Page 35 of Bittersweet Revenge
No, it’s better for Ollie if I keep my distance. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt in my fucked-up plans.
So I stay in my room and watch my fucking phone in a way I really shouldn’t be doing.
When my homework is complete, I’m still alone, so I pull out my sketchbook, my stupid hands drawing a neck and torso covered in bruises. Over and over, I draw different versions of Tiernan.
“Fuck.” I shove my book back under the bed. I can’t even readThe Countbecause I let the cocky little lord take it from me.
Maybe I should have gone with Ollie. Maybe it couldn’t have hurt. I can’t help wondering what Aislin is up to either. I’ve gotten used to her texting me every day.
I shake my head and push out of bed. That kind of thinking is dangerous. It’s not as if Aislin and I are really friends.
I don’t need her.
I don’t need anyone.
I change into a T-shirt and joggers, pissed at myself that I haven’t fucking showered so Tiernan’s cum is still on my skin. Obviously, he’s not coming over, so it’s not as if he’d know, but if I’m playing this game with him, I want him to think he’s winning.
My earbuds fall to the floor when I try to grab them off the table, so I bend over and get them, pushing them into my ears as I head out for a jog. So much of what I do has always been indoor activities—drawing, reading, lifting weights, learning everything I could about computers and programming. When I need fresh air, it’s always been running for me.
The mid-seventies air feels different from what I’m used to in Arizona. I’ve lived in a lot of places, but I spent my teenage years there. It’s dryer in Arizona, and much warmer than here.
The trail I follow leads to running paths through the woods behind campus. The leaves are all vivid oranges and reds. Fall in Massachusetts is unbelievable. It was Mom’s favorite season. She used to tell me how much she loved the leaves, which is why she and my father got married in the fall.
I turn the music up, try to focus on the guitar riffs and the sound of drums as Pearl Jam sings about being alive. I’ve always liked older music. I can’t tell you how many times my mom said I have an old soul, just like my dad did, though the latter is not something I ever got to experience myself.
Thinking about them makes me run faster, harder, farther. Makes me keep going until my chest is too tight and my legs feel like they’re going to give out.
*
Aislin isn’t inclass on Tuesday. I’ve seen her every Tuesday and Thursday during this hour since school started. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle that she’s not here, after what happened to her on Friday night. She hasn’t texted me either, which doesn’t help the confusing nerves making me feel like a ball of anxiety. What if something happened to her? Tiernan wouldn’t let that happen. He would protect her, but then, he hadn’t been the one to protect her Friday night. No. That had been me.
Nervous energy makes my leg bounce up and down through the whole class. The second it’s over and I’m outside, I pull out my cell and send her a message.
Hey…it’s Dean. Are you okay?
I roll my eyes. Obviously, it’s Dean. Would she think someone stole my phone to check on her? But it’s easier to focus on that than the fact that there’s honest worry here, which fills my chest with fire aimed at no one but myself.
Still, when my phone buzzes, I’m fumbling it to open the screen and see her reply.
I’m okay. Just haven’t been feeling well, and we have a lot going on. I’m staying with my brother. I’ll see you in class on Thursday.
The concern I felt seconds ago evaporates, and shame slithers in. Aislin isn’t my responsibility.
Like I often do after this class, I grab lunch at the café. It has nothing to do with Tiernan. I don’t even remember the last time I saw him there. But I can’t pretend I’m not curious what she meant by “we have a lot going on.” She went fromIwhen she was talking about not feeling well, towe.
I grab a sandwich and a bottle of water, then find an empty table outside, to see what else I can dig up. I went from joggingand drawing all weekend to searching for this Mike guy. He wasn’t hard to find, especially his name—Michael Jensen—and I’m good at covering my tracks online.
My sandwich’s only half eaten when I find what I’m looking for. He’s from a small town in Ohio, one of the good ole boys who plays football and was a town favorite. Apparently, though, Mikey is a fucking sicko because what almost happened with Aislin isn’t a first for him. At sixteen he raped a girl at a party. His wealthy family played hardball, bringing her past into it, that she’d been drinking and, of course, what she’d been wearing. When they were finished with her, she was labeled the town slut, moved away, and that motherfucker was set free to try to do the same thing to Aislin.
I slam my laptop closed, harder than I should, then shove it into my backpack. My next class forgotten, I head straight for Tiernan’s house.
There are a couple of cars in front when I arrive. I knock on the door, feet shuffling, what I learned fighting to break free. I wanted this Michael to hurt before, but that’s nothing to the rage making me feel like there’s a timebomb inside me that can go off at any second.
A moment later, the door is pulled open by a messy-haired Cillian.
“Get Tiernan.”
He frowns. “Fuck off, New Kid. I don’t think you realize who you’re talking to. T might deal with it because he wants to fuck you, but I won’t.”
