Page 66 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

Her smirk signifies doom. I can’t help the sinking feeling that tonight will be worse than other days. She inserts two fingers into her mouth and whistles. Zoey steps out with a blue bucket.

What is going on? I stamp the foot of my captor. The fool groans, and his grip tightens. Olivia’s smile widens at my failed attempt to escape, and her eyes darken with mischief as she grips my jaw. I spit on her face, and she gives me a backhand slap that causes my neck to snap to the side.

A stale smell assaults me when Olivia opens the bucket. Zoey’s nose wrinkles. Is that fish? She cannot put that on me. I hate fish. I am allergic to it. She knows that, yet she has a bucket of what smells like a stream of dead fishes. Olivia snaps her fingers. “Noah, get that slut on her knees.”

I squirm, try to fight, get a kick to his side or ram my elbow to his ribs, but I’m at a disadvantage. Noah’s feet slam into the back of my knees, and I collapse to the floor, too weak to move as they empty the content of the bucket over my head. I try not to think, not to breathe, not to feel as the dirty water soaks my body, seeping into my costume and places it should never be. I try. I really try to ignore the mess I am sitting in, but the smell overwhelms me, and I throw up on myself.

Olivia plugs her nose. “You stink, Tessa.” They laugh, and she whispers, “Did you get that?”

The itching starts before I have time to process what has happened. I bolt to the nearest bathroom with their laughter ringing behind me and rip the costume from my body without care for who will see my vitiligo. I wet paper towels to scrub my body and press it against my neck and chest.

It fucking itches. Everywhere. My whole body itches.

My skin reddens from all the scratching. I duck under the sink, rinsing my hair until my scalp hurts. The door opens and closes after a while. I hear a few clicks, but I am too engrossed in getting the smell off me to care about my state of undress. I am not even putting on a bra.

I hate today.

I hate Nate for throwing this party.

I hate Olivia for existing.

But most of all, I hate myself for offering Ben a hug. This is all his fault.

Thirty-Nine

Outside is quieter.No one notices the girl with the torn costume and itchy skin. Maria’s car is gone. My ride home is gone, and I am not with my phone. Emotions clash inside me, tears fight to escape, but I push them back. I don’t need to cry. I need to find a way to get home in one piece.

I start walking home. The distance seems to increase the further I walk, and my only company is the streetlights lining the walkway. The itch worsens. I shiver and sniff as the chilly air lashes at me.

Tonight was a mistake.

The powerful sound of an engine cuts through the air, and a motorbike rolls to a stop beside me. I quicken my pace, ready to break into a run. I need to get out of here before I become a statistic.

“Why are you out here looking like a ghost?”

Very funny. I force a foot in front of the other, urging my body to cooperate. I am alone on this street, and anything can happen. Anything bad. My heart jumps to my throat as the rider continues at my pace. I refuse to look at him. It’s a struggle not to scratch my back and everywhere reachable.

“Juliet.” The voice goes softer, almost concerned. “It’s me. Are you okay?”

My head rounds to his face at the mention of that name, and my brain finally registers his voice. Ben. I almost cry in relief until the itch resumes. I hate him too. He’s the reason I’m in this mess.

“Just go away, Benny.”

He doesn’t. I increase my speed, but he is on his damn bike, so he follows, riding by my side. I spell vitiligo under my breath and stop. He stops. Hands clenched at my sides, body shaking like a wet leaf, I cock my head, and with as much confidence as I can muster, I tell Ben to fuck off.

“What happened?” he asks. I seal my lips shut, and he climbs off his bike. “Juliet?”

“Go away. My name is Tessa.” I take a step back when he moves forward. Ben grunts. “Go.”

“Can you just stop? I’m trying to help.” My mouth opens to fire a torrent of insults at him, but a sob slips out, and his arms enclose me in a hug. He’s going to smell like fish. “Please, don’t cry.”

“I need help. I need new clothes,” I whisper into his chest. Ben backs away from me to pull off his shirt. I laugh and swat the shirt stretched to me. He frowns. “I don’t mean your clothes, Ben.”

Ben stares at me like I’ve grown a horn, his gaze roams my body, and I stand stiffer, straighter like it will hide the welts making criss-cross signs around my arms, back, and other open skin. In one step, he covers the gap. He grabs my hand and closes it around his shirt. “Put this on. Now.”

Maybe it’s tone of his voice. I nod. “Okay.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. He hops on his bike and nods for me to join him. “Climb on board.”

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