Page 89 of Wicked Fury

When I reach the professor’s building, a chill slithers down my spine. The hallway is deserted, the quiet more somehow more chaotic than any lecture hall. The soles of my shoes echo against the linoleum like one of those creepy opening sequences of a movie. I stop in front of his door. Locked. Dark. No Professor in sight.

“Seriously?” I hiss, jiggling the handle with a frustration that borders on violence. The metal is cold and unyielding beneath my grip. This isn’t right. We had a meeting—specifically set so I could grovel for academic mercy or at least understand why he’d tossed my grades into the gutter. I pull out my phone and double check the email to make sure I didn’t misread it in some way.

“Where the hell are you?” The words bounce off the closed door, mocking me with their hollowness. I press my ear against the wood, hoping for a sign of life, but only the ghost of my breath fogs the nameplate. No Professor.

I pivot on my heel, annoyance simmering just below the surface. That’s when I spot her—Nicole, click-clacking her way down the corridor toward me. The sight slams into my gut like a sucker punch. She’s got this wild look in her eyes, hair dyed a sloppy mimic of my brunette waves, and extensions that are nearly the exact same length as my hair. It’s like looking into a twisted carnival mirror.

She stops an arm’s length away, her facade a grotesque mimic of mine. Are those fucking contacts? There’s something so off about her—a vibe that reeks of desperation and mania. I take a step back, my instincts screaming at me to run. But I stand my ground, arms crossed in an attempt to protect myself.

“Is the professor one of your little helpers, or did you hack into his email?” I tilt my head, daring her to tell me the truth. Honestly, at this point, either option wouldn’t surprise me.

The closer she gets; the more details pop out. That’s when I see it—the locket. My locket. The delicate chain clings to her neck like a leech. My blood boils, and the hallway seems to tilt as adrenaline courses through my veins.

“Jesus, you really have no shame, do you?” My voice is ice, sharp enough to cut. “How low can you go?” She’s crafted herself into a doppelgänger, a shadow trying to eclipse the real thing. A sick game of dress-up with my identity as the grand prize. “You’ve been targeting me since you stepped foot on this campus and saw me with Lincoln, haven’t you?”

Nicole’s lips tremble and her voice shakes when she spits the words, “He’s mine!”

“Lincoln was never yours, Nicole,” I say, the corner of my lip twitching in a smirk, taunting her. Glance down at my phone, hoping that she doesn’t notice that I’ve pressed a few buttons to record whatever she says. I’m not going to let her get away with anything that she’s done to Lincoln.

Her expression contorts, and she launches into a tirade. “You witch! You think you’re so clever, seducing him. You try to be so perfect, but you’re not. I made sure you failed that test so you’d understand that you’re not better than anyone else!”

I flinch inwardly at the accusation but keep my demeanor calm, adopting an expression of mock innocence. It’s like she’s unraveling before me, thread by pathetic thread. A part of me pities her, but most of me wants to revel in this moment of unhinged jealousy.

“Really, bitch? That’s what you’re going with?” I prod, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Because last time I checked, Lincoln has a mind of his own. Or is that concept too advanced for you? This might be hard for you to hear, but he approached me. He wanted me.”

“What else, Nicole?” I coax with a sly grin. “Your delusion is showing. Tell me what else you did to me and Lincoln.”

She’s oblivious to the trap, caught up in her own narrative of scorned love and betrayal. Each word she spits out is another nail in her coffin, and I’m here, silently collecting them all. Evidence of her instability, her willingness to go to extremes—it’s all being recorded in crisp, clear sound.

“Lincoln was never meant to be with someone like you,” she shrieks, her voice cracking with hysteria.

“Someone like me?” I echo, feigning curiosity. “And what kind is that, Nicole? The kind that doesn’t need to cosplay someone else to feel worthy?”

My casual demeanor hides the rush of adrenaline that courses through me. This recording is more than just protection; it’s a checkmate waiting to happen. Let her dig her grave with her own vitriol—I’ll gladly hand her the shovel.

“Go ahead. Tell me more about how I’ve ‘bewitched’ him,” I taunt, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. “This is fascinating stuff, really.”

Deep down, under the layers of mockery and bravado, I know I need to stay one step ahead. And right now, my phone is silently ensuring just that.

I arch an eyebrow, leaning back against the cold metal of the professor’s door. “Come on, Nicole, you can do better than that,” I drawl, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Vandalizing Lincoln’s car? That’s amateur hour. You got Brandon to help you. We already figured that out.”

There’s a visceral snarl twisting her lipstick-smeared mouth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she spits the words.

“Somewhat,” I reply, shrugging nonchalantly. “But I’m more interested in your confession. So, about Lincoln’s football drug test results… How did you manage that? Swapping his test for dirty piss?”

Nicole’s eyes flash, a wild, untamed fire burning within. “I swapped it with Brandon’s! He doesn’t deserve to be the star when he humiliated me and treats you like a fucking fairy princess.”

The air is thick with her rage, and it reeks of desperation. It’s almost too easy, like coaxing a confession from a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“And destroying my room was a nice touch, by the way,” I say, tutting. “I didn’t realize you only did it so you could steal my style. I would have let you borrow my clothes.” I shrug in a noncommittal sort of way, trying to get under her skin. “I guess that was to scare me off campus, but all it did was make Lincoln force me to move in with him and sleep in his bed. Every night.”

“Stop it!” Nicole shrieks, covering her ears with her hands. Her eyes look demonic. “Lincoln will love me!”

“Is that why you said he raped you? Even though he never touched you?” I say, praying she falls for the bait. I need this recorded, and she doesn’t disappoint.

“If I can’t have him, no one is going to!” She lunges then, her movements erratic and frenzied. But I’m ready for her. I sidestep, and her hands grasp at air.

“Is this what they teach in cheerleading tryouts? Because you suck at it,” I quip, even as my heart races with the thrill of confrontation.

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