by Eva Ashwood
There’s a subdued murmur from the crowd, although from my vantage point in the back, I can see that students are still whispering and joking with each other. No one seems to give a shit if the dean is “let down,” especially since he doesn’t seem all that interested in doing more than issuing a half-hearted warning at the moment.
No one will pay for this.
No one will get in trouble.
Someone tracked down my Child Protective Services file, my fucking life history, and bared the horrors of my upbringing to the entire school.
And they’re going to get away with it, without even a slap on the wrist.
Part of me expects the dean to call off the rest of the assembly, but after a few more bland words of condemnation, he resumes his speech—minus the slideshow behind him.
I don’t go back to my sketch. I just stare at the stage, not really hearing anything, until finally, the assembly wraps up.
As I gather my shit up, I ignore the resurgence of whispers around me.
It doesn’t matter.
It can’t matter. Because the moment it starts to matter is the moment everything that’s happened to me is able to hurt me. It’s the moment every fucker in this school is able to hold power over me with information they don’t actually understand.
So it doesn’t matter.
But on my way out, as I pretend not to hear the jeers and whispers and laughter around me, the back of my neck prickles. As if drawn by some kind of magnetic force, my gaze moves unerringly toward where Gray Eastwood is sitting, framed on either side by Declan and Elias.
The Sinners.
Gray’s blue-green eyes capture mine, and I brace myself to see either pity or amusement in their depths.
But his expression is unreadable, his face a blank slate completely devoid of emotion.
That look… that confirmation that he doesn’t give a single shit?
For some reason, it cuts deeper than any knife.
11
Catcalls and shouts follow me everywhere I go for the rest of the day—even with Max taking up a protective position at my shoulder whenever she can and hurling insults back.
She found me as soon as the assembly ended, her olive complexion almost ashen as she demanded to know if I was okay.
Despite having been through some rough times, her home life is actually pretty decent, so she can’t exactly relate to the shit I went through in foster care. But she knows what it’s like to be an outsider here, and if there’s one upside to that shit-show of an assembly, it’s that it seems to have cemented the burgeoning friendship between the two of us.
That’s the only upside though.
The taunts and mockery don’t get any better the next day. Or the next. Or the next.
I get a reprieve over the weekend, but when Monday rolls around again, everyone picks right back up where they left off.
A target has been painted on my back.
The students of Hawthorne University are persistent as fuck, I’ll give them that.
I would call it high school bullshit, but even my high school bullies weren’t this dedicated. I get an ass grab or three at breakfast alone, and more than one increasingly aggressive suggestion that my dorm room serves as Hawthorne’s personal brothel. Most of the guys seem to like pushing that idea, and most of the girls seem convinced I’m trying to fuck their boyfriends.
Pretty much everyone on campus saw the slideshow at the assembly, and the ones with faster reflexes than others took pictures with their phones. They print them out and slap them up all over campus, so I’m treated to memories of the abuse I’ve endured every time I walk to class.
There are suggestions that I should be wearing a helmet because of my brain damage, rumors that I have to wear a diaper, conspiracy theories that I’m inbred and that’s where my medical issues come from.
Despite all of the petty bullshit, I make it through two weeks of classes. My professors weren’t kidding about the classes being challenging, but I actually find myself grateful for it. Studying my ass off gives me something to focus on besides the constant harassment.
On the second weekend after the start of the semester, I spend a few hours painting on Saturday morning. But after the week I just had, even that doesn’t calm me down.
Deciding I need to blow off some steam somehow, I use my newly issued ID card to get into the campus gym.
I don’t really give a shit about maintaining my physique, keeping it in prime condition for my future rich husband. But a few sprints around the track will at least give me a distraction.
Glam, poppy music blares from the overhead speakers, and while I’m not a fan, it sets a pace for my run that leaves my mind blank and my muscles on fire. Sweat drips in thick beads down my back as I push myself hard, sprinting flat out for as long as I can before resting briefly and doing it again.
Nothing exists outside of that god-awful pop music, the pounding of my feet against the track, and the steady rise and fall of my chest as I breathe.
By the time I’m done, my lungs burn and my legs ache. As I head into the women’s locker room, a trio of girls fall into step behind me.
I recognize them.
The school is small enough that I’m starting to learn faces and names—especially those of the people who seem most determined to come after me.
And these three definitely are.
Caitlin, from what I’ve gathered, is here with a purpose—to find a husband. Namely, a husband in Gray, which makes me the prime target for her ire, since Gray so graciously announced to the school that he’s already had the pleasure of fucking me.
She’s cute in the way a Chihuahua is cute: deceptively petite with a mouth that barks and teeth sharper than you’d expect. I think her thing for Gray has as much to do with his looks as with his money and status. She’s eerily similar in appearance to him, with thick chestnut hair and blue-green eyes.
Something about her fixation on him makes me think she has some weird eugenics-level preoccupation with making her children into clones of herself and her future husband.
She’s flanked today by her two groupies, Gemma and Reagan. Gemma is basically a parrot, echoing and agreeing with whatever Caitlin says. Reagan is an obvious case of nepotism. All her family are alums of Hawthorne University, and from what I can tell, she’s dumber than a box of rocks tossed out of the window of a moving vehicle—and that’s a generous estimation of her intelligence. My only guess as to why Caitlin keeps her around is that she’s pretty enough to be socially acceptable and dumb enough that she doesn’t question or challenge Caitlin on anything.
Ignoring them, I head to the showers to rinse off. But when I wrap a towel around myself and head back into the locker room, Caitlin and her posse are there, waiting for me. As I move toward my locker, they step in front of me.
“You know, I’ve been wondering,” Caitlin drawls, her head tilted. “How’d you get all those tattoos? You can’t have possibly afforded them. I know how much a good tattoo artist costs. So did you get your druggie friends to do them for you? Or did you just whore yourself out as payment for them? Ugh. I hope you were tested before you came here. I don’t even want to think about what kinds of skanky diseases you brought with you.”
“I’d have to fuck you to give you an STD,” I say, stepping around her to input the key code for the locker before grabbing my shit out so I can dry off and get dressed. “And unfortunately for you, I’m not into skinny bitches.”
Caitlin scoffs. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re annoying. Take a shower or fuck off.”
I go to move around her and the other two, but Caitlin keeps herself in front of me. Gemma and Reagan move dutifully to block my path on either side of her. I grit my teeth.
“The fuck do you want, Stepford? I have shit to do,” I snap.
Caitlin smirks. “You’re so touchy. Is that because of all the times your coke-head mommy dropped you on your head?”
My jaw tightens a little, but I ke
ep my expression carefully blank. “No, it’s because this school obviously needs an exterminator. The locker room has a vermin problem.”
I finally get my shit, snatching it out of my locker. Caitlin and her followers step out of my way as I get dressed. But they still don’t leave me alone, talking loudly amongst themselves—mostly a running commentary about me and all my flaws.
My body is oddly shaped.
I’m too skinny.
You can see the ridges of my spine.
My tattoos are ugly and manly.
My scars are disgusting.
There’s nothing feminine about me at all.
They’re not particularly creative in their taunts, but rage is still simmering under my skin by the time I tug my shirt over my head and shove open the locker room door.
I assume, like a dumbass, that they’ll leave me alone once I leave the gym. But they follow me out of the building, abandoning whatever plans they had to actually work out.
As I step outside into the afternoon sunlight, my annoyance finally spills over. I round on the three of them, my nostrils flared. “Don’t you have something better to fucking do? Get the hell away from me.”
Caitlin smirks. “Don’t worry. We were just putting your cautionary tale out there for the world to see.”
Cautionary tale? What the fuck is she talking about?
She taps something out on her phone, grinning in satisfaction. Reagan and Gemma peer at the screen from over her shoulder, and they all laugh. My stomach twists, and I make a move to snatch her cell from her, but she flinches away.
“Hey!” She glares at me. “Don’t touch my shit! I don’t want your gross germs all over my stuff. You never know where someone like you has been. I don’t want to catch whatever—” she gestures my way “—you couldn’t get rid of.”
I swipe for her phone again, and this time, she’s not able to dodge out of the way fast enough. I grab it from her, my gaze settling on the screen.
Motherfucker.
It’s a looping video on Instagram, showing me getting dressed in the locker room. She clearly hid the phone while she filmed, which is why I didn’t realize what the fuck they were doing. But despite the slightly awkward angle, the video shows every inch of my body, from my tattoos to my scars to the naked curves of my hips and ass.
The caption reads: Make wise choices, ladies. If you don’t, this fucked-up mess could be you one day.
I get a glimpse of the replies and comments, stupid fucking jokes and strings of emojis, before the phone is snatched back out of my hand and I’ve got Gemma and Reagan on either side of me, pulling me away from Caitlin.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I lunge against their hold, only to have Caitlin distract me with a vicious slap to my face. Her nails dig into my cheek, probably leaving behind a nasty mark that won’t fade quickly.
“You dirty bitch,” she hisses. “I told you not to touch my shit. You’ve gone and infected it with whatever sick diseases you’ve got. I think you owe me a new phone. How’re you going to pay me back, huh?”
“By smearing your face across the fucking pavement, you—”
“I didn’t realize Hawthorne had recess time now. What the fuck is going on here?”
Gray’s voice comes from behind me, Gemma, and Reagan before he steps around the three of us, putting himself in our line of sight. He’s wearing gym shorts and a criminally tight t-shirt, and I hate myself for even noticing how goddamn good he looks.
Motherfucker. This is the last fucking thing I need.
Gray hasn’t spoken to me once since the assembly on the second day of classes. The last time our paths crossed was in the closet when he manhandled me and stole my key card.
So why the fuck is he sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong now?
Caitlin’s demeanor shifts immediately. The nasty little sneer she sported a second ago is gone. She stands up a little straighter, puffing out her chest as her lips drop into a pout that I assume is supposed to be adorable. She looks up at Gray through thick, fluttering lashes.
Gross.
“We were just having fun,” she purrs. “Weren’t we, Sophie?”
“Speak for yourself, cunt,” I snap.
Caitlin laughs, the sound strident and harsh. “Sophie here just doesn’t seem to appreciate her part in our little social lesson. Here. Look.”
She hands over her phone to Gray, and I clench my jaw.
What a fucking bitch. She’s so pleased with herself, pathetically seeking out his approval for how she’s captured and plastered my naked body all over social media.
It’s not exactly a secret on campus that he hates me. She’s probably expecting him to thank her for this shit. Maybe even to finally ask her on that date she’s been dying for. Jesus. She probably considers this some kind of fucked up foreplay.
But Gray doesn’t thank her.
In fact, he doesn’t say anything for a long moment as he watches the looping video.
He stares at Caitlin’s screen, his expression blank until his eyes flicker with something not so calm, not so tame. It almost looks like… anger.
But one thing I’ve learned about people is that you have to give a shit to get angry, and Gray certainly doesn’t give a shit about me. He’s proven that on more than one occasion already.
So it shocks the hell out of me when he deliberately drops Caitlin’s phone to the ground.
The metallic clatter as it hits the pavement is contrasted by Caitlin’s furious squawk. But her voice cuts off abruptly when he brings the heel of his shoe down hard on the phone. The only sound is the crunch of the screen as it shatters, and he grinds it against the concrete with a twist of his foot before kicking it lightly aside.
Gemma and Reagan’s hold on me loosens as they gape at Gray in surprise. I step back from them, shaking off their hands as confusion ricochets around my chest.
What the hell just happened?
From the silence of shock, Caitlin lets out a piercing screech. Her gaze darts from her destroyed phone to Gray and back again before she finally regains the power of speech.
“What the fuck was that for?” Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks nearly apoplectic. “What’s your problem?”
“Just teaching a social lesson,” he says simply. “I thought that was the point.”
Gray doesn’t even spare me a look as he turns away, hoisting his bag up higher on his shoulder as he heads inside the gym building. Caitlin storms after him, and Gemma darts forward to snatch up the destroyed phone before the two of them follow after their leader.
I stare after all four of them in a daze.
I don’t get rich people. I’ll be the first one to admit that. But even by crazy rich people standards, what just happened makes no sense.
Gray saw the video Caitlin posted and then wrecked her phone over it. But he has to know that’s not gonna stop it from getting out. That’s not how social media works. That’s not how the internet works.
So why did he do it?
12
I keep playing the incident outside the gym over and over in my head for the rest of the weekend.
Gray’s actions don’t make any fucking sense—not that I should be wasting any of my time trying to understand that man.
But I don’t get it.
He looked pissed as he watched the video Caitlin took of me in the locker room, and the way he stomped on her phone definitely supports that theory. But was it actually in defense of me, or was it about something else entirely?
If he was trying to keep the video from getting out, he really needs a lesson on how social media works. Because by Monday, it becomes abundantly clear that most of the kids on campus either follow Caitlin on Instagram or know someone who does.
The catcalls and lewd propositions have gotten worse, and although Gray and his two friends seem to have gone back to steadfastly ignoring me, everyone else at Hawthorne is more fixated on me than ever.
The video finds its way onto YouTube and a bu
nch of other sites and is circulated so widely that people start showing it to me as I walk by, holding out their phones with the image of my naked body—as if it’s something I haven’t fucking seen before.
Jesus. Rich kids must be so fucking bored. Is this what happens when you have so much money that you never have to worry about anything?
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for how much attention something as stupidly mundane as my bare-naked ass getting dressed manages to garner from these people.
But as the week progresses, I start to realize it’s more than that.
As if Caitlin inspired some kind of fucking trend, more people start trying to get photos or videos of me naked.
On the one day I wear a skirt, a guy crawls under my table at lunch pretending he dropped something before trying to get an up-skirt shot with his cell phone. I practically kick his teeth in, and when I miss, catching him only with a glancing blow, he glares at me before walking off to join a table of jocks, showing them whatever shots he did manage to get as they all laugh raucously.
It’s not just the guys either. I can’t go to the gym anymore, because girls congregate in the locker room, waiting to snap pictures as I change or darting into the shower to try to get a shot of my naked tits.
Two guys bump up against me before class one day as we’re all getting settled at our desks, one “accidentally” snagging the neckline of my shirt while the other holds up his phone with the distinctive click of a camera.
They’re not even fucking subtle, and I’m pretty sure some of the professors are aware of what’s happening here; they just don’t seem to care enough to do anything about it.
Max doesn’t get the same treatment, and honestly, I’m glad. Because it fucking sucks. My shoulders are tight from being held tense all the time as my body settles into constant “defense mode.” I don’t even really care about people seeing me naked. I’ve endured a lot worse than that in my life. But I hate the feeling of being constantly watched, constantly ambushed, and the invasion of my personal space sets off every fucking traumatic memory I have.