||Vicious||

Chapter 12

Ten Years Ago

HELP BROKE UP WITH DEAN, and for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe again. My reaction to their relationship was irrational, immature, and completely out of line, but still...if I couldn't have her, no one else could. Especially not one of my friends.

Dean seemed a little bummed, but not crushed, and every time he glanced her way at school, Trent or Jaime were fast to slap his back and remind him that this was for the best. And it was. If Help were in love with him, she wouldn't have broken up with him. But she wasn't. She said she didn't want to lead him on and that he was a good guy. Said that the situation was too complicated and that the last thing she wanted to do was tear the HotHoles apart.

Too. Fucking. Late. Sweetheart.

For the most part, though, it was a good month. Trent's cast was off, so he was working on rehabbing his leg. A new Gears of War game came out. My dad and Jo were abroad—Austria? Australia?—I didn't give a shit as long as they were gone. Emilia was lonely and solemn again. And Dean was back to acting like the funny stoner everyone learned to love because they had no fucking choice. I thought it meant that he had gotten over her ass and moved on to someone else.

I was wrong.

I found out just how wrong I was at a football training session at four o'clock on a Tuesday after school. At All Saints, the team trained year-round. We were seniors, graduating in a few months, but somebody had to whip next year's squad into shape. I was doing static stretches on a foam roller with a dozen groaning, bulked-up freshman as I silently watched him approach.

We'd barely talked to each other since that party. I'd told him I kissed Help. Of course I did. But I left out the fact that she didn't kiss me back, because it didn't mean shit.

Yeah, she didn't kiss me back, but she'd wanted to. Still did. The way her thighs clenched, the way her body poured heat into mine, the way she parted her lips and a little moan escaped from between them. The way her soft tits crushed against my hard chest.

She was a terrible liar, and she wanted me.

She was going to have me. Soon.

Dean grabbed a black foam roller and plopped down on the grass beside me, mimicking my stretch, a stupid grin plastered on his face. I ignored him. I didn't like that he'd joined my group. Recently, we'd only felt comfortable in each other's presence if Trent or Jaime were around.

"Hola, Mr. Douchebag. What's shaking?" He beamed like the stupid clown he was. We all smoked, but Dean was the only one who actually looked like a Woody Harrelson-movie dropout, with his chill smile and messy bun.

I answered with a glare and a shrug.

"Think the team'll be any good next year without us?" His elbow poked my ribs harder than it should have.

"Is this fucking small talk? 'Cause I don't do that shit." I squinted at the horizon and plucked a few blades of grass, feeling restless.

Make it stop.

I shifted on the roller, deepening my stretch. It was obvious that he had something to tell me, and it was becoming even more obvious that he was gloating. Whatever it was, he was going to have fun breaking it to me.

"You're right, dude," he said, "we should probably get to the point. So I dropped at your house yesterday. Trent wanted me to give you back your football gear."

I'd lent Trent some gear months ago before he got injured. I'd forgotten all about it. It wasn't like I'd need it again. I wasn't a football star, off to play in college, and thanks to his fucked-up leg, unless a miracle happened, Trent wouldn't be either.