Louder Than Words (Fall For Me)

by Marks, Melanie

  Mason’s dark eyes narrow. He looks at me again, his brow lowered and his gaze hopeful, as though hoping for confirmation that he can now continue to beat Blake’s sleazy face in. But unfortunately, I believe the jerk.

  “Let him go,” I tell Mason with a shaky sigh. I feel nauseous.

  Reluctantly, Mason lets Blake go—but with a violent shove, his dark eyes blazing. “Don’t ever threaten her again,” he growls, his angry tone scary deep. Pure anger. “Or I swear, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  Mason’s narrowed eyes cut to me. Probably sees that I’ve turned white and light-headed. Blood does that to me—and he knows it.

  He grunts, and grabs me, wrapping his strong arm around my middle. Instantly, he turns completely gentle as he walks me towards my next class, basically holding me up, since I feel woozy and sick—not only from the blood, but from my huge, horrible mistake. I mean, Blake was gushing blood. His nose was probably broken … and the loser didn’t even take the picture! Groan!

  Guilt washing through me, I stop in my tracks. Can’t take it. I hate violence. So much. And I’d brought it on. Caused it. Asked for it.

  I clutch my stomach. “I feel bad,” I whisper to Mason. “I need to go apologize.”

  Mason’s hot hands tighten around me. He pulls me back to him and keeps making me walk towards my class.

  He growls near my ear, tugging me in tight, “Don’t apologize to him.” His warm breath tickles my neck, though he has no idea. He goes on, sending heat through me with his rough, dark voice. So haunting. And beautiful. “He shouldn’t have pulled that crap. Or threatened you.”

  His warm hands gently come on either side of my face, making me look up at him, into his achingly gorgeous eyes, so tender and full of concern I could cry. “He deserved that punch, Summer. Man, he deserves a broken jaw. You should have come to me sooner.”

  My breath hitches from his glistening stare. The way his dark, intense eyes are so full of anger at Blake, yet so full of care for me. Trembling, I shake my head.

  Though my knees are weak from his unyielding stare, I shudder.

  Like I said, I hate violence—and I don’t like to use Mason. Not only because being near him does this—turns me into a trembling puddle, but because he gets into enough trouble on his own. “No I shouldn’t have,” I whisper. I’m shaking all over. “I just—I don’t know who’s doing this to me.”

  CHAPTER 6

  While I’m sitting in first period I get a text from Blake. “My nose is probably broken.”

  Guilt washes through me again. It’s annoying. I mean, the guy is a menace. Seriously, cyber-ly a thief—of everything that’s mine. And private.

  I push back my shoulders and stand my ground. ‘Cause actually, Mason is right. The guy deserves a broken jaw.

  I text back, “Good. Look, you can’t snoop into people’s lives. People don’t like that. I don’t like that. I tried to make it clear to you.”

  “You made it clear.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t stop.”

  When I first gave in and started dating Blake (my math tutor), I thought he was nice. Different than other guys. Turns out he was just smarter. But also, more demented. (And that’s saying something.)

  In the blink of an eye Blake changes the subject, completely, texting back, “Who took pictures of you?”

  I stiffen and feel my cheeks heat up, but I don’t bother responding. Since I don’t know. I don’t have the slightest clue—and if I did, I wouldn’t tell Blake anyway. I want him out of my life. Completely. So, in a way, it’s good that I finally sicced Mason on him. I doubt he’s going to do much hacking into my life anymore … ’cause if he does, it will be more than a broken nose next time. Mason doesn’t fool around. And now Blake is definitely on his radar. (Believe me, you don’t want to be on Mason’s radar—well, unless you’re a hot girl … and not worried about getting your heart ripped to shreds. If you’re hot and don’t mind a broken heart—well, by all means, get on Mason’s radar. I hear his random make-out sessions are to die for. And hey, it’s your funeral. Just sayin’.)

  I slump in my seat, once again worried about the threat I got in the locker room. ‘I could send this picture to the whole school.’

  Who does that? Who makes threats like that? But then again—who takes naked pictures of girls? My skin crawls thinking about it.

  Shivers ignite down my spine. Who saw me naked???

  I’m hunched over my desk, clutching my stomach, feeling so nauseous. I mean, seriously. I might seriously puke. Seriously. While I’m scanning the room for an emergency trashcan, for just in case—Sean Evans gets called on by our teacher to read his poem. And at first I’m not listening. Or interested. Because Sean is yet another ex. And I don’t waste my time giving ex’s much thought—especially when they are lying, cheating, dirt-bags. (Which most of them are.) So, I’m more intent on finding a trashcan than I am on Sean or his stupid poem.

  But then suddenly my head jerks up and I’m at full attention—when I hear the title of his poem.

  “I call it, ‘Incredible Summer’,” he announces around a smug smile.

  I blink, a jolt of adrenaline (and denial) blazing through me.

  I try to reason (well, anyway, hope) it’s only a coincidence. But then I peek at Sean from my dying fetal position at my desk. He’s smiling all smug at me from across the classroom. But his girlfriend, Sabrina, isn’t smiling at me. Not even close. Her eyes are narrowed into tiny slits and seem to be shooting ice daggers at me.

  I shrug at her and give her a look that I hope conveys my apologies and complete bewilderment. (Guys are dogs!!!!!) Then I give Sean a scathing look that I hope says, What the #@*%!!!

  Because, holy smokes, who does that?!!

  Sean reads his masterpiece aloud with a mischievous smile.

  The poem is … well, boarding on erotic. But our teacher doesn’t notice—or get it—because she thinks Sean is talking about a “smokin’ hot” season. Not a girl.

  When he’s done, Mrs. Frisk smiles at him, like what a bright rainbow he is in our drab little class. “That was beautiful,” she gushes.

  “Yeah.” He winks at me. “Summer gets me all excited.”

  I roll my eyes and squirm in my seat. I swear, I can feel my toes curl—and lasers shooting at me from Sabrina’s angry eyeballs.

  ***

  “Sorry,” I mumble to Sabrina after class. “Are you guys in a fight or something?”

  “No,” she hisses. “Well, we weren’t. We are now.”

  Which is a big duh.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, really not knowing what else to say. She picked up my sleazy ex as soon as I’d broken up with him. I had warned her against Sean, but the warning had fallen on deaf, (dumb) thrilled ears. Sabrina had wanted him. Big time. Apparently. Well, she got him. (Well, sort of.) I guess now she was finally starting to see he was no prize.

  “Guys are dogs,” I tell her.

  But she just pushes past me, muttering, “Whatever.”

  So, of course, she’s mad at me. Of course. Great. See, this is why friends shouldn’t date friend’s ex’s. Okay, well, technically Sabrina isn’t exactly my “friend.” But she’s a fellow cheerleader. And well, I had warned her that Sean is a stalking, cheating, wad. But at the time, she had said all huffy, “You say that about all your ex’s.” Which may be the truth—maybe I do. But only because it’s a fact: they are stalking, cheating, wads.

  Anyway, Sabrina had ignored me and fell for Sean’s flirting, though I tried to tell her he was only doing it to get back at me. Which wasn’t working, by the way—the getting back at me thing. Not in the slightest. Until now. Now he has me seeing red. Because now I have a huge problem to deal with—I have to work cheer practices with a jealous co-captain. Wonderful.

  This day just keeps getting better and better.

  CHAPTER 7

  As I walk into second period a chill runs down my spine, ‘cause everyone goes silent and I’m getting a lot of stares—from
guys and girls. Guys are looking at me with red faces and dreamy glazed eyes (or sheepish smirks—but still with red faces). Girls though seem to be glaring at me—or squinting at me or rolling their eyes about me—like I flirted with their boyfriends. (Which I’m pretty sure I didn’t. At least not all of theirs.)

  I’d think it’s just my outfit—only there’d been way too much whispering going on before I entered the class, and it’s starting up again now that the shock of seeing me here (where I come every day at this time) is over—now it’s back to whisper, whisper, whisper. Too much for just a semi-scandalous outfit—one that looks absolutely cute on Zoey.

  My stomach is twisting and my palms are sweating buckets.

  What’s going on?

  I know something is … and I’m not going to like it. It has my heart pounding and I’m shaking a little ‘cause my body spazzes when it knows something bad is up. And something is definitely up. And it’s bad.

  As I slip into my seat, Zoey rushes to my class. Which is, you know, another sign of doom. Since her class is way over on the other side of the school. Yet, here she is, standing at the open doorway. I raise my eyebrows at her and she gestures for me to come outside with her. Which is another big uh-oh.

  She has a sympathetic-slash-anxious look on her face. So, yeah, this is so not good.

  Still shaking, I trail over to her. Try to sound like my chest isn’t winding tight. “What’s up?”

  She pulls me out of earshot of my class, over near some lockers.

  Then she gives me this big, fake cheery smile. “You’re rocking my outfit,” she says way overly cheerful.

  I smirk. Well, try. “That’s what you called me out of class for?”

  I know it’s not, but friendly chatter—I guess I need it before she drops the bomb. At least she seems to think so. She’s probably right.

  She gives me another big fake smile, trying so hard to calm me down (though outwardly I’m a stone). “Yeah, you look great,” she says, then she adds in a squeaky trying-to-make-light-of-something-she-knows-is-going-to-kill-me whisper, “… almost as good as you do naked.”

  My eyes pop open and I make this strangled, choking noise. “What?!!”

  “Um … ” She plays with the hem of her sweater instead of meeting my gaze. Then she says it again, “Um …”

  Hesitantly—cautiously—she adds more, “So, um, you haven’t looked at your phone messages?”

  Shuddering spasms rip through my body. Oh no.

  I narrow my eyes and tilt my head at her, like a question, though unfortunately I know exactly what she’s talking about. Know it with a cold, hard certainty. I just want to be wrong. So bad. I swear, I can hardly breathe. “I haven’t checked it in the last five minutes.”

  “Then don’t,” she says, grabbing my phone from me. Well, trying. But I keep it away from her. (Zoey’s tiny.)

  She makes this sympathetic noise, like her heart is breaking for me. “Let’s go out for donuts. My treat.”

  “Right now?”

  She nods, staring into my eyes, looking so worried for me. And concerned. I could hug her.

  It’s good to have a best friend. Especially times like this. When apparently the whole school has semi-seen you naked on their cell phone.

  “I’ll survive,” I tell her. “You have that math test, right?”

  She shrugs. “I could miss it.”

  “Really.” She shrugs again, like she’s trying to convince me it’s no big deal. “It’ll give me more time to study. I mean, I could totally study at the donut shop, right?” (Fake) excitement bubbles up inside her as she adds, “—or the mall.”

  She gives me a coaxing smile, her eyes flashing bright. “We could get chocolate at the mall—and new shoes.”

  I waver. Yeah … I could definitely go for the comfort of new shoes right about now. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

  But Zoey’s been studying like crazy for that test. And I’m not really so sure she can just make it up. Some teachers are understanding about things … but some aren’t. Especially when it comes to things like steamy pictures on cell phones. (And I don’t exactly want teachers to know. I mean, of course I don’t want anyone to know. Of course. But teachers?? SHUDDER.)

  I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t worry about it, Zoey. Naked is my best outfit.”

  Look, what else can I say? The damage is already done. Apparently the picture was sent—to the whole school.

  I gulp as that realization sinks further in. I mean, I was getting way too much attention just from the mini-skirt and boots. Now it’s going to be like—like … well, like I’m naked on guy’s phones.

  I shudder.

  Zoey gives me a hug. “Let me know if it gets too much and you want to bail.”

  I nod, still in her hug, wishing she could come to class with me. I do better with my best friend around. I’m stronger.

  I give her a friendly little shove towards her class. “Get to class, young lady,” I mockingly scold. “Go take your test. Don’t let the silly little excuse of dirty pictures floating around keep you from acing it.”

  “’kay,” she says.

  “Good luck,” I tell her.

  She turns back to me. “You too.” She gives me a sad but admiring smile.

  Then she heads to her class and I suck in my breath.

  This day sucks. So bad.

  CHAPTER 8

  After school, I ditch cheer practice. Well, not really ditch it. I cancel it. More because half the squad is absent today than anything else. I mean, otherwise I would have gone—gladly. I like to face things head-on rather than hide from them—that’s why I didn’t leave school. And also, well, Zoey needed to take her test. She’d studied for the stupid thing all day yesterday.

  I exhale slowly, and glare at the line for the school bus. Yes, I have to ride the bus. Unknown to most people, I’m not rich. Far from it. I think people think otherwise just because they don’t pay attention. But Zoey and me—we aren’t rolling in money like most of the crowd we hang with. It’s just we usually have rides to places with friends. Or boyfriends. But I’m between boyfriends (AKA: stalkers) at the moment. Hence, my glaring at the bus-line.

  I sigh and decide to walk it.

  It’s over ten miles to my house, but I convince myself the walk will do me good. (Yes, I hate the bus that much.)

  As I’m crossing the street from the school, Mason pulls up in his fixed-all-cool-by-himself Mustang. Seeing it—and him—my heart stops.

  “Get in,” he says through his open window.

  “No thanks,” I tell him, my heart now doing disturbing violent things—flipping and twitching and basically spazzing. Mason and I—we have a complicated past. And like I said, we don’t hang out anymore. Ever.

  Yet here he is. Right in front of me. For the second time today.

  “You’re going to walk home?” he says skeptically. The corners of his lip twitch, “—in those shoes?”

  I sigh, then get into his car. Because he has a point. The boots are not made for walking. They’re made for heart-stomping. And attention.

  They hurt.

  I get in and he doesn’t watch me do it. He keeps his eyes straight ahead.

  Once we round the corner from the school, his eyes flick to my face. “Wanna stop for ice cream?”

  I cough, surprised.

  Mason is so not the taking-a-girl-out-for-ice-cream kind of guy. He’s the kind to seduce her with his eyes, then explore her mouth thoroughly with his tongue, totally make-out with her in his car … then never call her again. Ever.

  My head tells me to just say no. That I should just go home—alone—and wallow. But my heart is a little confused … and my stomach wants ice cream.

  So, I draw out a breath of resign and finally say, “Sure.”

  A hint of a smile plays at the corners of Mason’s mouth—which is kind of magical and swoon-inducing because Mason doesn’t smile much anymore. But man-oh-man, when he does Mmmm. It’s sheer dynamite to my inside
s. The kind that ignites sugar and glitter—you know, wild, happy, sparkly stuff. It shines all around me and gets me all restless and dizzy and seeing stars.

  Yeah, that’s Mason’s smile.

  Mason pushes his gorgeous hair out of his now dancing eyes, his fingers weaving through the soft strands. His lips twitch. “You were never one to pass up ice-cream.”

  “You were never one to offer it,” I say flippantly.

  He smirks slightly. But then turns kind of serious. He raises his brow. “You mean to anyone but you.”

  My insides do this flip thing. Because, yes, okay, he took me out to ice cream before. Lots of times. But then again—he used to be my stepbrother. We used to be related. Sort of. Now we’re nothing. I’m just another girl to him. Pretty much. And like I said, he doesn’t take girls for ice cream—as most of my friends can attest. The many, many that have fallen for him—only to be dumped unceremoniously. Or told that they weren’t his girlfriend—after he had totally made-out with them, and got them all panting and wild for him.

  We get to the ice cream shop and he buys me a chocolate-banana milkshake—because he knows me. That’s what I like. He also buys me a hot-fudge brownie sundae, though. So, I know he knows about the picture.

  See, I eat a lot of ice cream and chocolate when I’m stressed—or buy shoes. But there’s no shoes for sale in the ice cream shop. So, he orders me tons of ice cream, then gives me a sideways glance. I look away—my cheeks on fire. Thoroughly embarrassed now. I mean, I guess I should have known he’d seen the picture. Apparently, the whole school has by now. But I should have known that’s why he offered me the ride. Normally, he’d drive right past me. Boots or not. Because like I said, I avoid him these days—and he knows it.