3
Avalon
4 years later…
Rage pounds through my bloodstream as I slam through the front doors of the school building. Fueled by a healthy dose of oh fucking hell no and what the fuck was this bitch thinking, I stomp through the students collecting against the lockers of Plexton High School’s main hall.
“Hey, Ava, mind if I stop by your corner tonight for some one-on-one action?” someone calls as I pass by.
I flip him my happy middle finger and keep walking. “Sorry, you must be this tall to ride the Avalon Express,” I reply, dropping the finger and holding my hand up well over the idiot’s height. “Oh, and a dick—gotta have one of those too.”
“Fuck you!”
“Go fuck yourself,” I snip back. “‘Cause I sure as hell won’t do it, pencil dick.”
The guy fucking snarls at me, but I ignore him and continue on, ready for destruction.
Stopping just inside the cafeteria, my eyes scan the room, halting when I spot my target. I crack my neck. This is about to get uglier than one of my mother’s binge days.
"Looks like the whore's made her entrance." The comment comes from a short-haired blonde sitting at the end of the table that my eyes are locked on. My target. I march towards her and dumb bitch that she is, she smiles when I stop in front of her. I don’t even give her a chance to react or see my fist coming. One second she’s sitting there, her smug ass attitude making her cakey makeup crack as she tilts her head up at me and the next, my fist is flying towards her face.
"You bitch!" Her shriek of shock and horror is like music to my ears as she falls out of her chair and scrambles back on her hands and ass. A ripple goes through the room and all conversation stops as eyes turn to me. I’m used to being the center of unwanted attention. Patricia has fucked enough of these kids’ dads to make me an unwanted outcast. It’s been like that at each and every school. On a normal day, I don’t give a shit. What they think of me doesn’t matter. Today, I give even less of a shit than I normally do. Why? Because when I’m pissed, I tend to forget that there’s no one in this damn school—and no one in this godforsaken town either—who gives a shit about me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brooke demands as she inches back another few steps while remaining on the floor.
Everyone at the bitch’s table rises at the same time. Two of the guys from the football team start forward as if to stop me. I don't hesitate. I pick up the closest thing—a textbook resting on the ledge next to someone's backpack—and use it to silence the cunt screaming at me from the ground. I slam it into her throat, cutting her off and shoving my foot into her stomach.
“Are you really all that shocked to see me, Brooke?” I tilt my head to the side and stare at her as she chokes. “I mean, you practically begged for this.”
“The fuck”—she breaks off, coughing, but I get the gist of what she’s trying to say.
“Oh but you did,” I say, pressing down with the sole of my shoe as I get in her face. “You’re usually Miss Princess up at the top, but this time, you got real low and guess what—down here in the dirt? I’m the Queen Bitch.”
She snarls, her hand rubbing against her throat as she tries to soothe the damage I did with the book. It’s not going to work. And I’m going to fuck her up a hell of a lot more before we’re done. Usually, I don’t give a shit what people say. Caring gives them power. But there’s a point when indifference is outweighed by the sheer disrespect.
Now, if her petty little rumors had kept to the fucking school then maybe—maybe—I might’ve let it go and ignored it. But they hadn’t. She’d taken her preppy little ass down to my fucking neighborhood—dirty trailers, cokehead hookers, and all—and spread that shit there. I didn’t know how she’d done it because looking at her, I didn’t think she’d have the balls. But the memory of one of Roger’s minions stopping by my mom’s trailer last night asking about my prices makes my blood boil anew.
Brooke doesn’t know it yet, but she’s signed a fucking warrant to getting her ass kicked and I’m more than ready to deliver.
"Listen up, bitch," I hiss, dropping the book. I lean forward, wrap my hand around her throat, and squeeze. "You made a big fucking mistake coming after me.”
She wheezes in my grasp, reaching up with weak hands as someone else comes up behind me and wraps their arms around my middle in a vain attempt to drag me away. Looks like the footballers have finally decided enough is enough. Yeah, as if I'll let that happen. Enough is enough when I fucking say it is. I slam my head back and catch the asshole by surprise. The arms around my waist drop away almost instantaneously as a masculine grunt sounds at my back and surprise, sur-fucking-prise, he doesn’t touch me again.
My obvious anger doesn't appear to deter the girl in my grasp, however. "You're nothing but trash," she spits at me. "Just like your whore mother. Now everyone knows.”
I roll my eyes. Patricia isn’t a whore. Not by the traditional definition. She doesn't sell herself for cash. No. She likes drugs. She doesn't get high so much as she likes to get fucked up. Cocaine. Heroin. Ecstasy. You name it, she'd tried it at one point or another.
"Get your facts straight," I say through clenched teeth. "My mother's not a whore—just an addict. And you're nothing but a sad little bitch whose boyfriend couldn't keep it in his pants," I finish just before I slam my fist into her face once more. Something breaks under my knuckles and a warm wash of blood comes spurting out. The sight is fucking beautiful.
“So you did fuck him!” she screeches at the top of her lungs, even as she yanks a hand to her face to stop the onslaught of blood and mucus. “I knew it!”
“Not for his lack of trying,” I say, taking a step back, “but for your information, no. I wouldn’t touch your boyfriend if he was the last man on Earth. Wouldn’t want to catch that frigid cunt syndrome he gets from you.”
She gasps in outrage, the sound nasally as she struggles back to her feet before pointing a bloody finger my way. “It doesn’t matter now,” she sneers as blood drips over her lips. “You’re fucking done for. My parents are going to sue you for everything—”
I laugh out loud. Holy shit. I knew stupid could be funny, but that right there is pure comedy gold. She breaks off mid-sentence as I bend over and press my hands to my stomach. “You’re fucking welcome to try.” I continue to laugh through the words. I don’t have two fucking pennies to rub together and this bitch thought she could sue me? It's more than laughable. It's ridiculous.
“I will!” she screams. “You thought the fucking rumors were bad? I’m going to ruin you.”
Her? Ruin me? Too fucking late, I think snidely. “I’m not scared of your fucking rumors,” I say. “They’re annoying. That’s all. But you and those rumors do have a few things in common—you’re both fake and you both get around.”
“You—” she gasps, stopping and looking past my shoulder as her mouth curves into a smug grin even as blood still flows freely from her nostrils.