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Oblivious to my death stare, he continues. “It’s just that we know this week is when you’re being examined, and I know how eager I am—we all are—to have you back on the field with us.”
This is worse than an ex who refuses to take the hint.
He’d definitely die first in a horror movie.
Not bothered by my silence, he yammers, “We’re having a kickass start—no losses, and if you’re back, Groveton won’t have a shot, and the party is ours next year.”
Needing this conversation to be over so I can finally get some quiet, I start walking away, heading for the gym. His earlier question about seeing the trainer spurs me toward the field house. A thirty-minute session with the punching bag in the gym should help temper some of my rage.
I sigh when he follows me. “Is there something else you need? I’m kinda in a time crunch here,” I state. Proud of the lack of edginess in my response.
Before he can answer, someone shouts. “Hey, Justin, we’re over here.”
Justin. I knew it was some J name.
“You should go with your friends,” I encourage, but it’s more of a demand than a suggestion.
Justin nods, any inquiry forgotten, and runs for the group of our teammates playing ultimate frisbee.
The walk to Rubi is quick. I’m behind the wheel and outside the athletic building in five minutes flat.
I hit the locker room, change, and wrap my hands before I lay into the bag in front of me. Months of frustration, guilt, and loathing boil to the surface. Each strike is a proverbial blow at all of our enemies. Brittany Livingston—jab. Brian Porter—right hook. . . jab. . . jab. Senator Matthew Baker—jab. . . jab. . . uppercut. . . roundhouse kick to the throat. At the thought of Samantha, I pull out a blade and slice the bag down the middle, watching in satisfaction as I pretend it’s her bleeding out.
Someone could say violence against women is wrong, and I’d agree without hesitation, but there comes a time when the person in front of you has no gender, name, or face—they’re just evil. Those people should be gutted where they stand. I feel no sympathy for the bitch who conspired with the enemy to put an explosive in my arm so she could force us to marry her.
Fuck her and anyone who doesn’t believe she’s earned a gruesome end.
Breathless and spent, I drop my hands to my side and see that the sun has set and night has fallen.
How long have I been in here? It only felt like twenty minutes.
Grabbing my phone, I see it’s after nine o’clock. I have missed calls and messages. Once I ensure none are urgent, I head to the locker room, shower, dress, and return to campus.
I’m passing one of the girls’ dorms when I hear muffled moans and smirk. Someone’s having an outdoor session.
“Fuck, that’s it, lick my pussy good. You useless bitch,” a familiar whiny voice demands, stopping me in my tracks.
I can’t be this lucky.
Creeping in the direction of the very obvious sexual cries, I confirm that the nasally sound is indeed the cunt, Samantha. What I’m not expecting is to see Brittany Livingston’s face buried between her spread thighs. My stomach churns at the sight.
I’m about to walk away when Sam’s shrill cry, stating that she’s coming, echoes in the air, followed by an oof and a body hitting the ground.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Brittany? Pull up your damn pants already,” Samantha seethes.
“You weren’t worried about what I was doing here fifteen minutes ago when your face was in my pussy,” Brittany snaps, pulling up her leggings before she continues. “Or while you rode my fingers as I sucked your clit so good you didn’t even remember to call out Wes’s name,” Brittany retorts. I can’t see her face, but I’m sure a smug smile is plastered on it.
I duck behind the bushes when I see Samantha peruse the landscape around her, ensuring they’re alone before she speaks. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been properly fucked?”
“Didn’t you just have sex with Matthew and Brian earlier this week?” Brittany asks.
Sammy’s been a busy bird.
“Matthew couldn’t satisfy me with an instruction manual on how to screw, and Brian has a hard-on for Ariah. I’m tired of fucking people who call that bitch’s name out as they come,” Samantha spits, and I have to bite my cheek to refrain from growling.
Brian’s now number one on the list. How fucking dare he think that he can pretend to have sex with Ariah—my angel. He’s dead.
I must have missed part of the conversation in my rage because they’re no longer discussing sex.
