“I see you have English class next.” Her eyes fixed on the screen, reading something while talking. “Do you have a map, or should I have someone take you?”
I held up the crumpled paper still in my hand. “I’m good, thanks.”
Her lightly made-up lips flattened to a tight smile, the dusty pink tone matching her loose blouse. “Very well, Kinsley. Have a good first day, and welcome to Broken Hollow. I hope your time with us is a pleasant experience.”
Quinn
I’d made four grand. I’d usually make a clear thousand, but with my bets, I made a decent amount. At first, I’d just collected my winnings, but when I’d had enough to be able to waste a little amount, I started betting to make a hefty coin. And I made sure that I fucking did.
The fight was over in less than five minutes, and I’d made enough for the next two months with a decent amount of change. No job I could get would able to give me those figures and the ability to sleep at night, knowing I had enough food in the fridge, so I wasn’t going hungry—something I’d done often growing up.
Paying into my bank account at first had become something of an event in itself. Seeing the look on the tellers’ faces when it was my turn was fucking hilarious. The bruises, cuts, and sometimes, stitches had them staring at me like I was about to rob the place. Handing over my cash and card had them confused as shit. They’d gotten used to me by now, though, turning up with a fucked-up face and an envelope of Franklin’s every other month, adding to the growing figures nobody knew about.
I was more familiar with the face in the mirror more than anybody. The patterns had decorated my body from a young age. I’d quickly gotten used to them. The impact, the sting that lingered, the fading of the hard bruises… It was an old feeling that I could ignore.
“Quinn, are you paying attention?” the professor asked from the front of the class.
Fuck, I’d zoned out again. “I am now,” I replied. I couldn’t afford to slip up, not when the entire fucking faculty were expecting me to. And why wouldn’t they? I was the ‘troubled kid.’ However, this guy was the exception. I wouldn’t fail in this class, not by a long shot.
“Eyes on the board, Mr. Dexter. Whatever’s outside that window will still be there after class.”
I sat straighter in my chair, my elbows resting on the small wooden desk, and stared at Mr. Cunningham. The bruising around my left eye didn’t hurt. The residual swelling made it only a little difficult to hold it, but it had the desired effect.
The professor swallowed hard, his eyes wide and his already pale skin growing whiter, making me smile. After a couple of seconds, he turned back to his board as though he hadn’t just been shit-scared of a cocky kid in his class.
“I think he almost pissed his pants that time,” Josh whispered from the seat next to me, chuckling under his breath.
“Almost, huh?” I asked loud enough for the professor to hear. I sat back, slouching in my chair, and extending my long legs for comfort. “I guess I’m losing my touch.”
Mr. Cunningham turned and glanced between us. I grinned, my eyes not leaving his while Josh held out his fist for me to bump. When I did, the professor stammered before getting his shit together.
“Do you think he knows?” Josh asked with a smirk.
I turned to him, giving no fucks that Mr. Cunningham was standing right there. “Undoubtedly.” It was only the fact that Junior’s buddies had big mouths and got screenshot happy with his social media group that anybody knew what he’d been up to.
Josh chuckled. “Well, from looking at your pretty face, and picking up your opponent from the hospital the other night—”
“It kinda gives it away,” I finished for him.
The professor knew better than to open his mouth about what had happened to his son a few nights ago. It was a well-known fact, but nobody breathed a word in front of the wrong people.
“What about his ride?”
I shrugged. “What about it?” It’d been left at the bonfire; Cunningham Jr. too fucked up to drive himself. “He couldn’t exactly drive away.”
“Yeah, being unconscious would do that to you,” Josh snorted. “Is it being dealt with?” His eyes widened when my brows pumped. His voice dropped. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I replied, holding my hands out in innocence. “I didn’t touch it.” It’s not like the guy didn’t deserve it; he was a piece of shit.
Josh licked his lips, then leaned closer to me. “If somebody checked it for, say, prints, would they say the same thing?”
I deadpanned and frowned. “You think I’m getting sloppy?”
“Just making sure you got all bases covered,” he said, glancing around.
“I sure fucking hope so. It’d be a damned miracle if they got anything off what I left behind.”
He shook his head and laughed again. “You’re fucked up.”
I turned to face the front of the class and stared at Mr. Cunningham. “Aren’t we all, Josh? Aren’t we all.”
“Quinn, can I have a word?”Mr. Cunningham asked when we made our way toward the class exit. He tried to stand tall, getting some balls to talk to me. But, as I towered over him by at least four-to-five inches, he seemed to shrink back down when I got closer.
“Sure.” I nodded to Josh to go on ahead. “How can I help you?” I had no intention of helping this fucker, or anybody else, except the only three people in my life that mattered.
With a shaky hand, the professor grasped the doorknob and closed the door, leaving him alone with me.
Brave but sensible.
“This is about David,” he said. “My son.”
“What about him?” I asked like I had no clue... As if it wasn’t his face that had bruised my knuckles.
“I think we both know what this is about,” he retorted, looking pointedly at the evidence still marking my face. “David’s still recovering. What you did to him—”
“What I did to him?” I cut in, nodding, and he flinched back, paling all over again. “What about the fact that he showed up, willingly, betting cold hard cash that he could take me?” I took a step closer to him. “He knew what he was getting into, and I won’t deny saying that I enjoyed every second of the beating I gave him, that you and I both know he fucking deserved.” My narrowed eyes bore into his, my mouth tightening in disgust. “If he ever comes to the circle again...” I let my tone lower, enough to show that my words weren’t an empty threat, and I inched closer. He swallowed hard. “I won’t be playing fair, and this—"I gestured to my face while releasing a smile that didn’t reach my dead eyes—“he won’t get a chance to repeat.” I straightened to my full height, snorted a quick laugh, and left the professor behind in a hot, yellow puddle.
***
“Hey, did you get my message?”
I looked toward the direction of the voice that had appeared beside me. “Hey, Layton, I haven’t checked my phone yet, why?” I shifted my hood back a little so I could see him.