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What if he sends my photos because of this?
The risk is worth it. No one deserves to be treated the way these people bully Blair.
“No. That doesn’t matter, though.” My chin tips up, spurred on by the fury simmering beneath my skin. It fights with the fear settling in my gut. Connor could destroy me within minutes. Game over. “Blair needed help.”
“Blair needed help?” Connor mimics, circling behind me. My heart jolts when his hands clamp on my shoulders in a harsh and punishing grip. “You hear that, Dev?”
I want to whirl and scream at him, ask him what he wants from me if he’s going to act like this when an hour and a half ago he said he needed me by his side.
“Sure did,” Devlin says, voice like icy shadows.
With a deep grunt, he rises to his feet and I take a fearful step back, pressing into Connor’s chest. Between the two of them, the poison I pick to kill me is Connor. He pays me no attention as he stalks into Blair’s personal space, staring at her with his scary, dark eyes.
“Did you need help, Davis?”
Blair’s jaw tightens, then she answers in a lifeless voice. “No.”
Is this really happening? I gape at Blair, baffled that she would take Devlin’s crap. I go to take a step closer to Blair’s side, but Connor holds me in place, the warmth of his back burning through my sweater. My gaze bounces from Blair to Devlin and I part my lips, thinking I can appeal to him.
“Well—”
“You know,” Connor drawls next to my ear, startling me. His fingers skate over my shoulders, down my arms, plucking at my sweater. “The only thing a girl next door is good for is warming my dick.” He leans closer, covering my back with his chest, burying his face in my hair as he lowers his voice to a sinister hush. “You offering, neighbor? You can leave your granny sweater on.”
Breathing is hard. His words crash over me, driving spikes into my heart. Why even threaten me if he’s only going to be an utter bastard to me in front of his friends? I want to cry when I think of our messages, the way he swore I was the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Making sure I can’t forget that it’s been him making me feel excited, wanted, good.
Tripping over my own feet, I stumble out of his grasp as soon as it loosens. “You… You—”
“Me,” Connor declares, sweeping his arms to encompass it. There’s no doubt he’s thinking along the same lines as me. I can see it in his piercing gray eyes. “All me, baby.”
He doesn’t spell it out, but he’s reminding me exactly who I’ve been intimate with. Who I’ve bared myself to. My heart aches, feeling like it’s shriveling. Everything was a lie and it finally hits me, making me gasp with pain.
Shaking my head, my face crumbles in anguish. I can’t look at him anymore. Turning on my heel, I rush for the double doors, wiping away tears as they stream down my face. Maisy calls for me, but I ignore her and burst into the hall.
I don’t think of my world history class, heading straight for the culinary room, not stopping for anything until I sag against the door. Everything blurs at the edges, tunneling my vision. My chest feels tight and my skin is hot and itchy. I rub at my neck and shove my sleeves up.
Mrs. Horne is seated at her desk at the front of the room. She takes one look at my face, probably puffy and red by now. “Thea? Everything okay?”
It takes two tries to speak. “Yes. Please, can I spend some time in here?”
“Of course. I’ll give you a pass when you’re ready to go.” She waves at the work stations. “Just clean up when you’re done.”
There’s not another class in here until last period, the class I’m in.
“Thank you,” I breathe, on the verge of tears again from her understanding.
I feel vulnerable, like a light wind could blow me over into emotional turmoil. The baking supplies call to me. I’m thankful this school has a thriving variety of courses available, because the cooking class is equipped with everything I need. It seems more like the set of a reality baking show than a high school class, but I don’t care about it right now.
Losing my sweater and washing my hands at the sink in the back of the room, I grab one of the linen aprons hanging from a hook in the corner, looping the bib over my neck and knotting it around my waist. I put my hair up, borrowing one of the fresh hair ties Mrs. Horne keeps on her desk for anyone with long hair since I left the cafeteria with nothing. Maisy will take my bag with her.
My phone pings, but I’m not ready to look. Locking every stray thought behind a wall in my head, I get to work.
Once the ingredients are mixed, I turn out the dough by hand. As I work, my lungs stop burning and I can draw air in without feeling like I might pass out at any second. Kneading the dough becomes meditative as I follow a recipe I’ve memorized for a braided cinnamon sugar challah loaf, my favorite soft bread. I need a comforting bake, and the warm scent of cinnamon will make everything better.
I move on autopilot, and slowly my thoughts creep through the wall after I’ve calmed down from my panic. One by one, they slip free.
I should delete everything—the photos, our messages. And block his number while I’m at it. My breaths turn shallow and I focus on working the dough for a minute.
Sighing, I set it up in the proofing oven so it can rise. I debate mixing another so I can knead something else, brushing my hands off on my apron. My teeth drag over the corner of my lip. I peek at Mrs. Horne, but she’s absorbed in grading at the front of the room.
