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The acid starts to really burn and I find myself glancing back for those fucking guys as I run. They’re all out of sight but I do find one set of eyes burning into me. Colton stands by his Veneno with the scissor door open wide and seeing that he’s caught my attention, he gently shakes his head and drops down into his car, dismissing me.
I don’t know what it is about Colton or why it bothers me so much. Maybe it’s because of the bullshit I just suffered through with those guys in the hopes they could get Colton’s attention for even a second or maybe it’s all the shit I’ve had to deal with since moving to Bellevue Springs. Whatever it is, it has tears springing to my eyes and violently falling in waves.
I crash through the door of the bathroom as a sobbing mess and race through to the showers. I throw myself in, clothes and all, turning the taps on as hard as they can go, desperate to get this shit off me.
The water comes down hard and it stings against my already raw skin, but I suffer through it knowing how badly I need this. Without it … fuck. I can’t even imagine.
I start tearing off my ruined clothes, leaving me in my underwear that mostly seems to be okay. Thick chunks of grease start rolling off me, but a lot of it sticks to my body like a second skin and I’m forced to scrub against my tender skin.
The tears continue rolling down my face and I find it hard to breathe through my thick sobs. I’m a fucking mess.
Once my skin is free of acidic grease, I start on my hair and find myself broken as chunks of my long luscious hair break off and pool at the bottom of the shower. I scrub furiously, desperately needing it gone. The longer it’s in there, the worse it’s going to get.
It takes half an hour of washing my hair and scrubbing my body and by the time I finally get out, I’m a fucking disaster. It was impossible to get all the grease from my scalp and as I wrap a white towel around my body and it moves around, I find grease hiding in places that I didn’t even know I had.
My hair is destroyed and my skin is patchy and red but as long as the burn is gone, I’m going to be alright.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror of the staff bathroom.
How did it come to this?
I thought things were just starting to ease. Colton had declared early on that he was the only one allowed to fuck with me. When the hell did that shit change? Had it changed? If anything, I thought that the fucking with me thing was over, especially after yesterday.
I scan over my red, splotchy face. My eyes stand out just like they do every time I’ve been crying. They’re the brightest blue, but when I’ve been crying, it’s like they glisten and shimmer, or maybe it’s just the red puffiness surrounding them that makes them look this way.
My hair hangs by my side and it looks like a mess. It’s in knots and every time I touch it my hand comes out slimy with the remaining grease and filled with strands of hair. There is no saving it from what I can see, pulling a Britney and shaving it off might be my only option.
There has to be a better way.
I search through the cupboards and find a plastic bag to shove my destroyed uniform in before finding a bathrobe and pulling it around my pained body.
I walk out into the school, pleased that it’s the end of the day so I can avoid repeat performances. Apparently, walking around an all-boys school practically naked is frowned upon by the staff.
I walk down to the parking lot to find it mostly empty but more importantly, my bag sits in a dirty pile, completely destroyed. I rifle through it for my purse, phone, and keys, and decide the rest of it can go and fuck itself. Screw my homework and screw the textbooks. They can all suffer like I have.
With Colton and the boys long gone, I start the agonizing walk home and keep my gaze glued to the sidewalk. Cars fly past me, beeping in outrage at my lack of clothing and all I can do is cry.
From the very first step until I’m pushing through the massive door of the Carrington mansion, tears stream down my face. I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve been attacked by guys before but never like that. Usually, they stick with taunts and call me a whore for preferring to hang out with my crew rather than bitchy girls. My boys would deal with it straight away and then I’d be free to continue as I was.
