Fishnet Magic

Chapter 8: Jabanero and Strawberry Blondes

For the remaining hour and a half of class, she was trapped in the old crimson and mahogany prison of Branagh Hall hell. It was insufferable. Markus was so stiff, it made her uncomfortable to even be in proximity of his tree-trunk arms shoved so hard away from her, she thought she was diseased. She focused her gaze so intently on the stringy snag in the carpet by her left foot, she thought the whole room would combust from the pressure. Her mind buzzed—a bumping white noise eeeeeeeking to the beat of "Our Father" on repeat. Only three words broke the surface of her trance.

Pathetic.

Miserable.

Petty.

Not Markus' writing, but the character he created out of her shell. She tried so hard to move past that day, when she limped back to the locker room, the dance team was still out on the floor, unsure where she had gone. She sat alone on the sink counter, running warm water over a brown paper towel to try and get the blood off her forehead. Her fat lip stung. The place where Kayla kicked her in the ribs throbbed like pushing them up against a loud bass. She wanted to go home.

Jeremy told her he broke up with Kayla. He promised. He said she was gone and it was just them, the semester, and long nights of drinking pre-mixed margaritas on the lake's chilly beach while wrapped in thick flannel blankets. She remembered running her fingers through his brown hair, the thick waves crashing through her fingers, almost matching skin and hair tone for tone. He would close his eyes and practically purr for her as he leaned against her chest. He'd turn, trap her lip between his teeth, his hand between her thighs, and would make the cold disappear.

She gave Jeremy everything.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, fresh agony rushing under her skin.

Everything.

On a blowup mattress in his cousin's cabin when they snuck away North for a cheap weekend. She remembered clinging to him as he said he loved her. The memory was so bright, she would recall it on moments of boredom, remembering she was now a woman, having decided that she was going to break her grandmother's heart, her promise to her parents, her vow with God to be whole for the sacred day of her marriage. She threw it all away because she loved him. She loved that fucker so much.

Her first was over in one sharp movement, one brutal thrust, one whispered phrase.

Broken hymen. Broken promises. Broken heart. It all blurred behind her eyes.

He said it first.

She clenched her fists. He said it first.

Amo said he did it because she gave him the access code. All he had to do was type in the words, not have them mean a thing, and he was in. He was an opportunist and a horny piece of shit.

Lupita remembered the lips that said the words. How they were warm and soft against her own. She then remembered how she kissed the cold steel of the bleachers, the harsh lights of the arena, and the deafening cheers of the crowd. Back then, she thought that she was forgotten, unnoticed, a small part of a giant puzzle that made up that particular scene. But no. People were watching.

Markus was watching.

And apparently he was taking notes.

He watched her bleed like it was some secondary spectator sport of the night. Show bonus or half-time stunt. Lupita had never wanted to punch someone so badly in her life. Not even Kayla. And she really, really wanted to punch Kayla.

But her grandmother taught her better. Her mother taught her better. When her father was angry and punched the walls instead of her family, she knew that she would always have that same restraint. But right now, she wanted to punch everything. In the face, in the dick, and especially, in the heart. Markus was dead to her. A true enemy for life.