Page 3 of Misconduct & Manipulation

Chapter2

HAILEY MARSH

I’ve been chasing stories since freshman year, building a portfolio so when I graduate, I have a chance of fulfilling my dream of scoring a job with the New York Times. Some might consider it a stretch and say I’m aiming too high, but my mom told me I was born to shatter glass ceilings and when she died, I promised her I wouldn’t just shatter them, I’d obliterate them.

A promise I reminded myself of often—mostly when I found myself too scared to fight tooth and nail for a story or felt discouraged by the power of rejection. With Johnny, I think it was a little bit of both, but also I was undeniably attracted to him since the day I approached him to write a piece on him, highlighting him as the star pitcher for the Stonewall Sinners. He agreed and I found myself struggling to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth. I asked a question and he’d answer, but he’d incorporate a smirk or a wink with his reply and I’d lose focus.

I’d stare at his mouth and wonder what his lips might feel like against mine.

Would they be firm and demanding or soft and pliable?

But that was just the beginning of my wandering mind. I imagined his mouth trailing every inch of my body. I pictured his lean, muscular body hovering over mine as his hands roamed, sliding over my skin like raw silk. And as shameful as it is, I went as far as dreaming of how he’d feel inside my body.

Those thoughts compromised my ability to think straight where he was concerned.

For four years I’ve tiptoed around campus, gathering as much information as I possibly could about the Scorpio Society, but every time I thought I was close to uncovering the secret society, I hit a dead end.

I’m not a stupid girl. I knew I was playing with fire and after what happened to Victoria Bianci, I contemplated cutting my loses and giving up. Promise or no promise, I knew if I continued my quest for an expose, I might wind up dead, beaten, or missing like Matthew Jennings.

Then Professor Blackthorne was found shot in the head the same night Cassie Phillips was brought into the hospital with her abdomen sliced open and the rumors around campus started to spread like wildfire.

There is no connection per say, but the journalist in me doesn’t believe that. I was paying close attention to Johnny in the days leading up to that incident and I saw him interact with Mike, Cassie, and a couple of his friends on more than one occasion. Plus, before Cassie became pregnant there was a rumor that she was having a relationship with Blackthorne. Mike Robinson claims that baby she’s carrying is his, but some believe that it could be Blackthorne’s. If that’s the case, then Cassie is carrying Johnny’s half-sibling.

All that aside, though, the real story is Blackthorne’s murder and who better to tell it then his son. It was public knowledge that Johnny didn’t have a normal relationship with his father, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be upset over his death or have a desire to bring whoever killed him to justice. Keeping that in mind, I decided I’d focus more on that and less on whether Blackthorne had any connection to the secret society.

My piece would act as a memorial to the late professor and eulogize him in a way that might bring peace to Johnny. If it led to a bigger article, one that revolved around the Society, so be it. But that was not the goal.

So with that goal in mind, I approached Johnny yesterday, asking if we could talk on the record yesterday and that’s precisely when he told me tofuck off.

Despite his crass words, I remained rooted in place. He wasn’t the same flirtatious Johnny who enticed me to spend more time with my vibrator. There was something raw and unbridled reflected in his light eyes, and though there was a little voice sounding in my ear, telling me I should leave him be. I had never seen the ever confident pitcher look so guarded and out of sorts.

I wanted to help him—I wanted to make sense of whatever was going on behind those eyes, but it was too late. To him I was just a nosy reporter looking to unravel his father’s secrets.

By the time I went to his apartment to apologize he was already getting his car, so I followed him here, hoping he’d give me a chance to apologize and make it clear that I wanted more than just an article.

It was dark so I didn’t catch sight of the bruises marring his face and it wasn’t until I stepped closer to him and got a whiff of the alcohol on his breath that I realized he was plastered, not that it would’ve changed anything.

I’d still be laying on the marble floor of the lobby in a state of shock, with Johnny’s body acting as a shield and blood pouring from the bullet hole in my shoulder.

He pushes off me, his eyes wide and frantic as they bore into mine. In all the fantasies I’ve had, none of them played out quite like this.

“I think I got shot,” I croak, keeping my eyes locked with his. I can feel the blood oozing from my shoulder, it’s cold and wet against the fire spreading down my arm.

Did I mention I have a really hard time with blood? It’s a weird thing that’s been plaguing me since I was a child. I can watch other people bleed, but the sight of my own blood sends me spiraling. When I was a kid, I’d cry until I was hyperventilating. As I got older, I’ve found ways to cope. Breathing into a brown paper bag helped, but a Xanax worked magic.

I wonder if Johnny boy has one of those bad boys on hand.

“Fuck,” he growls as he tears the zipper down on his hoodie and shrugs his arms out of it, leaving him in a t-shirt. I watch as he twists the hoodie into a ball. “This is going to hurt,” he hisses.

“Now might be a good time to share that I have hemophobia.”

If he hears me, he doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he presses his hoodie against my shoulder and an anguished cry scream slides past my lips.

“Fuck, Hailey, I’m sorry,” he says as he applies even more pressure to my wound. I want to tell him it’s okay, that I barely feel anything, but my vision starts to blur, and my eyelids suddenly become very heavy.

“Hailey!”

“I think…” The sentence dies on my tongue and my eyes drift shut.

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