Page 1 of College-Virgin & Dark Bully Next-Door

Prologue

Sky

Two Years Ago

I almost died twice in one week.

Once from humiliation, the other from grief.

Humiliation happened four days ago.

Today, I’m grieving.

There are no tears. God, I wish there were tears. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel so heavy. My heart wouldn’t feel like it’s being crushed in my chest. I wouldn’t be wishing for the earth to swallow me up, to bury me alive.

To kill me.

From the outside, you’d never guess that these morose thoughts are in my head. Whistling softly, I gently pull the freezer door open. My eyes scan the thin boxes of frozen pizza, then coast over to the frozen beef patties I love so much. I wet my lips, already tasting the juicy burger I’ve been craving all day. The melted cheese, warm bun, pickles and onion—

Slam!

I stare at the closed door, and if anyone was looking at me right now, they’d get the first glimpse of pain. It’s odd that I can openly express an emotion for something my brother would consider trivial, yet I’m like a blank canvas over what happened yesterday afternoon.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I needed to see a therapist after the incident four days ago. I definitely should see one now.

But I won’t.

Instead, I’ll work on my mental health the ‘Sky’ way.

I open the lower section of the fridge. I roll my eyes at the salad kit I’d brought at that vegetarian place this morning. It’s not enough to soothe the pain that’s twisting my insides right now. I need real food. Comfort food.

Alas, comfort food is what got me in the position where I almost died four days ago, so I can’t succumb to temptation. Another blast of humiliation like that, and you can just go ahead and write my obituary.

Pulling out the box, I consider what that obituary might say about me. Five feet tall, two-hundred-pound, bug-obsessed freak, for sure. They’d probably mention that I’m a foodie and that if I’m not buried in a book, I’m out in the wild (my backyard), snapping photos on my DSLR camera.

The lid snaps open as I rest my butt on the stool around the kitchen island. That part where they mention your surviving family, would Dad dare include her name? He’d better not. I’d haunt him for the rest of his life if he does.

I stab a piece of lettuce with the fork as the kitchen door opens. Without even looking, I know it’s my brother, Chase. It’s not only the scent of his cologne that gave him away. The only other occupant in this two-story dwelling is about a block away, drowning his sorrows in bottles of beer.

Chase sidles up to me, his red-rimmed eyes reminding me that he has always been the sensitive sibling. He always shows what I feel. We’d always joked that he joined the empathy line twice and stole my portion. For once, I envy him. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so intense if I could just let it all out.

He peers into my bowl and shakes his head, then mutters, “Fuckers. Look what they made you do.”

“They didn’t make me do anything, Chase. It was a wake-up call. I really do need to lose the weight.”

“It should be on your terms, not as a result of—” His fingers grip the edge of the counter, anger hardening his face. “They should count themselves lucky that you begged me to let it go, but if they come near you again, I swear, I’m going to fuck them up, anyway.”

“Peter wouldn’t dare, and Ashton has already left,” I mumble around a mouthful of sliced apples and cucumbers.

“He’s smart, that piece of shit. I can’t believe he hurt you like that.” He slaps the counter. “Fuck my promise to you. If Ashton ever shows his face in this town again, I’m going to punch it. Punch it hard.”

A mental image of his ex-best friend—our neighbor—flashes across my mind, and I know Chase is the lucky one. They’re the same height, but Ash has got a fifteen-pound advantage, thereabouts.

Plus, he’s a boxer.

An amateur one, but I’ve seen him in action, back when we were all friends. He’d knock Chase out in a heartbeat. Chase knows that, too.

Which means my brother is either stupid or really angry.

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