Page 81 of Don't You Pucking Dare

I sink into her desk chair, surrounded by sheet music and textbooks. Signs of a normal life I'm corrupting. But I can't leave, can't wake her. Not when she looks so peaceful, so unlike the girl who spat venom at me earlier.

Hours tick by as I watch her sleep. This thing with Lola—it stopped being about initiation or ownership somewhere along the way. Now it's about the way she yields to me while keeping that spark of defiance. How she matches my darkness without breaking. Even her fucking Jack feels like rebellion rather thanbetrayal. And maybe it’s not even rebellion, maybe she just doesn’t think she’s worth staying for, so it’s better to hurt me before I hurt her.

The sun starts creeping through her window. I should leave, should let her wake up without me here like some creep. Instead, I mark my territory in the most primal way possible, making sure she'll know I was here. A reminder that she's mine, even when she pissed me off, even when she's pushing me away.

I pump my dick to that pretty face and come all over her bedding, leaving some right next to her face so that she’ll see it when she wakes.

The rink calls to me, empty and waiting. I line up pucks like soldiers, sending them flying across the ice. Each shot carries her name, her rebellion, my growing need for her. Sweat soaks through my practice jersey, but I keep going until my arms shake.

Back at the mansion, Jack's blood is gone from the carpet like it never happened. But we all know better. I let hot water pound my aching muscles, trying to wash away thoughts of Lola. It doesn't work. Nothing works.

She's gotten under my skin in ways revenge never could. And maybe that's okay. Maybe being her monster is better than being no one to her at all.

Chapter 34

Everyone has a breaking point. Mine came somewhere between my father bleeding out on a concrete floor and my mother pretending I don't exist. I chose to jump off that ledge myself, using the cruelest weapon I had—the truth about Jack.

At least with Brody, the destruction was my choice. I made myself unlovable before he could decide I wasn't worth it. Like mother, like daughter—we poison everything we touch. Now he'll stay away, and I can pretend that's what I wanted all along.

Something catches my eye as I sit up. White blobs on my sheets, still slightly damp. My stomach turns as realization hits—someone came into my room while I slept. Someone marked their territory like a fucking animal. I smell it. Yeah, that’s fucking semen.

Brody or Jack.

Please be Brody. The thought comes unbidden. Even after everything, I'd choose him over Jack's unhinged darkness. Butafter what I told him last night... my gut twists. This has Jack written all over it.

I rip the sheets off my bed, hands shaking. I need to get these washed before Kiah wakes up, before I have to explain why I'm terrified of my own bedroom.

"Breakfast?" Kiah mumbles from her bed. "Remy and Tara are meeting at the dining hall."

Normal. I can do normal. "Yeah, give me fifteen."

The dining hall buzzes with fall break morning life—students nursing hangovers with greasy eggs, complaining about midterms, planning parties. It’s a little empty, the only ones here are the ones with nowhere else to go. At least we all have that in common.

"I’m dying with all these assignments I have to catch up on," Remy complains, drowning her pancakes in syrup.

"The winter showcase is coming up," Tara adds. "You playing, Lola?"

I push eggs around my plate. Music feels distant now, like it belonged to a different version of me. But maybe that's what I need—to be that girl again. The one whose biggest worry was playing my cello and proper posture.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I'm playing."

Kiah shoots me a look but doesn't comment. She's the only one who knows how far I've fallen, how hard I'm trying to climb back up.

Normal. I can pretend to be normal. I smile, even with Jack's threat hanging over me, even with Brody's absence aching like a wound.

I just have to keep pretending until this is all behind me. Hopefully all of this is behind me now, left in the past.

The second half of fall break becomes my sanctuary. It’s been nothing but my cello and empty practice rooms, where Ican pretend the world outside doesn't exist. Every morning, I wake before Kiah, slip out while she's still sleeping, and claim the practice room in the music building. The acoustics aren't great, but the solitude is worth it.

Here, surrounded by concrete walls and fluorescent lights, I can pour everything into music. The betrayal of my mother's indifference becomes a minor key progression. The memory of my father bleeding out transforms into sharp, staccato notes that echo my racing heart. Brody's absence—and what I did to ensure it—weaves through every piece like a shadow.

My fingers are raw from practicing, but I can't stop. As long as I'm playing, I don't have to think about Jack, about whether he'll appear in another bathroom, another dark corner. The music drowns out my fear that I’ll never be loved. Each new composition feels like armor I'm building note by note.

Kiah tries to drag me out—parties, study groups, anything to make me act "normal." But normal feels like a foreign language now. I tried it for the day with Remy and Tara, but that act didn’t last very long. How do you small talk with people who've never watched their father die? Who've never been strapped to a chair by someone they're falling for? Who've never had to wonder if their mother's alive or dead in some trunk?

So, I stay in my practice rooms, letting my cello say everything I can't. By the end of the break, I have three new pieces finished. They're darker than anything I've written before—Professor Schweig will probably hate them. But they're honest in a way I can't be with anyone else.

The morning classes resume, I haul my cello across campus. The weight feels right, grounding. Students stream past in their post-break haze, complaining about assignments and sharing party stories. Their normalcy feels like it belongs to another planet.

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