Burned: A High School Bully Romance (Del Sol High Book 2)

by McKayla Box

  I scramble off my back and onto my knees and then get on top of her, pinning her hands down before she can rake her nails across my face. She gets a handful of sand and flings it toward my face. It's enough to make me close my eyes and look away. She tries to kick me off and slips one of her hands from my grasp. She grabs for my thigh and presses her nails into my skin and I scream, my skin stinging and burning as she cuts into me. Her other hand gets away from me and now she has a handful of my hair, pulling hard on it. I have sand in my eyes and I can't see clearly. I scream again, make a fist, and swing hard for her face.

  My knuckles smash into her mouth and both of her hands immediately fall away from me.

  I look down at her.

  Her eyes are dazed and her mouth looks like a four-year-old went crazy with the lipstick around her mouth.

  Except it's not lipstick encircling her mouth.

  It's blood.

  “Oh, shit,” I say, horrified. “I didn't mean—”

  Her own fists cracks my jaw before I can finish the sentence. Lights explode behind my eyes and electricity races through my face.

  She shoves me off and I don't have the strength to stop her. Something tastes funny in my mouth, but I can't figure it out before she shoves me face-first into the sand. She lands on my back with her hand on the back of my head.

  At first, I can't figure out what's happening. Everything is dark and my face hurts, separately from the pain my jaw. I try to move, but can't. Then I realize I can't breathe.

  The sand is suffocating me.

  I kick and writhe and try to scream into the sand, but it's just a dull roar in my ears. I can't get free and each second causes me to panic further. Tears sprout in my eyes. Sand sticks to my teeth and works its way into my mouth and throat.

  I'm going to die in the sand.

  Then there's a sharp punch to my ribs that takes what little breath I still have away and the weight from my back is gone. There are hands on my shoulders and I roll over, gasping and choking. I spit sand everywhere, gagging on sand and blood. I try to open my eyes but the sand in them is like running sandpaper across them.

  “Jesus, Nola,” I hear Mercy say next to me. “Are you alright?”

  I wipe at my eyes and finally manage to get them open.

  Reese is standing over me, Dylan next to her, holding onto her arm.

  She yanks it free and stares down at me. “She's fucking fine. Get up, bitch.”

  “Don't move,” Mercy says.

  “I'm fine,” I say, sitting up slowly.

  “Told you,” Reese says. “Get the fuck up so I can finish this.”

  “It's over, Reese,” Brooke says. “Back the fuck off.”

  Reese stares down at me with a hatred I've never seen before.

  The adrenaline is wearing off now and my hands are shaking.

  Reese smiles at me. “Just sit there for a while then, bitch. If you get up, I will bury you in that sand.”

  I hate it, but I'm scared. The panic I felt being held down in the sand is real.

  But I'm not going to sit there.

  I get to my feet.

  “Nola, you don't have to—” Mercy says.

  “I'm fucking fine,” I growl. Then I look at Reese. “You want more, let's go.”

  She's breathing just as heavily as I am and she looks like some sort of Halloween clown with all of the blood around her mouth and chin.

  But she doesn't make a move toward me.

  Then her upper lips curls into a snarl. “Not even worth my time.” Reese turns and stalks away, followed by her friends.

  I stand there, my hands still shaking. Nearly every part of my body is aching or throbbing. The crowd is still there, like they are waiting for some conclusion other than the one we've given them.

  “Are you alright?” Mercy asks, putting her hand on my arm.

  I wipe at my mouth again, moving some of the sand and blood away. “I'm fine.” I see Dylan and take a couple steps toward her. I hold out my hand. She gives me my cup and I tilt my head back, emptying the vodka and Sprite into me.

  I turn back to Mercy. “Except I need more to drink.”

  Chapter 7

  “What the fuck happened?” Archer asks.

  It's maybe an hour later, though I can't be sure because I'm as drunk as I've ever been in my entire life. I don't know how much vodka I've knocked back, but I know I haven't stopped since I fought with Reese. My entire body feels warm and fuzzy and a little sleepy when I see Archer come toward me on the other side of the fire.

  “Reese happened,” Mercy says.

  He stands there, looking down at me, concern all over his face.

  “Yeah,” I slur. “Reese happened. But am I fine.” I pause, replaying my words in my head. “I mean, I am fine.”

  Archer looks at Mercy.

  “She's had a bit to drink,” she tells him.

  I hold my finger and thumb up and squint at him. “Like this much maybe.”

  “She knocked the shit out of Reese,” Dylan says.

  I turn and I've forgotten she and Brooke are sitting on the other side of me. “Oh, hey, Dylan.”

  She laughs. “Hey, baby girl.”

  “Yeah, she looked like Dracula when she left,” Brooke adds. “Nola got hers in.”

  Archer doesn't look amused by any of this. “What the hell were you fighting about?”

  I set my cup down carefully in the sand. Then I make fists with both hands and punch the air.

  “Reese started it, Arch,” Dylan says. “Just being her usual shitty self.”

  “More than her usual shitty self,” Brooke says.

  Archer squats down and his face is inches from mine. His green eyes squint at me, and I can tell even in my drunken state that he is concerned. “Are you okay? I'm serious.”

  I smile at him. He looks delicious and I want to eat him up. I put my hands on his shoulders. “I am okay, Archer. Totally fine. We can still have sex tonight!”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Probably not.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “How awful do I look?” I look at Mercy. “Am I super ugly now?”

  Mercy laughs and pats my shoulder. “You look great like always, girl. I think he's talking about how much you've had to drink.”

  I look at Archer. “Only a little. I told you.”

  “Sure,” he says. Then he holds out a hand. “We need to get you home.”

  “Why? It's early still. I don't wanna.”

  He looks at Mercy. “You wanna help me here?”

  “It's probably time to go,” Mercy says. “I think we're all about ready to go home anyway.”

  I pout. “I don't wanna.” I fold my arms across my chest. “I'm not going.”

  “Nola,” Archer says. “You're drunk and you're banged up. Come on.”

  “I thought we were gonna bang,” I say, reaching for his neck.

  He lets me get my arms around his neck and then scoops me off the sand. I wrap my legs around him.

  And the world tilts a little to the side.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. “I don't wanna go home.”

  “I don't think you know what you want,” he says into my ear.

  “But I do.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I'll get her home.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “You. I was talking to Mercy.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Wait. My car. It's in Mercy's shoes.”

  I hear plenty of laughing, but my eyelids are too heavy to open. “What?”

  “I've got your shoes, Nola,” Mercy says. “Don't worry about them.”

  I mumble something, but I don't even know what I'm trying to say.

  I'm spinning.

  “Stop twirling me,” I say.

  “I'm not,” Archer says.

  “But I'm spinning. Stop it.”

  He chuckles again. “Just close your eyes. It'll stop. Eventually.”

  I feel like I'm on a merry-go-round and I want to tell him
that. But now my lips are numb.

  I squeeze my eyes shut tight and hold onto him. I mumble something again.

  “What?” he says.

  But I don't even know what I'm saying and I drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Every single inch of me hurts.

  Every. Single. Inch.

  I'm flat on my back in my bed. My head is pounding, like someone's hitting me with a club. My jaw aches. My mouth is tight and every time I go to open it, it feels like the skin is cracking open at the corners. My neck is stiff. My back and ribs protest every time I go to move.

  I don't know how I got home, but I vaguely recall Archer telling me to stay quiet as we tiptoed through my grandparents’ living room. Then he was gone and I was crawling into my bathroom so I could empty out all of the vodka in my system. I'd passed out on the floor of the bathroom for some time, then woke and crawled to my bed so I could pass out again. Now, the sun is streaming in through the window, threatening to set my eyes on fire if I open them.

  I roll carefully over onto my side, every bone and muscle in my body fighting along the way. My mouth is dry and somehow there are a few grains of sand still on my tongue. I swallow a couple of times and even that takes some effort. I open my eyes halfway and even that seems too much, as the pounding in my temples ramps up.

  Jesus.

  Hung over and beat up. Not a great start to a Sunday morning.

  Somewhere, I hear my phone buzz and vibrate. Even that sounds loud to me and I close my eyes again. It keeps vibrating and I realize its somewhere in the bed. I try to sit up and my head feels like it's on fire. I lay back down for a second then force myself into a sitting position, wincing as everything tries to convince me to lie back down. The vibrating phone now sounds like a siren in my head and I'm searching through the covers on the bed until I find it buried near my feet.

  I squint at the screen and see my mother's name on it.

  Shit.

  I know her times to call are limited, so I clear my throat, then tap the screen. “Hello?”

  “Nola? Is that you?”

  I clear my throat again. “It's me, Mom.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, maybe a little. Cold or something.” I lay back down in the bed and close my eyes so the room will stop spinning. “I'm okay.”

  “I called last night,” she says. “Your grandmother said you were out.”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Just down at the beach.”

  “With friends.”

  “Uh huh.”

  The line buzzes for a moment.

  “Mom?”

  “I'm here,” she says. “I remember my nights down at the beach.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  “I do,” she says. “Lots of partying.”

  I don't say anything.

  “Are you hung over?” she asks.

  Jesus.

  “I'm fine, Mom,” I say, trying to sit up again, as if doing so will somehow prove her wrong. “How are you?”

  “I'm alright,” she says. “Nola. I asked you a question. Are you hung over?”

  “Why would you even ask me that?” I counter. “I was out with my friends.”

  “I'm asking because you sound sick, because you were out last night, and because your grandmother didn't mention anything about you being ill,” she says. “Are you drinking?”

  I get the pillows behind my back and lean into them. “Mom. I'm tired. I slept in. The phone woke me up. That's all. And I know you don't get much time on the phone so can we not do this?”

  “And yet you still haven't answered my question,” she says, refusing to let it go. “Nola, if you are drinking, then I—”

  “Mom, you aren't here,” I say sharply. “So you don't get to tell me what to do.”

  The line buzzes for another moment. My tongue feels thick, but the cotton is disappearing from my mouth. I'm desperate for a glass of water, though.

  “I'm still your mother,” she finally says. “And you can't talk to me like that.”

  My head is pounding, I feel like crap, and she's attempting to lecture me. From a world away.

  “I don't think you're really in a position to lecture me, Mom,” I say. “Especially about anything to do with alcohol.”

  “Nola, I will not—”

  “You will not what, Mom?” I say, angry. “You called me, remember? If you want to talk, I'll talk. But I'm not going to listen to you try and pretend to be a parent while you sit in jail in another state.”

  The line goes quiet again.

  Jail.

  I finally say it out loud.

  My mother is in jail.

  “Put your grandmother on the phone, Nola,” she finally says.

  “No.”

  “Nola, I will not—”

  “Call her yourself,” I say and stab at the screen, ending the call.

  I drop the phone onto my lap and rub my temples. I'm not sure why my anger flares up the way it just did, but I can't deny it. Something about her questioning me when she's the reason I'm here in the first place. It feels hypocritical and phony and I don't have the patience for it. I know she can't call my grandmother back right away because the number of calls she can make is limited. But I'm sure she'll call her the next time she's able.

  That'll be fun.

  Chapter 9

  I force myself out of bed and into the shower. I turn it on full blast cold to shock myself, then slowly move it over to a more human temperature. I stand there for a while, bracing myself against the tile, and let the water wash over me. My head feels like a bowling ball and my body aches, but the water helps soothe it temporarily. I get out and as I'm drying off, I see the rug next to the toilet askew and the lid up on the toilet. I have a vague memory of laying next to it at some point and I'm relieved that there's nothing to clean up in the general vicinity. I venture a glance at the mirror and am surprised to see that I look far more normal than I feel. There are no visible signs of my feet with Reese, at least not on my face, and I am ridiculously grateful for that. I finish drying off, get dressed, and head out to the living room.

  My grandparents are both standing there and they look surprised to see me.

  “There's our girl,” my grandfather says, wrapping his arm around me.

  I try not to wince. “Hi.”

  “I was just about to see if you wanted to join us for brunch,” my grandmother says. She’s dressed in gray slacks and a light pink blouse, and her silvery-white hair is brushed to a shine. “We are headed to the club.”

  Going out in public and eating is about the last thing I want to do, but I know that if I say no, they'll both have questions. Lots of questions. She's being polite in asking if I want to go, but I know there is no real choice being presented.

  “Sure,” I say, forcing a smile. “Let me go grab my sandals.”

  I walk back to my room, swallow a couple of Advil without any water, manage not to choke, and get my sandals on my feet. I run a brush through my wet hair, take a deep breath, and head out to the living room.

  The drive over is relatively pain-free. I'm in the backseat and my grandparents are talking, but not necessarily to me. My head is still pounding, but at least I don't feel like I'm going to throw up in the back of their car.

  “Your mother phoned last night, dear,” my grandmother informs me. “I told her you were out.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She called me this morning. I talked to her.”

  “Oh, good,” she says. “I told her you were out with friends at the beach.”

  “Didn't hear you come in last night,” my grandfather says, glancing at the mirror. “Was it a late one?”

  “Uh, I don't really remember what time I got back,” I say, which isn't a lie. “I don't think it was too late, though.”

  His blue eyes stay on me in the mirror and I see something change in his expression. For a moment, I'm worried that he actually knows when I got home and he wa
s testing me.

  “What happened to your jaw, Nola?” he asks.

  I reach up and touch it, then immediately pull back because it's sensitive to the touch.

  My grandmother turns around and her eyebrows furrow. “It's bruised. And is that a cut?”

  I reach up again and touch the small, jagged line leaking out of the corner of my mouth. How on earth did I miss those things when I looked in the mirror?

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah. It was totally...dumb. An accident, I mean. I got elbowed in the mouth. I was standing too close to Mercy and she turned and caught me.”

  My grandmother studies me. “Are you sure you're alright?” She sounds skeptical. “It looks a little swollen.”

  “It probably is,” I say and smile. “She has sharp elbows. But I'm positive I'm alright.”

  She hesitates, then turns back around in her seat.

  “Tough like your grandpa,” my grandfather says, winking at me in the mirror. “I could take a punch.”

  “Oh, Fred,” my grandmother says. “You're full of baloney.”

  He just chuckles.

  I take another deep breath as we pull into the parking lot at the club. I don't know where that story came from, but I'm glad I came up with it quick. But it also worries me.

  Am I just getting better at lying?

  Because that isn't something I want to be good at.

  I'm thinking about that as we pull up to the valet stand and go inside the club. I follow my grandparents as they make their way to the restaurant, passing by folks dressed for tennis and golf. Several are already nursing Bloody Marys and what look like mimosas, and my stomach convulses a little at the thought of alcohol.

  The hostess walks us over to a corner table near the window, providing a picturesque view of the ocean, and I feel relieved that we aren't in the middle of the dining area. I always feel like I'm on display when we sit there. I also feel like my slightly battered face will be less visible to other people.