Page 120 of Triple Pucked
Only D’Angelo’s constant check-ins with me had kept me present at all.
Before the game, she had sent me the details of my punishment in a text, or she would publish online every photo and video that she had taken of me, along with her tell-all story.
My Knave, before u play 2nite, send me a 100 word essay with the title: When I Am a Bad Boy…
I had staredat my phone in shock.
Luckily, D’Angelo had been in the showers, while the other players had been busy getting dressed.
I’d clutched my phone to my chest, rushing into the toilets. I’d locked myself into a stall, dropping to my knees and hurling.
My eyes watered. I’d wiped my hand over my mouth.
I hung my head, staring at the screen.
What if I finally showed D’Angelo? He’d help me to expose and arrest Blythe, right?
Except, by the time that happened, she’d have revealed those photos and videos, and once they were out, I would never get them back.
Revenge porn can’t be erased from people’s memories.
Trembling, I opened my phone and began to type.
Blythe forced me to remember everything that she did to mewhen I was bad.
I typed it out and sent it to her.
She underlined in red my spelling and grammar mistakes.
There were a lot.
It doesn’t matter how carefully I check things, words blur and jumble for me. Letters appear backwards and out of order.
This is why books are my nemeses.
I gripped the phone like I could break it.
Someone would notice that I was missing any moment.
I rewrote the essay three times, reliving the punishments in my mind each time.
Then in a daze, I stepped out to face the Caps.
“Again.” D’Angelo raps on the back of my knuckles.
I take a deep breath, resting my hands on the keys. My foot jitters on the pedal, and it squeaks.
D’Angelo arches his brow at me.
I cringe. “Sorry.”
D’Angelo softly lays his hands over mine, before removing them from the keys. “Before you murder any more songstonight, along with my ears, how about you sit and listen for a while? Sometimes, we’re not in the headspace to be Mozart.” He searches out my gaze. “And that’s okay.”
I nod with difficulty.
D’Angelo adjusts his posture, resting his elegant fingers on the keys. His face relaxes.
Then he starts to play a haunting classical piece by some dead bloke.
