Page 27 of Boys Who Taint

He grins and holds up his hand. “Good shot. Left a nice mark, though.” He winks. “Wanna train together?”

I roll my eyes. “Again?”

“Best way to let off some steam,” he muses.

I grumble to myself.

He throws his arm over my shoulder. “You’re gonna need all the strength to beat the fuckers who’ll inevitably come for you any day now.”

I stop in my tracks and stare at him, but the dead-serious look on his face tells me enough. He’s thinking the same thing.

“You know that family will never settle until they have their revenge on the infamous Levi Torres.” He pushes the ball into my hands. “So what better way to prepare than with the best trainer you could ever find?” He slaps me on the back and turns around. “Let’s get to work.”

Aspen

Hours later

In class,I can’t even focus on the words the teacher says.

All I can think of is Levi fucking Torres, sitting there in front of class, hiding in that black hoodie with that aloof posture and legs spread like he owns the place.

He hasn’t said a word since we last spoke, hasn’t even looked at me. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he’s even gotten anywhere in my vicinity.

It’s as if I’ve suddenly ceased to exist.

We used to be friends, and he burned it all to the ground just like that.

I flip the pencil in my hand back and forth as though it’s my last lifeline to a sane mind.

Should I just chuck it at his neck?

Make him bleed the way he made her bleed?

But you saw how shocked he was when she died.

I pause as the memory of her splattered all over the rocks passes through my mind again, and that boy who kept backing up from the scene of the crime.

That boy's face was riddled with disbelief until the darkness took over.

It doesn’t matter. She’s dead because of him.

My nostrils flare as I flip my pencil back and forth again to try to keep my cool while the teacher rambles on and on about stuff I don’t care about.

He told you who he was. He said it out loud. He’s a killer.

Suddenly, Levi turns around in his seat, staring right back at me with those deep brown eyes, and it catches me off guard so much I abruptly stop flipping the pencil and drop it.

I swiftly duck to grab it, but I can’t help but stare at him, wondering if he saw.

If he noticed the slow, simmering hatred.

The unraveling of me.

I swallow away the lump in my throat as I come back up and tuck the pencil into my pocket.

He’s no longer looking at me, and for some reason, I’m relieved.

Every time those eyes connect with mine, I freeze over entirely, and I’m not sure whether it’s because my mind knows he’s a murderer, or if it’s because my heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet that we’re supposed to hate him now.

---