The Boy on the Bridge

I know who started it, though.

We all know who started it.

The picture appears to be a screenshot from a porno. A brunette girl lying on her back with her legs spread, one guy fucking her, one guy about to shove his cock into her mouth, and a third guy getting jerked off on the couch behind her.

Well, me.

It’s my face Photoshopped onto the girl, of course.

Hunter’s face is pasted over top of the guy fucking me, Sherlock has been Photoshopped in as the guy whose dick is about to go in my mouth, and Anderson’s face is pasted over that of the guy being jerked off.

The caption reads, “Riley working her way through the football team.”

I sit on the couch a bit woodenly as Hunter calls the friend who sent it to him. “Who the fuck sent this to you?” he demands as he storms out of the room to take the call, but I don’t know why he even needs to ask.

We all know Valerie is behind it.

Hunter stays in the other room for a long time dealing with it.

I go upstairs to his bedroom to start packing up my things.

I’m not leaving early because of it, it’s just the last day of the weekend, anyway, so it seems like a good time to pack.

When the doorbell rings, I frown.

Would Hunter have invited someone over when I’m here? I don’t know how his conversations are going with whoever he’s interrogating about the picture, but I can’t imagine he would.

I leave Hunter’s room and go find the nearest window with a view of the driveway to take a look.

My heart just about stops when I see Valerie Johnson’s car.

What the fuck?

Packing forgotten, I hurry down the stairs.

I don’t make it all the way down them. There’s a landing near the bottom that also makes a pretty good hiding spot for eavesdropping. I stop there and press my back against the wall.

Hunter has already answered the door. Whatever conversation they’re having clearly hasn’t just started.

“What was I supposed to do?” Valerie demands. “You blocked my fucking number, Hunter.”

“I blocked your fucking number because I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit,” he tells her.

“It’s not bullshit,” she insists. “I swear to God, Hunter, I’m not the one who made that picture.”

“Maybe you’re not the one who made it, but you are the one behind it. Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Valerie? You’re jealous of Riley and you can’t stop tearing her down, but you know what? It ends now. I gave you a warning. I played fucking nice, didn’t I? That’s over now. You’re done. You don’t exist anymore. You’re a fucking leper. If anyone has anything to do with you, they’re done, too. I’ll make that clear to everyone; we’ll see how many fucking friends you have left when I’m through with you.”

“Hunter, think about it,” she says, and I can hear the fear in her voice. “Think it through. Look at the picture again. Why would I make you the one fucking Riley? You think that’s a visual I want in my head? And not only that, the guy fucking her? Not the hottest guy. Whoever made that thing put Sherlock’s face on the hottest body. If I made it, I would have made you the hottest. You may not think doing something this fucked up is beyond me, but you have to know that.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” he asks, sounding a bit dumfounded.

“I’m serious,” she says petulantly. “I know it sounds stupid, but it’s the truth. When I think about doing that, that’s where my head goes. Sherlock doesn’t even like me, why the hell would I make him the hottest of the three guys? I’d have made him the jerk off guy. She dated Anderson, there’s a better chance his dick has been in her nasty mouth than Sherlock’s.”

“That’s enough.”

“I mean, I guess maybe at the party, but—”

“Stop fucking talking,” Hunter says.

She does. Only for a few seconds, though.

“I’m sorry someone did this, Hunter, but it wasn’t me. You have to believe me. I’ve done bad shit to her in the past, but I stopped when you told me to. I would never do anything like this to you. I’m crazy about you. I made an ass out of myself at homecoming to keep you from getting tarred and feathered, remember?”

“Yeah, and then I turned your own prank on you and pissed you off.”

“No,” Valerie says, the denial in her voice firm. “I mean, yeah, you did, you’ve been a complete asshole to me, but… Hunter, I would never hurt you. If you want my honest opinion, I think it was Sherlock.”

“What?”

“He’s fucked up enough to do something like this.”

“Why the hell would he do this?”

“I think he likes Riley,” she says. “God knows why, but that’s what I’m hearing.”