King of Bullies (Wild Men 5.50)

CHAPTER ONE—ROSS

Ross rhymes with Boss...

“What do we do with him, Boss?”

I shoot an indifferent glance at the unfortunate idiot who got himself in my gang’s sights as I walk down the school hallway. “Shove him out of our way. What are you waiting for?”

“On it.” Finnick grins like the devil incarnate and gives a wolf-whistle, then points at our target. “Get him.”

They fall on the guy like a swarm of grasshoppers, pushing him to the floor, tearing his backpack off, kicking him for good measure. He wails something and tries to fight them, but it’s no use. They’re all too happy to beat him up, so I make a call.

“Enough!” I shout at them, for some reason annoyed when they don’t obey at once, and stalk away, through the school grounds, wearing my anger like a second skin, yet simmering, sizzling under the surface with pain.

The pain that’s in my ribs, in my back, in my thoughts. I even limp a little this morning, and it pisses me the hell off.

“And her?” Edward, one of the pups following the gang, comes panting after me. “Ross. What about her?”

“Who you talking about?” I stop and turn to look.

Oh.

Her.

Her name is Luna. I noticed her for the first time a couple of months ago, when she stepped in my way as I was heading out for a smoke, planning to skip the last two periods of boring nonsense in favor of a nicotine high and a chance to stretch my legs.

Instead, I plowed right into this girl, all soft curves and bright eyes and a spark of absolute defiance in them that hooked me like a drug.

Ed takes my silence as a tacit order to get on with it, it seems, reaching out his skinny leg to trip Luna up. With her nose buried in a book as she usually is—a notebook this time, judging from the size—it’s an easy task. She goes sprawling, and something behind my breastbone twinges.

Might have been my heart, if I’d had one.

Which I don’t.

Folding my arms over my chest, I watch as she gets up, gathering her things, loose pages from her notebook, and I wonder what she writes in there. I wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling. If she’s scared. If she’s angry.

She glances at me, an accusing look in those pretty eyes, and I grin at her. “Got something to say, fat girl? Did your big fat ass fail to defeat gravity?”

Stupid insults. Even my wit deserts me when faced with this particular girl, and I don’t know why.

Her face crumples a little, nevertheless, hands clenching on the pages, scrunching them up. Guess I scored anyway. Her eyes dart around, noting who is there, who’s witnessing her humiliation. Yeah, I know now how she feels. I see the naked fear, and the pain, in her expression.

Like every time, I expect it to please me, to cleanse me. To take away my pain, wipe my thoughts clean, give me relief.

But it doesn’t.

Anger flares up inside me—at her, at my dad, at the world.

At myself.

Turning my back to her, I nod at the gang. Let’s fuck shit up.

And that’s what we do. This time I egg them on, to break school furniture, break lockers and scatter their contents all over the place. Break people, insulting them and shoving them around, kicking at them, inviting others to watch and laugh at them.

Though the gang does most of that, reporting to me, proud of their mean little acts, it’s on me. I never stop them. I never lead them, either. I don’t need to. My reputation came with me from the start: son of Jasper Jones, bully and depraved, taking pleasure in kicking puppies and tearing others down.

Not that they’re wrong. I am a bad apple. A bad person.

But you know what? I don’t see any saints in this town, either. I live in hell, and everyone else had better hitch a ride along with me. It’s only fair.

***

Fucking shit up is the gang’s business, like I said, and it’s happening right now. Even timid Jenner who always follows us around like a lost pup is taking part in it today, launching insults at our new target—a newbie, a nerdy boy with glasses who always has the answers in class.

Hey, as good a target as any. Today I’ll take anything. Any outlet. Any relief.

Hanging back, slouching against the wall, I watch the hazing and try not to think about that. About how the bullying doesn’t give me pleasure, but sometimes, like today... it’s needed. I need it. Seeing that boy’s fear, his distress, his helpless rage, helps me.

Because the world sucks.

Because my back is torn to shreds from Dad’s belt and the pain is blinding, and the thought of going back home later is making me break out in a cold sweat.

Because I dunno how to fix this—this situation, this life—and at least I won’t be the only miserable asshole suffering today, no sir. I’ll drag others down with me. That’s what I do. I break up other people’s heaven, pull them down to the pits with me. Tear their wings off and watch them bleed.

The gang is laughing and snickering, walking away from the crying boy, and I spare a moment of pity and contempt for him. Didn’t anyone ever tell him to suck it up and move on? That tears are for the weak, that asking for a better fate is for losers?

For pussies, Dad’s voice rumbles inside my head. Tears are for pussies and losers, so suck it up, boy, and get off the floor. What are you whining for? I feed you, put clothes on your back and a roof over your head. Ungrateful brat. You in pain? It’s because you’re too weak. If you were strong, you’d hit back harder. You’d go out there and wreak havoc. You’d show me you’re a man and not a sniveling crybaby.

“Fucking crybaby,” I mutter, pushing off the wall and starting the other way, not bothering to see how it ends.

“Boss?” Finnick calls behind me. My right-hand-man, who’d love to take my place and lead the gang.

Fuck him.

“What are you doing?” a voice cries out, a girl’s voice, familiar and pulling on my last fraying nerve. “Leave him alone! Leave him alone, you...”