When Sinners Play (Sinners of Hawthorne University 1)

Part of me expects the dean to call off the rest of the assembly, but after a few more bland words of condemnation, he resumes his speech—minus the slideshow behind him.

I don’t go back to my sketch. I just stare at the stage, not really hearing anything, until finally, the assembly wraps up.

As I gather my shit up, I ignore the resurgence of whispers around me.

It doesn’t matter.

It can’t matter. Because the moment it starts to matter is the moment everything that’s happened to me is able to hurt me. It’s the moment every fucker in this school is able to hold power over me with information they don’t actually understand.

So it doesn’t matter.

But on my way out, as I pretend not to hear the jeers and whispers and laughter around me, the back of my neck prickles. As if drawn by some kind of magnetic force, my gaze moves unerringly toward where Gray Eastwood is sitting, framed on either side by Declan and Elias.

The Sinners.

Gray’s blue-green eyes capture mine, and I brace myself to see either pity or amusement in their depths.

But his expression is unreadable, his face a blank slate completely devoid of emotion.

That look… that confirmation that he doesn’t give a single shit?

For some reason, it cuts deeper than any knife.

11

Catcalls and shouts follow me everywhere I go for the rest of the day—even with Max taking up a protective position at my shoulder whenever she can and hurling insults back.

She found me as soon as the assembly ended, her olive complexion almost ashen as she demanded to know if I was okay.

Despite having been through some rough times, her home life is actually pretty decent, so she can’t exactly relate to the shit I went through in foster care. But she knows what it’s like to be an outsider here, and if there’s one upside to that shit-show of an assembly, it’s that it seems to have cemented the burgeoning friendship between the two of us.

That’s the only upside though.

The taunts and mockery don’t get any better the next day. Or the next. Or the next.

I get a reprieve over the weekend, but when Monday rolls around again, everyone picks right back up where they left off.

A target has been painted on my back.

The students of Hawthorne University are persistent as fuck, I’ll give them that.

I would call it high school bullshit, but even my high school bullies weren’t this dedicated. I get an ass grab or three at breakfast alone, and more than one increasingly aggressive suggestion that my dorm room serves as Hawthorne’s personal brothel. Most of the guys seem to like pushing that idea, and most of the girls seem convinced I’m trying to fuck their boyfriends.

Pretty much everyone on campus saw the slideshow at the assembly, and the ones with faster reflexes than others took pictures with their phones. They print them out and slap them up all over campus, so I’m treated to memories of the abuse I’ve endured every time I walk to class.

There are suggestions that I should be wearing a helmet because of my brain damage, rumors that I have to wear a diaper, conspiracy theories that I’m inbred and that’s where my medical issues come from.

Despite all of the petty bullshit, I make it through two weeks of classes. My professors weren’t kidding about the classes being challenging, but I actually find myself grateful for it. Studying my ass off gives me something to focus on besides the constant harassment.

On the second weekend after the start of the semester, I spend a few hours painting on Saturday morning. But after the week I just had, even that doesn’t calm me down.

Deciding I need to blow off some steam somehow, I use my newly issued ID card to get into the campus gym.

I don’t really give a shit about maintaining my physique, keeping it in prime condition for my future rich husband. But a few sprints around the track will at least give me a distraction.

Glam, poppy music blares from the overhead speakers, and while I’m not a fan, it sets a pace for my run that leaves my mind blank and my muscles on fire. Sweat drips in thick beads down my back as I push myself hard, sprinting flat out for as long as I can before resting briefly and doing it again.

Nothing exists outside of that god-awful pop music, the pounding of my feet against the track, and the steady rise and fall of my chest as I breathe.