King of Bullies (Wild Men 5.50)

That’s how I arrive at school: looking like a drowned rat. I’m wet, cold, and out of breath, and the last thing I need is to draw the attention of Ross’s gang.

But I do. Yeah, I’m just so lucky... They must’ve skipped first hour, not all that surprising knowing what a bunch of losers they are, and are gathered outside the school fence, smoking in the cold drizzle. The moment I arrive on my creaking bike, dripping and wiping rainwater from my eyes, they’re on me, like flies.

And he’s there, too.

Ross.

“Would you look at that... It’s the fatso on her alien piece of space junk.” This is Jonas, one of the assholes constantly following Ross around, mimicking his way of dressing, his hairdo... his insults. They all do that, to a greater or lesser degree. “What’s the matter, couldn’t take off for your home planet?”

“Too much weight,” his brother Edward mutters. “You should throw some overboard.”

“Your ass is too fat,” Jonas says slowly, pronouncing each word with exaggerated care, as if I’m slow. But what worries me more is that he stalks toward me, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “You’re an ugly cow, aren’t you? A stupid, fat cow.”

The words strike like bullets, one after the other, taking my breath away. I’m still straddling my bike, my hair plastered to my face, dripping into my eyes, and I can’t find the energy, the desire to fight back.

“What’s the matter, cat ate your tongue?” Jonas is right in front of me, and before I know what he’s doing, he shoves me.

Sky and earth tumble over and over, and I find myself sprawled in the mud, the bike half on top of me, aches everywhere. I should have expected that, I think. I should have turned around and rode my bike away.

But what really gets me is that, all the while, Ross has been watching from hooded eyes, leaning back against the wall, one booted foot casually propped against its surface, a half-smile on his lips.

Arrogant.

In control.

Beautiful.

Foul and mean, a fallen angel turned demon, come to oversee my destruction. His mouth is tilted up in a faint smirk, making those chiseled cheekbones stand out sharply, and he’s not wearing a jacket, his thin sweater plastered to that muscular chest and shoulders. When he lifts his hand to push soaked hair from his eyes, his biceps bulge.

Why do I still feel so drawn to him? He’s the wicked king, the fairytale villain. A psychopath, enjoying others’ pain. My pain. How can I still dream of his mouth on mine when he’s smiling at my anguish?

Pulling myself together, tearing my gaze off him, I get back on my feet and haul my bike upright beside me. I have nothing to say to him or his fan club. I hate how my chin trembles as I fight back belated tears. The shock is wearing off, I guess, and the cold is sinking into my bones. Bloodied, muddied, kind of terrified as I realize I’ve become a regular target for the gang now, I trudge into the school.

I’ve been teased on and off for years. For my weight. For being too quiet. Too bookish. For becoming too closed off and emotional after Mom left.

Ross hadn’t always been behind the teasing, but in the past year he has. He seems... focused on me. On causing me misery. Maybe that’s what the devil does. Daze you with his beauty while he drags you off. I need to stop fantasizing about him.

His light blue eyes flash in my mind and my resolve wobbles. He never touched me, never shoved me, like his buddies. Could that mean he likes me? He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Can’t remember him with a girl by his side, ever, though the rumor mill has it he’s slept his way through half the female population of the school.

Could that mean something? Maybe I stand a chance?

The guy who called me fat, who said my ass is so big gravity defeated me.

There must be something fundamentally wrong with me to so easily forget his insults, his attitude, his unnerving watchful gaze while his friends torment me, and be drawn back to him time and again.

Lack of confidence and basic self-esteem? Or the Ross-bug that seems to be going around a lot, causing stupidity to any girl when faced with his handsome self?

Gah.

When will I give it up?

CHAPTER THREE—ROSS

Rain rhymes with pain...

How many times did I wake up in a bar, curled at my dad’s feet as he snored, facedown on a table? How many times did I crawl out of the house, to escape his drunken bouts of violence?

This time, I’m not gonna crawl into a corner and cry like a girl. Though I am cornered.