Spring: A High School Bully Romance (Sunset Beach High Book 3)

by McKayla Box

  But I know my dad's right.

  I can't take the easy way out.

  I'll just have to figure out how to help Trevor if he needs it.

  But I'm hoping that he doesn't.

  I look at my dad. “Okay. I'll talk to the police.”

  THIRTY

  “This is kind of a rarity,” Trevor says. “Just me and you having lunch on a school day. You aren't going to break up with me, are you?”

  It's the next day and we are at the picnic tables outside Juanito's. I told the girls I needed to have lunch with Trevor and I texted him that I wanted to have lunch with him.

  Just him.

  We'd driven over in his truck and I hadn't said much on the way over.

  Because I was trying to figure out what I was going to say to him when we got there.

  “Why would you think that?” I ask. “And, for the record, no. I didn't ask to have lunch with you so I could break up with you.”

  He laughs and pulls his burrito out from the wax paper. “Just checking. I didn't know if you'd lured me here under false pretenses.”

  “I gave you no pretense,” I remind him. “I just asked to have lunch with you. I was hoping Brett and Jake could find their own lunch for one day.”

  “And I was wondering how your girl gang would function down one member,” he says, smiling.

  “Shut up.”

  “Make me.”

  I roll my eyes and unwrap my taco. “Whatever. Okay, I actually do have a reason.”

  “I knew it,” he says. He bites of a huge hunk of the burrito and washes it down with his soda. He wipes the grease from his hands with a paper napkin and leans forward. “Okay. I'm ready. Lay it on me.”

  “Would you stop?” I say. “I'm being serious.”

  He laughs. “Sorry. But you're being fucking weird.”

  “I'm going to tell the police what happened to me,” I say, choosing to blurt it out rather than let it hover over us. “I told my dad everything and he agrees. I need to report what both Shanna and Athena did.”

  He nods. “Good. Fuck both of them. I'm with you on that.”

  “Well, you might not be in a minute,” I say.

  He frowns. “I'm always with you. Always on your side.”

  “Derek made a threat yesterday,” I tell him.

  He leans forward. “A threat? To you? What the fuck?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “He threatened you.”

  He stares at me for a second, the busts up laughing. “Derek Morgan threatened me? And he couldn't even do it to my face? That's the most Derek Morgan move of all time. He can fuck right off.”

  “Listen to me,” I say. “I haven't even told you what he said to me.”

  “I don't need to,” he says, frowning. “He's an asshole.”

  “The night Shanna drugged me,” I say. “You remember all of that?”

  “You mean do I remember kicking his ass because of what he'd done?” he says. “Oh, yeah. I fucking remember. He's lucky he's not dead.”

  “Well, he remembers, too,” I say. “And he says he's prepared to go to the police and tell them you assaulted him. If I go to the police and report what Shanna did to me.”

  He frowns again. “What? That doesn't even make sense.”

  “He claims that if I go to the police and tell them what happened, he'll tell them what you did to him,” I explain. “And it wasn't self-defense because you were on him before he did anything.”

  “Yeah, because the motherfucker knew you were drugged and he took you to his pool house so Holly Nicholls could use you as a punching bag,” he says. “He can fuck off.”

  I reach across the table and grab his hand. “Listen to me.”

  He sighs and shakes his head, but looks at me. “Okay. I'm listening.”

  “The reason he came to me was because of what happened in Santa Barbara,” I explain. “He knows what happened to you up there. And he knows that if he goes to the police here, it'll be one more assault charge against you. It complicates things. For you.”

  He looks toward the ocean. He runs the hand that I'm not holding through his hair. Then he turns back to me.

  “Fuck him,” he says. “I don't care.”

  “You need to care, Trevor,” I say. “I think he's serious. And I think you could be in way more trouble with a second charge.”

  He shrugs. “So fucking what? If I am, I am.”

  “Trev. Come on.”

  “If you think I'm gonna let a prick like Derek Morgan scare me, you don't know me at all,” he says. “He can make threats all he wants. I'm not afraid of him or anything he has to say.”

  “You need to be rational about this,” I tell him.

  “I am being rational,” he says. “You do what you need to do. And I'm all in with that. He can do what he needs to do. I'll deal with it.” He picks up his drink. “And I'll deal with him.”

  “Do not start anything with him,” I say. “Do not.”

  He looks away.

  I should've known this is how he'll react. He's puffing out his chest and doing the macho thing.

  Like an idiot.

  “You don't think there could be a problem if he goes to the police?” I ask.

  “I don't really know,” he says. “And I can't stop him. So I'll just have to deal with it if it happens.” He looks at me. “But none of that should stop you from doing what you need to do. What you should do. I'm serious, Presley. I'm behind you. Don't protect me. I don't need it. I'll be fine.”

  I let go of his hand. I'm not sure what to think. I'm glad he's okay with me talking to the police. But it worries me that he doesn't really seem to be taking all of the possible consequences seriously.

  “When are you going to do it?” he asks.

  “Today,” I tell him. “After school. My dad's coming home early so we can go.”

  He nods.

  “What did your dad say about this weekend?” I ask.

  He smirks. “He asked me why I was so stupid. Blah blah fucking blah.” He shakes his head. “Same shit from him, different day.”

  “I'm sorry,” I say.

  He shrugs and looks down at his food. “Oh well.”

  We eat in quiet for a few minutes.

  “I don't want you to go to jail,” I finally say.

  “Uh, I don't want to go to jail,” he says, laughing. “Didn't really enjoy those couple of hours on Saturday night.”

  “I'm serious.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Presley. So am I. You think I want to have this hanging over me? Fuck no, I don't. I've already got enough shit on my plate with my dad all over me. Not trying to be cool here.”

  “I don't have to do it,” I tell him quickly. “I don't have to go in.”

  He makes a face. “Yes, you do. Yes. You do. It will all get figured out. But you should nail all of those assholes for what they did. Fuck them.” It's his turn to reach for my hand. “I'll be okay.”

  I wish that I believe that.

  THIRTY ONE

  “Hey, bitch!”

  I roll my eyes as I'm walking to my car after school. Just once, I'd like to walk through the parking lot without someone calling me that.

  I turn around.

  Shanna is stomping toward me, her eyes full of anger.

  Great.

  “I am exhausted and I don't need any of your bullshit,” I say. “So save it.”

  “Save it?” she says. “How about if you tell your fucking daddy to shove it up his ass?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I just got a call from my mother,” she says. “Care to know why?”

  I laugh because it's a truly hilarious question. “Actually, no. Not even a little bit.”

  “Tough shit,” she says. “She called me because your dad called her to tell her they can't go out anymore.”

  “Shocking,” I say.

  “And he told her it was because I did something to you,” she snarls.

  “Uh, you did.”

&nbs
p; “So she calls me and starts yelling at me, asking what I did to you,” she says, completely unhinged. “And I'm like nothing. I did nothing to that bitch.”

  “At least we know you lie to everyone then,” I say. “Even your mother.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” she says. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “You're the one who said you wanted to talk.”

  “Did you fucking tell your dad?” she asks.

  “Yep.”

  “You fucking baby,” she says, shaking her head. “You giant fucking baby.”

  I want to tell her that in about an hour, I'll be talking to the police. But my dad told me not to say a word to anyone other than Trevor. I ended up telling the girls, but I know they won't say anything. He didn't want anyone jumping ahead of us or getting a head start on what they might say if they have to defend themselves. He wasn't even going to give Shanna's mom the specifics. He was just going to call her and tell her that there was a conflict between Shanna and myself and he wasn't comfortable going any further.

  Which, apparently, he has done.

  “I don't have time for this,” I say, turning back to my car. “Go talk to someone who cares.”

  “Did you seriously fucking tell him?” she asks. I can hear her footsteps behind. “You're seriously so fucking weak that you tattled to him? To your dad?”

  “You fucking drugged me, you horrid bitch,” I say over my shoulder. “Drugged me. Don't act like it was anything less than that.”

  “It was a fucking joke,” she says. “What? You think we were going to let Holly murder you or something? Jesus. How much attention do you need?”

  I reach the car, unlock the doors, and throw my backpack in the back. “I don't need any. Especially from you.”

  “Oh, really?” she says, frowning. “You don't need any. But you tell your dad about that prank. You make a fucking fake video of Athena apologizing to you. Your fucking dickhead boyfriend jumps through fire to defend your dumbass and he ends up in jail.” She smirks at me. “Bitch, you are an attention whore. Get real.”

  Her words make me stop for just a second.

  Is this the way everyone sees me?

  Am I that girl? The one everyone thinks needs to be the center of attention? Or is Shanna just running her mouth because her mother's pissed at her?

  And what will they think of me after the shit really hits the fan?

  I hate that she's making me think about these things and doubt myself.

  “I'm done,” I say. “Get out of my way or I swear to god, I will drive right over your fucking plastic, skinny ass.”

  “Fuck you,” she snaps. “Fuck you, Presley. I hope everyone figures out what a bag of trash you are.” She turns and stomps off.

  I get in the car and turn it on.

  I take a deep breath.

  She manages to raise my blood pressure anytime she's in my vicinity. I wish I had the power to just blow her off rather than let her get to me every single time. But I really don't. Every time I see her, I end up wanting to strangle her.

  I shift the car into park and as I pull out of my parking spot, I can't wait to see how she reacts when she finds out I'm going to the police.

  THIRTY TWO

  The ride to the police station with my dad is quiet.

  My stomach is one giant icicle and I want to throw up the entire way. My dad's not talking, either, and that's how I know he's nervous, too.

  Great.

  We pull into the lot, get out, and walk inside.

  “Have a seat for a second, Pres,” he says. “I'll get us squared away.”

  I nod and sit down on a wooden bench in the entry area. He walks over to a U-shaped desk and starts talking with the officer behind it. The guy leans his head to the side one time to get a look around my dad and to see me, nods, then disappears on the other side of my dad again. Then he gets up and disappears down the hallway.

  “It'll be a minute,” my dad says, sitting down next to me.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “He's going to get someone for us to talk to,” he says.

  “Do we need a special cop or something? Can't we talk to him?”

  He smiles and pats my leg. “Probably need someone higher up the chain. And preferably a woman.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she may have to ask you some sensitive questions and I think it'll be better if they come from a woman.”

  I lean back against the wall. “Great.”

  He pats my leg again. “You'll be fine.”

  I feel anything but fine.

  Five minutes later, a tall, skinny woman with red hair and cat-eye glasses comes back with the cop my dad spoke to. He points in our direction. She's wearing a gray pantsuit and a pale, yellow blouse underneath the jacket.

  She walks over and offers her hand to my dad. “I'm Detective Gentry.”

  My dad introduces himself and then me. I stand up to shake her hand.

  “Why don't we go back here?” she says. “Follow me.”

  She leads us down the hallway and into a small conference room at the end of it. She closes the door behind us and gestures toward the chairs. We sit in the two closest chairs to us and she sits down across from us. She gives me a quick smile, then looks at my dad. “Okay. Sergeant Evans out there says you've got some things you'd like to tell me.”

  “Not me,” my dad says. “My daughter.”

  “Right,” she says, switching her gaze to me. “Presley. Why are you here?”

  I look down at the table and can't find any words.

  “You're okay,” my dad says.

  I don't feel okay.

  “Just talk to me, Presley,” the detective says. “I'm not even going to take notes right now. I'm just going to listen. Okay?”

  I take a deep breath and look across the table at her. “I was drugged and assaulted.”

  “I'm sorry,” she says, wincing. “Can you tell me more about what happened?”

  And I do. I tell her everything. I recount every single detail from that night, from start to finish. It's like the flood gates have opened and all of the memories are rushing out of me. I can't stop them. The detective's eyes never leave me. She just nods and listens.

  I pause to catch my breath.

  “Would you like some water?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No. I'm fine. Thank you.” I look at her. “And something else happened to me.”

  “Separate from what happened the night you've been telling me about?”

  I nod. “Yes. A girl at school circulated a video of me having sex. But it was a fake.”

  She doesn't even blink. “I'm sorry. Can you tell me about that?”

  And, again, I do. I tell her everything I can remember about it and I even tell her how I created the video that made it look like Athena was apologizing for what she'd done. Everything is coming out of me so fast, I'm not even sure I'm making sense.

  “You've been dealing with a lot,” the detective says when I finish. “I'm sorry.”

  I shrug.

  “What made you decide to come in and report all of this?” she asks.

  “I don't know,” I tell her. “I just got tired of keeping it to myself.” I glance at my dad. “He helped convince me.”

  “It was mostly her,” he says. “She'd made up her mind. To be clear, I just learned about all of this yesterday.”

  She nods. “I understand.” She folds her hands on top of the table. “Well, I'll need to take a formal statement from you, Presley. I'll need names and I'll have to ask you quite a few questions as we go along.” She gives me the quick smile again. “I wanted to give you the opportunity to get it all for the first time. This way we can go a little slower through it a second time. So I can get the details. Are you up for that?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  She stands up. “Give me a couple of minutes and I'll be back.”

  She leaves and closes the door behind her.

  “That was exhausting,” I say, sl
umping in the chair.

  He puts his hand on my arm. “You did great. Really.”

  “Do you think she believes me?”

  “I don't know why she wouldn't.”

  “So what now?”

  “Just what she said,” he tells me. “She's going to have you go through it again, but slower. She's going to take a bunch of notes. She's going to ask you questions. All you have to do is tell her again what happened and answer her questions honestly. You can do it.”

  It felt good to get it all out, to tell someone other than my dad and my friends.

  But I'm anxious about going through it all again.

  But I don't have a choice.

  I can't go back.

  THIRTY THREE

  It takes almost three hours to go through it all a second time.

  Detective Gentry has about a million questions and has me repeat lots of things for her. Names. Details. What people were wearing at the party. What people said. How I found out about the video. She covers everything and then some. I do my best to answer her questions. Every few minutes, I glance at the handheld recorder she's set in the middle of the table to record me.

  There's no going back.

  When we're done, she reaches over and shuts off the recorder. She closes her notebook and sets her pen on top of it. She looks at me. “You're a trooper.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I know that took awhile, but it's important that we get as much as possible from you,” she says. “Every little bit helps.”

  I nod.

  “What happens now?” my dad asks.

  She adjusts her glasses and folds her arms across her chest. “Several things. It's two separate cases and we need to keep that in mind. I'll create two separate files to get us started. But there's clearly enough hear to start bringing in some of the people Presley is telling us are responsible for what happened to her.”

  “Bringing them in?” I ask. “Like, arresting them?”

  “Not right way,” she says. “We'll invite them in for questioning to start. We need to get their side of the story.”

  “We were hoping there might be some arrests right away,” my dad says. “Or I was. Based on what Presley is claiming here.”

  “I understand,” she says. “But I'm going to proceed slowly for a two reasons. First, we don't want to rush anything and make any mistakes. We want to make sure we know exactly who is responsible for what. For me, that means I want to hear from other folks who witnessed what happened in both cases. I'd like some corroboration of your daughter's story.” She looks at me. “Not that I don't believe you, but corroboration is important when we get down to making arrests and making charges.”