him sling ball after ball up the ramp, racking up his score. He catches me staring as he finishes his game and bends down to retrieve his tickets.