Make You Beg

The parking lot is packed with kids. Many stand by their million-dollar cars, not ready to go inside just yet, while others mingle in the courtyard. They’ll take any extra minute of freedom they can get.

I look out my passenger window and spot the four guys I want to avoid for the rest of my life. The Grim Reapers. AKA Reapers.

Each one of their cars is backed in, side by side, in the front row. They’re all the same color—flat black with blacked-out windows and wheels to match—intimidating just like them.

All four gather around Ryan Scout’s Bugatti Chiron. Girls crowd around them as though they’re all members of a rock band, and they have to suck their dicks to get backstage. One even stands between Dax’s parted legs, and he’s got his hands on her hips.

Fear sets into my bones like the weight of an anchor sinking in the ocean, pulling me down once again. I grip the steering wheel and drop my head. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “I can do this,” I chant.

The fact my father forced me to leave town after the verdict was announced made me look even more like a fool. The media took my departure as an admission of guilt, that I had lied, and when I lost, I was afraid to show my face.

Everyone thinks I made it all up. Girls and boys from our school took to their social media and spoke about how I was in love with Dax, and when he didn’t reciprocate the feelings, I tried to get him arrested.

I had to shut down all of my accounts and close myself off to the outside world. The case was heard all around, and there was no escape. Even the kids in New York whispered about me. I spent the summer in my room at my mother and stepdad’s house. Then when school started, my social life didn’t get any better. I had no friends and no life.

But one thing still remains. Brenda Nash has yet to be found. By the time the cops arrived at Death Valley, the body was gone. And as I found out while Dax was on trial, no body means no conviction.

They also argued that no murder weapon was present. I told them they wouldn’t find one because he used his hands. A man his size against her, she never had a chance.

But my argument went unheard. I might as well have been talking to a wall. Plus, my brother was right; money had to be involved. His father paid someone off—star football player at a 6A school with a bright future and a young Brenda being a product of the system. You take your guess who was treated more like the victim. Hint: it wasn’t the missing girl. Everyone failed her, even me.

Opening my eyes, I take another deep breath to slow my racing heart. Before I can chicken out, I reach over to grab my backpack and exit the driver’s seat.

The moment I round the front of my car, all chitchat comes to a halt, and everyone stares at me. It’s as if I’ve gone momentarily deaf; it’s so quiet. Not even a bird chirping. No wind howling, just deafening silence. My heart pounds, and my palms begin to sweat like they did that day in court when Dax Monroe was given a pass because of his fucking name.

Westbrook got so much attention that even the attendance at school went up by fourteen percent. Or so I read online.

I have sunglasses over my eyes, giving me the advantage to sneak a look over at them.

Ryan Scout leans back against his car in black jeans and a matching shirt. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his green eyes are on mine. The coldness almost makes me trip over my own feet. They send a shiver up my spine while also piercing my heart. He’s never looked at me like that before. They drop to my shoes and start their way up my jeans. I swallow when they get to my eyes again, and he smiles. It’s cold and deadly, like a promise of what’s to come.

Welcome home, Henley.

My eyes shoot to Grayson Law. He’s smoking a joint—typical Law, the guy can’t function unless he’s high, especially at school—and has one arm draped over a blonde. He smiles at me as well, but it’s different. His smile reminds me he’s a snake and will strike at any moment. He’s the most devious out of the four. He pretends to be a good guy, but he’s not. He could kill a man with his bare hands in front of his mother, and she’d defend him because he’s a good boy.

Fucking pitiful.

Van Rellik sits on the hood, his back propped up on the windshield. One leg out straight while the other is bent at the knee. He’s got a hat on backward to shield his dark curls and a cigarette between his lips. He pays me no attention. He’s scrolling through his phone without a care in the world. That’s Rellik for you. He never gives a shit about much. He’d give you the same look if you were bleeding out or on your knees sucking his dick. He’s always got something better to do.