Pretty When She Cries - Black Mountain Academy

“Who said I’m trying to prove anything? Maybe I just want to blow off some steam.”

My arm is fucking throbbing, so I pop a couple of painkillers even though they barely touch the ache anymore.

“You don’t have a claim on her,” Carson reminds me bitterly. “Do you think swinging your dick around with Price will fix anything?”

“It will make me feel better.” I turn off the ignition and glare at him. “And this isn’t about her.”

“No?” His muscles coil with tension, and I don’t understand why it bothers him so much. This is what we do. We punish ourselves and everyone else who gets in our way. It’s the only thing we’re good at.

“So, your beef with him has nothing to do with the fact that she came back a week ago, and he’s been all over her every chance he gets?”

My jaw ticks. I’m not in the mood to listen to his shit. I don’t know what the fuck crawled up his ass, but he’s been more of a dick than usual this week, and I’m running out of patience as far as Carson is concerned.

“You can go or stay.” I open the door and climb out of the car. “Your prerogative.”

Just as I knew it would, Carson’s door opens behind me. For reasons I can’t fathom, he’s still trying to act like we have some type of loyalty after he crossed me two years ago. His efforts are futile because we both know I’ll never forgive him. Yet here he is, day after day, putting up with my shit. We’re just two miserable assholes.

His footsteps echo behind mine as I head for the clearing where Price is leaning up against his black Mercedes G-Wagon. He’s a rich prick who’s never had to work for anything in his life, and it shows. He has a reputation for doing whatever he wants, and it’s never bothered me as much as it does now. He gives zero fucks about any of the girls at school, and that’s why he and Kail will never make sense. Their relationship reeks of bullshit, and I want him to know I know it.

“Well, if it isn’t America’s favorite bloodsucker.” He jerks his chin in my direction as I approach. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet? I wouldn’t want to damage that pretty face.”

The crowd falls quiet, slowly creeping closer to watch the show. Already, I can hear people recording. This shit’s going to be all over the internet if I don’t squash it now. The first person who sells me out to the media will make a killing. I can already see the headlines. Child actor turned bad boy. Hollywood golden boy on a path of destruction. Where did Landon Blackwood go so wrong?

I should give a fuck about that, probably, but I can’t find it in me to care right now.

“I got ten G’s on Price,” someone calls out behind me.

“Twenty on Blackwood.”

The bets continue as we square off, our eyes locked in a familiar male posturing ritual. Jared’s still smirking as though it’s all so amusing as we both remove our shirts. Everyone knows how this goes down. We didn’t come here to talk about our fucking feelings. People want to see a fight, and they will.

“Why don’t you throw the first punch?” Price extends his arms theatrically. “It might make you feel better about being such a bitch.”

“Fuck you,” I spit.

He tosses out a half-assed left hook, narrowly clipping my jaw. He doesn’t have time to blink before I return an uppercut so solid it nearly knocks him on his ass. His jaw snaps up, but he recovers quickly, coming at me harder. Now the real fight begins.

We move in circles, swinging left, right, and dead center. In the thick of it, I couldn’t tell you who was winning or losing. All I know is it feels good to pummel his face like a punching bag, and Price gives it back just as good as he gets. The pain floods my body with warmth, and the blood dripping down my face reminds me I’m human. Somewhere inside, I still have a heart. And right now, it’s pumping crimson through my veins into the crevices of my split skin.

I can’t focus on all that red because the irony is if I look at it too long, it will probably take me down faster than Jared ever will. I’ve always had a tendency to get a bit woozy around it. But if I take short, shallow breaths and focus on the soothing feeling of my fist on his bones, I can manage.

Jared takes my rage like he does this every night, never wavering for even a second, but it only serves to piss me off more. He seems like he’s getting high on it too. Punch, punch, thrust. We fight until we are both so bloody you can’t distinguish between the two of us. We’re exhausted, chests heaving, but neither of us will back down. I’d keep going forever, but Carson and a few of the other footballers eventually intervene, calling it a draw as they force us away from each other.