Punk 57

“I’m going to head downstairs,” I hear the guy on the radio say.

“I’ll finish checking here and meet you down there,” replies the other one.

I keep still, our bodies close as I look down at her. “Why do you do this?”

She shoots her eyes up, her parted lips inches from mine. “You can’t tell anyone. No one will understand.”

“Who cares?” I shoot back. “Your friends are losers.”

“So are yours.”

“At least I don’t have to fake anything around them,” I grit out. But then I realize that’s not true. The guys I’ve been hanging out with don’t even know my real name, do they?

I push forward. “Why are you two different people, Ryen?”

“What do you care? You don’t know me.”

“Hey, who’s there?” one of the guards shouts.

Shit! I grab Ryen’s hand and we bolt for the classroom door.

“Hey!” he yells.

Ryen cries out as she struggles to keep up, and we rush into the hallway, turning left.

“Stop!” I hear him say, and I see the glow of his flashlight shining on us.

His radio crackles, and I hear him talking, but we’re already around the corner. Passing one of the exits, I notice it doesn’t have a chain, and I push it open, hearing the alarm go off. But we don’t leave. I pull Ryen the other direction and bolt up the stairs.

“Masen,” she gasps, breathing hard.

We could’ve just run, I guess, but my truck is on the other side of the school, and I don’t know where her Jeep is. We might not make it without being recognized. Hopefully, with the alarm going off, they’ll think we bolted, though.

I pull her into the library and let the door close softly before rushing up the stairs, hearing her struggle behind me. We hurry to the back, hidden behind stacks and rows of books, near the couches and chairs. The library is dark, only the faint moonlight coming in from the windows high above. Our steps are soft, thanks to the carpeting, and I drag her behind a shelf, far, far above and away from the doors in the front.

We’re secluded.

The alarm still goes off, but it’s faint.

She collapses into me. “Masen…”

She breathes fast and hard, only able to take in shallow breaths, and I wrap my arms around her, feeling her go limp.

What the fuck?

Worry floods through me, and I cup her face as she fights for air. Her lids are hooded and she looks like she’s in pain.

“My bag,” she breathes out.

What? And then I widen my eyes, remembering. Oh, fuck. She has asthma. That’s right.

I shoot down to her backpack on the floor and dig in the front pocket, pulling out a red inhaler.

I stand back up, wrapping her in my arms and holding her up. “Here.”

She leans into me, her head resting on my chest as she takes a puff and waits a moment before inhaling another one.

Her chest rises and falls fast, and I lower one arm, wrapping it around her waist as I hold her to me.