Waving her hand, Mrs., Gemston smiles at Prairie. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself.”
Shaking her head, she bashfully looks down at her desk. “There’s not much to say really. Moved here over the summer with my parents, end of story.” Shrugging a shoulder, she smiles with closed lips.
The guy behind me, Tony Dillion, leans over my shoulder and whispers. “I’d like to mow that prairie, if you know what I mean.” Chuckling quietly, he says, “Nothing like a fresh field to make your dick hard. Ain’t that right, Ramon?” He chuckles quietly as he speaks, the weight of his face over my collarbone shifts as he leans back in his chair.
Back the fuck off! My mind instantly becomes defensive, as if she’s mine and mine alone. I can’t shake the idea that I own her. I own her happiness and her pain. I own her sadness and her smiles. I own her until I’m done with her.
No one else can have her.
She’s mine for whatever I want. To torture. To tear apart. To break into a million pieces. It’s all for me. Every last piece of who she is will be mine to crush between my fingers.
My eyes stay on Prairie, knowing she can feel me looking at her. Her eyes keep moving to the left, as if she’s trying to catch a glimpse of me over her shoulder, but she won’t look directly at me.
She smiles at the girl beside her, then turns her head to face the chalk board. Rolling a pencil between her fingers, she crosses her legs, and kicks her foot up and down.
This desire pools in my stomach. A protective, drunken lust that has no place to go no matter how hard I’m trying to make it disappear.
The teacher passes out our schedules, giving us time to look them over. But I don’t examine mine. I stare at her, my evil, gorgeous muse, the girl who is somehow turning my stomach and making my dick twitch.
We’re water and oil. We don’t mix. Nothing I’m feeling belongs. It will never work between us, but I can’t stop the dirty thoughts from filling my head.
What I want to do to her. The things I’d gladly make her feel. I want to spread her legs and plow inside her, and in the same sick thought, I want to make her cry, and lick her tears.
She deserves to feel pain. So why do I want to give her pleasure too?
It isn’t making sense in my brain. The hate I feel should be enough to feed the anger and rage. The hurt I feel should be enough to bring her nothing but misery.
And yet, I’m so drawn to her, to her body, to the way my fingertips slipped so easily over her skin, that I can’t focus on anything else.
Shaking my head, I exhale a heavy breath. I know what’s important, regardless of the surge inside my dick for this girl. Her pain will be my pleasure. Her agony will be my happiness. Her tears will be my smiles.
Prairie isn’t here for anyone else. She isn’t just some fuck toy for the guys in school to pass around. These assholes are ignorant, they think they own the damn world and everyone in it.
Truth is, they don’t even own the clothes on their own backs. Money can buy a lot of shit, but what they have isn’t going to get them her.
I claimed her first. The second she laid eyes on me that night, it tattooed my name across her chest in scarlet letters.
If anyone is going to destroy her, it’s me. I’ve earned it. No one else.
These people don’t know her. They don’t know what she did.
And they don’t have a right to tear her to pieces.
Only I do.
3
Prairie
Walking out to the field, I start stretching. Gripping my ankle, I pull it up behind me and tilt my face to the sky.
The sun is warm, heating the back of my neck as I stretch my other leg, and take the opportunity to look around. I haven’t had the time to really sit back and take it all in. A new house, new people, new routine, new school. It’s all been really overwhelming.
Kids are in clusters all over the field. The skater kids on one side, the cheerleaders and football players on the other, and speckled in between are the nerds, the chess geeks, and all those that don’t really have a social label.
This school is smaller than my last one. There are less than three hundred kids in total. The exterior doesn’t look like it’s been touched since the sixties. The lockers are worn and dented, with layer upon layer of faded names, and heart shapes staining the metal surfaces.
Even the fields are dated. The football goal posts have chipped paint and crooked forks. You can barely see the track markings for each lane, and the pavement has cracks, growing bright yellow weeds and small clusters of grass.