I don't bother to wave back.
Today's my last day here and I refuse to waste it on bullshit.
Instead, I flip Hitch off and finding myself frowning when all he does is grin back at me.
Asshole.
I head inside to find the boys waiting for me, just like always.
Is it stupid to wish that Finny was still one of them?
At lunch, I hit the bathroom on the first floor, the one near the principal's office that nobody likes to use because it's too easy to get busted for having a phone on campus, smoking weed, or whatever the hell else the idiots at this school like to do in their spare time. I prefer it because it means that for once, I can actually piss in peace. It's a hell of a lot less crowded than the bathroom in Hell, that's for sure.
As soon as I step inside though, I can tell something's wrong.
The stall at the end is closed and I can hear a jumbled mess of moaning echoing around the blue and white tiled room. Both voices sound familiar, but it's the girl's I recognize first.
Clea fucking Mooney.
My first thought is that it's Nash, and I go completely and utterly ballistic for a moment, lifting my leg up and kicking the door as hard as I can. The lock snaps off and the yellow-brown stall door slams into the wall with enough force to crack a tile.
Clea glances over her shoulder at me, eyes wide and gapes like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing several times before she manages to get any words out.
“Get the fuck out of here!” she snaps, straddling the lap of the boy sitting on the toilet. Her skirt's all bunched up around her hips, her lipstick smeared, but I can't tell if the two of them are actually fucking or just dry humping.
Either way, I feel a rush of bile in my throat.
The guy she's straddling … is none other than Hitch Finnegan.
I expect to feel a rush of relief that it's not Nash sitting there necking with Clea, but instead, all I feel is disgust.
“Wow, you've decided to take the whole Toilet thing to a new level, haven't you?” I ask, which sounds all witty and shit to me but probably makes zero sense to either of the lovebirds draped over the porcelain throne.
Before either of them can get another word out, I'm turning and fleeing the bathroom, my heart pounding and my stomach all twisted into knots. I can't unsee Clea's bare legs, the shape of her ass, the way her mouth was swollen and her makeup smeared. I can't unsee the kid I used to call Finny with his hands all over her, his breath coming in panting gasps, probably with his dick inside of her. At least I didn't have to actually see that part.
“Hey, Merry!”
I glance over my shoulder and find Hitch chasing after me.
I ignore him and walk as fast as I can, heading toward the back door of the main building and outside. The boys and I usually eat in the school's garden area. It's this little slice of heaven in all the chaos of MC High, run by the gardening club and filled with orange and lemon trees, beds of vegetables, and paths surrounded by wildflowers.
I really don't want Hitch to follow me there, so I stop at the gated entrance and spin around to look at him, trying my best to keep my expression neutral.
“What?” I snap as he comes to a panting halt, running his tongue over his lower lip and flashing me that stupid piercing again. I refuse to admit that I find it sexy as hell. Not after what I just saw. I'm too grossed out.
“Are you okay? You look like you'd seen a ghost back there.”
“A ghost?” The laugh that escapes my throat is just this side of bitter. “Nope. Just a couple of whores doing what whores do best.”
Hitch frowns at me and puts his hands on his hips, catching his breath and then pausing to reach a sleeve up and wipe away the remainder of Clea's lipstick.
“Awfully judge-y, aren't we?” he asks with a heavy dose of snark, the sienna glaze of his eye sharp and burning, angry and awful. Fuck, I was right to hate this guy right off the bat. I softened up when I realized he was the Finny I used to know, but in all reality, he's just another delinquent prick passing through Hell's doors.
“Look, I don't care what you and Clea do. Just don't stink up my favorite bathroom when you do it.”
I turn to walk away and Hitch grabs my arms, his fingers curling tight around my bicep. Even with the thick fabric of my hoodie between us, it feels like his touch could burn. Scald. Melt me into nothing.
I try to tear my arm away, but Hitch just holds tighter, spinning me until my back's to the gate. He grabs hold of my other arm and pins there against the black metal bars and the hand-painted wooden sign.
“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous,” he purrs, putting his mouth to my ear and breathing hot against it. “Is that it? Did you miss me, Merry?”
Hitch leans in and puts his lips against the side of my throat, right over that jumping pulse that gives away all my emotions. This close up, he smells like sage and rosewood, masculine but sweet, too. For just an instant there, I forget what I just saw and feel this sharp, vibrant flicker of memory pass through me, of Hitch's small hands squeezing my own, of our foreheads pressed together as we listened to a thunderstorm pass by outside. Being that close to him, I felt safe.
I'm not sure that he's safe anymore.
The sound of a nearby door slamming closed wakes me up from the memory, and I lift my knee up, hitting Hitch as hard as I can between the legs. He's hard—whether from me or from Clea, I'm not sure—but as soon as I make contact, I know he's going to hurt like hell.
Hitch's fingers relax their grip and he stumbles back with a groan, clutching his crotch with his tattooed hand and taking low, shallow breaths to get through the pain.
“Don't ever touch me without my permission again,” I snarl, and I don't care how much I've hurt the bastard, I leave him to fall on his knees on the sidewalk outside the garden. The wind ruffles the top layer of blonde hair, revealing the darkness underneath.
I feel like that's what he's just done, showed me the shadows underneath the smiles.
Hitch growls something like, “fuck you, Merit,” but I'm not listening anymore. I turn and unlock the garden gate, slipping inside before Clea or Barrett or whoever the hell else might be looking for Hitch shows up.
After lunch, I check that same spot but Hitch is long gone.
Maddox was right—good fucking riddance.
Jenna-Marie is pretty in that So Cal fake tan, fake blonde, fake lips sort of a way. So are her daughters. Comparing me to them (which they often do), I'm referred to as the ice princess. My hair is white-white-blonde, my eyes like a glassy lake filled with snowmelt runoff, and my skin is pink tinged Nordic white.
I'm pretty sure that all three of them hate me, so why the fuck do they want me back?
“I can't do this,” I say as I stand next to an unpacked suitcase and stare down at the sidewalk where Jenna-Marie's beat-up old Mustang is waiting. “I just fucking can't.”
“You've got this,” Gunner says, pulling me into his arms and crushing me to that massive chest of his. Being this close to him, I get lightheaded and tingly, my fingers curling into his pale green t-shirt, my nostrils flaring at that clean, smooth scent of his, like a fresh ocean breeze. It sweeps over me and does a hell of a job at trying to calm my nerves. “We'll take the bus and come see you on the weekends.”
“Save your money,” I mumble into his shirt, but I know he won't. As nice as he is, Gunner is stubborn as hell, too. “You only have eight months to save up for an apartment, remember?”
“Don't worry about that,” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss against the top of my scalp. He knows I will anyway, but oh well. I can't really complain about the boys coming to visit me, now can I?
“Alright, time to share the love,” Maddox says as I slide out of Gunner's grip and turn to face him, putting a palm on either side of his face and leaning in close enough that I know he can see me. Maddox smells completely different from Gunner, like dark chocolate and musk, sensual but warm and homey at the sa
me time. “Give 'em as much shit as you can without getting sent to juvie,” he tells me, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead that doesn't come across quite as chaste as I think he meant it to. “If you piss 'em off enough, maybe they'll send you back here?”
“I'm on it,” I promise, stepping back and glancing over at Nash. He watches me for a long moment and then steps forward, throwing an arm around my neck and kissing me on the lips the way he's done since forever. It feels completely different now, igniting this hot flame between my thighs, fanning this pulsing ache.
“See you next Saturday?” he asks, and I nod, my throat too tight to say anything else.
Before I lose my nerve and make a run for it out the back window, I toss what little shit I own into the suitcase, close it up, and head downstairs to meet Jenna-Marie.
The Buzzard's already got her seated at our ratty dining table with a cup of untouched tea, chatting away, too busy to notice the bourgeois bitch is staring at the chipped cup with unbridled disgust.
Before I can toss some snarky bullshit their way, I notice Hitch standing in the foyer, glaring at me.
“How's your dick?” I ask as I step up to him and drop the suitcase by his feet.
To my surprise, he just lets those full lips of his twist into a sly smile.
“Bruised, but he'll survive,” he tells me, tilting his head to the side, still draped in that baggy white hoodie of his. With his arms crossed over his chest and his fingers curled around the arms of his sweatshirt, I can actually make out the tattoos on his knuckles in the bright sunshine streaming through the foyer window. LOST SOUL is spelled out, one letter per finger across both hands, minus the thumbs.
“Really? Damn. Next time I'll kick harder.” I smile tightly, turning and leaning against the warmth of the window next to the front door. The boys should all be upstairs still, waiting to watch me drive away in Jenna-Marie's Mustang. It's just easier on all of us if they don't come down until after I'm gone.
Unfortunately, I now get to deal with Hitch, the childhood friend that's gone rotten over the years. He's like a banana with a bright yellow peel and a rotten inside, all cheerful and fascinating on the surface but ugly underneath.
“You know,” he says, licking his lower lip again. It must be a habit or something because he can't seem to stop doing it. “I never forgot Merry. Through all the abuse and the horror and the bullshit I've been through, I held onto those memories we made together.”
“Really? Because as far as I can tell, the kid that held me through thunderstorms and shared his desserts, he's dead. He never would've assaulted me outside the school's garden gate.”
“Maybe you're right?” Hitch says, lifting his eyes to mine and holding my gaze. “Maybe he is? And I'm sorry for that. Guess I learned a long time ago that the bad guys always win.” He pauses and that smile of his, it gets darker. Fuck, it's almost scary. “Life is just so much easier when you're one of them.”
Hitch pushes off the door and moves past me, making me shiver as his arm brushes against mine. I glance over my shoulder after him, but I'm not sure what to say—or if I should say anything at all.
I'm not quite sure I know what to feel either.
Do I mourn the lost little boy that Finny used to be? Or do I fear the man Hitch is becoming?
Maybe it's not really my problem either way?
Somehow, though, it feels like it should be.
Life at the Kennedys' is just as awful as I thought it was going to be.
That is to say, even worse than it was last time. The girls—Maddie and Brandy—are spoiled rotten nightmares, their mom is a bitch, and to add insult to injury, their pervy stepfather is back from some extended business trip thing. Fortunately, I didn't have to meet him last time I was here. Unfortunately, now that he is back, he seems to have absolutely zero desire to leave the house.
Basically, I've spent the entire week in my room, counting down the days until Saturday, missing the boys, missing my school. Hell, I even miss the shitty old bunk beds in Hell. At least when I'm there, nobody acts like I should be grateful for my crappy lot in life. I can just exist and that's enough. Here, I'm expected to say thank you for being treated like shit.
And the high school?
Fuck, it sucks.
And I love school. I love it. It's my sanctuary, my escape, my chance at a better future. But here? Where the teachers treat me like I'm dirt and the students are twice as bad as the ones at MC High? I feel like that opportunity is being ripped from my fingers. Plus, I have literally zero backup in this place. It's just me, myself, and I, and I fucking hate it.
I hate being lonely.
At night, I lie in my bed with the door locked and listen to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Twice now, somebody's tried the handle, found it locked and left. But that night Brandy cut off all my hair? My door was locked; she picked it. Who's to say what might happen next time?
So not only am I lonely, but I'm also exhausted.
After school the following Friday, I lock myself in my room as usual and lie back on the bed, closing my eyes and letting myself dream of tomorrow, of ice cream in the sun with my family, with familiar faces, and warm smiles. I think about Nash and his hand dancing inside of me, teasing my most intimate parts with smooth easy flicks of his fingers. I think of Maddox, defending me both at home and at school, even if he can't see what the hell he's defending me against. And I think of Gunner, always willing to shoulder the burden for the rest of us, trying too hard, fighting for every ounce of happiness.
I even think of Hitch, despite my best efforts.
'Guess I learned a long time ago that the bad guys always win. Life is just so much easier when you're one of them.'
My eyes snap open and I exhale, a long, slow breath that does nothing at all to calm my nerves. I might only be twenty-three miles away from the guys, but it feels like millions.
Rolling onto my side, I pillow my hands under my head and try to get to sleep. Maybe if I doze a little now, I'll have an easier time staying awake tonight? I peek out the curtains and see Jenna-Marie's husband—whatever the fuck his name is—mowing the lawn. It seems to be about the only chore he's capable of. Everything else—the cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping—is apparently supposed to fall to me. Only, I've been refusing to do it. Let's see how long that lasts. Maybe once they realize that I'm not worth the easy government paycheck, they'll send me back?
I close the curtains, climb under the covers, and try to grab some sleep.
I wake to a nightmare.
Maybe once upon a time, we were all friends with Hitch Finnegan.
Not anymore.
Friday after school, I come into the living room to find him, Clea, Barrett, and Tara sitting huddled on the sofa together. Barrett is laying out lines of white powder on the coffee table's surface while the others watch.
When Hitch sees me, he leans back and grins, crossing his arms together behind his head.
“Hey there, Taters, care to join us?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, closing the door behind me. Maddox and Gunner are both stuck back at the school in some college readiness class, so I'm here by myself. This is kind of the last thing I want to deal with. “If the Buzzard catches you with this shit, there's no infraction slip—it's straight to frigging Purgatory.”
Clea and Tara both giggle; Hitch ratchets his grin up another notch.
“That so?” he asks, staring at me like he gives absolutely zero fucks about what I have to say.
“Clea,” I start instead, switching my attention to her. Not that she talks to me anymore. To be fair, I put some distance between us after what happened with Merit, but that doesn't mean I give zero fucks. “You said you'd rather die than get sent back to Purgatory. I mean, I'm not opposed to having some fun, but take that shit outside or whatever. If Mrs. Freeman catches you—”
“Come on, Nashed Potatoes, loosen up a little,” Hitch says as he sits up and drops his hands to his lap, taking a rolled up twe
nty dollar bill from Barrett. As I stand there gaping, he snorts two of the lines in quick succession.
At about the same moment, I hear the Buzzard's door open upstairs.
“It's not fun if it's not a little dangerous, too, right?” Hitch says, passing over the green tube and sniffling as he watches the others scramble to finish their own lines. I swear, Clea's still choking on the high and swiping white residue off the table when Mrs. Freeman appears in the entrance to the living room.
“Excuse me,” she says, gesturing at Barrett and Tara, “but guests need to be registered at least a day in advance. I haven't approved any visitors.” The Buzzard pulls her infraction slip pad out of her pocket, but Hitch is already smiling and Clea is giggling like crazy into her palm. “The two of you will need to leave.”
“Whatever. I'm done with this fucking dump anyway,” Barrett says with a smirk, pulling Tara up off the couch after him. Hitch stands up, too, and the boys slap palms. “Pick you up on Monday?”
“See ya then,” Hitch says, tucking his fingers into his pockets and tossing a smirk in the Buzzard's direction. “Go ahead and write me up. I invited them into this funeral home.”
He glances my way next and winks, putting an arm around Clea's shoulders and escorting her toward the back door. Just before the two of them disappear outside, he sticks his tongue out at me and flashes the silver piercing in it.
“Catch you later, NPG,” Hitch says, letting the screen door slam closed behind him.
I don't even realize I've curled my hands into fists until a drop of blood drips down my finger and clings hot and wet to my knuckles. I've cut my palms with my own nails.
“See that you don't caught up with that boy. He's nothing but trouble,” the Buzzard says, turning away and heading into the kitchen to make some tea. “I know a future felon when I see one!” she calls out as I sigh and lean my back against the wall.
I know I shouldn't get involved—we get plenty of fucked-up kids around this place—but for the first time in forever, I'm actually scared of one of them.
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