Page 8 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

But it works. Ben staggers backward, and a dark look crawls into his eyes as he slides to a stop.

I smirk. Coach was right.

Six

My head hurts.I’m confident I’ll see stars if I pry my eyes open, so I bury my face in the pillow. Thank God today is Sunday. Maria will be too busy trying to recover from last night’s concert, so I don’t have to face her or anyone. Mom’s voice reaches into my room from outside. I only relax when I realize she’s on a phone call. At the sound of a knock, I roll to my uninjured side.

“Sweetheart?”

“Mom.”

The door opens without a fuss, and I am grateful I didn’t lock it last night. I was too tired to think. Mom peeks inside, but I doubt she can see anything in this darkness called my room.

“Tessa?”

I put on my phone’s flashlight and wave it at the door so she can find her way to me.

“In here.” My bed dips as she lowers herself to the edge. I panic when I hear her fumbling for the bedside lamp switch. “No, not the lights.”

She giggles but doesn’t attempt to switch on the lights anymore. I use my hair to cover a side of my face as her hand finds mine hidden under the covers to give it a slight squeeze. Relieved she didn’t notice the callus on my knuckles, I hold in a wince. I used a bandage for last night’s match, but damn Ben and the mass of muscles he calls his body. My whole body freaking hurts.

“Good morning, Mom.” I push my phone to the side when she leans to kiss my forehead.

“It’s 4 pm, Sweetheart.”

No way. I got into bed how many minutes ago? I try to sit up, but a splitting headache sends me back under the comforter. Tucking my hair behind my ear, she caresses my cheek, and a throbbing pain spreads through my face. He also damaged my cheeks.

“Tessa, are you okay? You have been in bed almost all day.”

“First week of school was fucking—” I yelp when she flicks a finger over my forehead. “Mom!”

“Language.”

I roll my eyes, and she pinches my nose until I let out a small scream of protest. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard her swear over the phone or when telling Dad about a client.But okay, language.

“First week of school was a bit tough. Is it too late to switch schools?” The answer is no, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. Mom shakes her head like I expected her to, and I pout. “Where’s Dad?”

As a neurologist, he works hellish shifts, and I don’t get to see him as much as before. I miss it—our Sunday picnics and daddy-daughter bonding time. I miss having everyone at home. He loves us, I know. The pay is fantastic, I know that too, but it sucks to be the daughter of such a busy man.

Mom’s smile dims. I catch a glimpse of her glossy eyes as she plays with a lock of hair identical to mine. She also misses him. Sometimes, I wish he didn’t get his promotion. He has always been a busy man, but with the recent promotion, we would be lucky to get forty-eight hours with him.

“He’s at work. Speaking of which…” She plants a sloppy kiss on my temple, and I wrap my arms around her shoulder in a brief hug, inhaling her vanilla scent. “I have to get going now. Don’t forget to clear Hayden’s room so I can give out some of his old stuff later in the week.”

The only valuable thing Hayden has that I’ll be keeping is his old flip phone. It was the first phone our parents ever got him. Sony Ericsson Xperia X10 Mini Pro. He loved that Ericsson with his life.

“Will you be okay on your own?” Mom asks when I haven’t replied. I nod. I’ll take pictures posing with his phone and send them to him with a pouty emoji. I was not allowed to touch it back then, but oh well. “Your food is in the microwave. Call me if you need anything, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

The door shuts quietly behind her. I scramble out of my bed as fast as someone with a bruised body can. Locking the door, I rest my forehead on it and twist the key in the keyhole twice.

Light floods the room once I hit the switch. My gaze travels round my room, and I grin at the lady on the poster glued to my door. Michelle Waverly, a model-turned-undefeated MMA champion. She is holding the United States flag above her head. Mom doesn’t understand why I have her posters, but she allows it. Like Hayden, I’ll quit fighting once high school is over.

A honk sounds from outside. Mom. I saunter to the window and wave until her car disappears. Making myself comfy on the windowsill, I examine my arms. From experience, I know the tiny cuts scattered all over the back of my palms will fade in a day or two. A hoot draws my attention outside. Our next-door neighbor’s car drives to a halt. He can’t see me from my spot, but I can see him.

Something else catches my eye: a motorcycle and its rider.

His relaxed stance and a half-empty bottle of water say he has been there for a while. Dressed in camouflage that blends so well with the bark of the tree he is parked beside, it’s no wonder the neighbors haven’t bothered him. They can’t see him. I wouldn’t have if I weren’t seated here.

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