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"And why is that? Can't I have a second option?!" Greg sounded bewildered by my sudden change in tone.
I wasn't entirely certain why I was reacting this way, but it was because I was still trying to win Skye's heart. It felt like an uphill battle, and I had no idea if I was making any progress. But regardless, I couldn't allow Greg, a friend to whom I didn't owe loyalty, to date Skye.
On the other hand, I wouldn't be able to handle Skye and her choices if she decided to date other men. I would feel infuriated, possessive, and envious. However, until that day came, I would prevent it from happening because I was still watching over her. "Again, Greg, Skye is off-limits," I warned, my voice taking on a cold, deep, and harsh tone for inexplicable yet valid reasons. I genuinely meant every word I said. I would move heaven and earth for Skye, and I truly meant it.
Chapter Seventeen
Skye
The monotone drone of lectures was a lullaby compared to the buzzing symphony in my head. Someone's eyes were a branding iron on my back, searing through my concentration. But it wasn't just unnerving, there was a perverse thrill to being the lone target in his sniper scope. Then, the glint of gold confirmed my suspicion - Dax, perched in his throne of minions, eyes like lasers on me.
Ignoring him was becoming my war cry, etched on the battlements of my resolve. Eyes forward, no flinching, no fuel for the fire. But damn, it was like trying to walk with sandpaper stuck to my skin. Every giggle, every snort from his hyena chorus was a tiny needle prick, and the yank on my hair, a blatant telegram - "Look at me, you little moth." But I was a fortress now, bricks mortared with self-respect. Even when whispers, laced with the bitter perfume of pity and speculation, turned my every breath into a performance. Even when he leaned forward, eyes molten gold, a predator savoring the chase.
Then, the blessed bell, a siren song slicing through the tension. I was up, a blur of gathering supplies, the first sparrow out of the cage.
The usual symphony of whispers erupted behind me, their malicious melody as familiar as the air I breathed. I didn't need to hear the lyrics to know the tune.
But just as my feet hit the hallway, a hand snagged my arm. Not his, thank God, but one of his acolytes, the viper who'd whispered secrets before the storm. My gut clenched, betrayal still a fresh sting. "Hey," he smirked, lips twisted like a cruel doll's.
My steps were a staccato counterpoint to the pounding in my chest. Skye! Greg's bellow split the air, his hand a warm, fleeting presence before it retreated. I whirled on him, heart a hummingbird trapped in my ribs. My first instinct, primal and fierce, was to raise my hefty Trollope like a shield, a fortress against the onslaught of Greg's usual brand of torment.
"What?" The word cracked from my throat, laced with a tremor I desperately hoped he wouldn't hear. My hands, itching for battle, fumbled for the familiar comfort of the worn leather cover.
Greg's face contorted in surprise, a comical counterpoint to my own simmering ire. "What the f—?" he sputtered, the curse dying on his lips as he met my glare.
"What do you want, Greg?" I spat, spitting out the syllables like shrapnel. "If this is another one of Dax's little games, I'm not playing. Don't even think about using me as bait again." I squared my shoulders, the book still poised like a makeshift armor, my bravado fueled by a cocktail of fear and defiance. "And let me warn you," I added, voice shaking only slightly, "I happen to know a judo move or two that would do wonders for your posture."
His laugh, unexpectedly gentle, washed over me, disarming. He held up his hands, palms empty in surrender. "Whoa, there, Trollope. No fights, I promise. And no, this isn't about Dax."
My guard faltered, suspicion lingering at the corners of my mind. "Then what, exactly, is your mission, oh noble knight?" I quipped, the book finally finding its way back to my side.
He scratched the back of his neck, a hint of blush creeping up his neck. "It's…well, a bit embarrassing, actually."
My curiosity snagged, a tugboat against the tide of skepticism. "Spill it," I challenged, eager for a distraction from the day's relentless tension. "Unless it involves serenading me with a kazoo or proposing in the school cafeteria, I'm all ears."
He chuckled, a genuine sound that surprised me. "It's not quite that bad, I swear," he promised, a shy smile pulling at his lips. "But let's just say…love has me in a bit of a pickle. I just need an advice from you, that's all!"
My head snapped up, the word exploding from me, a popcorn kernel in a microwave of disbelief. My fingers, glued to the hypnotic scroll of a bizarre karate tutorial (courtesy of YouTube's infinite abyss), snapped back to reality. Glancing around, I imagined the whispers, the judgmental stares if someone caught me learning virtual roundhouse kicks.. "Advice?!" The word exploded from me, a startled bird from a startled cage. My fingers scrambled to silence the telltale glow of a karate forum I'd shamelessly consulted - not that anyone dared mess with Trollope-wielding Skye anymore. Yet, suspicion lingered, its barbed tail whipping my senses. "You sure that's all, Greg?" An eyebrow arched, a wary sentinel against potential ambush.
This felt…familiar, a whisper of déjà vu echoing in the cavernous space where my trust used to reside.
Gregory Mendez, Dax's lapdog-cum-tormentor, wasn't one for traditional bullying.
His brand of torture came wrapped in corny jokes and misplaced sincerity. Once, he'd lured me into the same trap, a hushed request for advice a siren song masking Dax's twisted games. My naivety back then, a feast for their vultures. Their tricks, ever-shifting, a labyrinth with a new dead end at every turn. How many times had I stumbled into their snares, lured by the hollow glow of a fake olive branch?
"Serious," Greg pressed, his voice earnest enough to almost crack through my cynicism. "Look, I know I'm probably wasting your precious time," he chuckled, a hollow attempt at humor, "but…"
I cut him off, the edge in my voice sharper than usual. "Precious it is. So spit it out before Dax decides we're playing tag and joins the party." A pointed reminder that Greg, no matter his words, remained firmly entrenched in the enemy camp.
"Empty classroom chat your thing?" Greg's voice, usually dripping with Dax-approved snark, held a surprising note of...proposition? I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicion clinging to me like damp wool.
"No thanks, unless you plan on spontaneously sprouting wisdom teeth," I retorted, shoving my phone back into my pocket. It wasn't paranoia, just healthy skepticism honed by years of Greg's "friendly advice" turning into elaborate pranks orchestrated by Dax.
Greg cleared his throat, scuffing his sneakers against the dusty linoleum. "Look, it's just…kinda like asking a friend for help."
A snort escaped me. "Friends? Greg, last I checked, we were more like lab partners in the ecosystem of social awkwardness."
"Classmates, then?" he countered, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
