Page 22 of Crybaby

I’m not on the football team as I would rather cut off my own arm and beat myself to death with it, but I needed a shower before I paid Mrs. Kingston a visit. She has a limited-edition coin I saw her pick up from the jeweler when I was people watching for my next meal ticket on the weekend at the mall.

I gave her a smile, and within two minutes, she told me where she lived and when her husband would be at his weekly poker game. It’s tonight, hence me using the school showers as I’m bouncing straight after school.

The guys are talking smack to one another, which has me quickly washing the suds off my body because I can feel my brain cells dying the longer I stay here. I have zero interest in their talk of football, pussy, and getting wasted.

I can’t help but snicker when I hear Buckets talk about banging his latest conquest. With a face only a mother could love, I wouldn’t be surprised if it actually is his mother he’s speaking of because that’s the only way he could get laid.

Reaching for my towel, I wrap it around my waist and head toward the changing area so I can dry off and dress. As I turn the corner, I groan because Carson is quickly slipping into a pair of jeans.

I fucking hate this guy. Hate is probably not a strong enough word. He hasn’t worked for anything in his life, thanks to his father being a very powerful and influential man in our town. The entire Beckett family looks like they’ve been cut out of aForbesmagazine.

He’s been a pain in my ass since I can remember, always flaunting what he has because I’ve never had a cookie-cutter family, and I never will—something he likes to remind me of often. I don’t know why we don’t like one another—we just wouldn’t think twice if the other got bludgeoned to death with a snow globe.

“How’s your mom?” Carson quips when I walk past him. “Still a pathetic junkie?”

I stop in my tracks and deadpan him because if he’s trying to insult me, he better try a little harder.

“How’syourmom?” I challenge, arching a smug brow. “Still a hot piece of ass?”

Carson grits his teeth together because I know how much it pisses him off that his mom is spank bank material for every one of his friends. Just to fuck with him and his asshole father, I fucked her a few months ago.

It really was too easy.

Carson’s entourage arrives, ready to protect their leader in case he’s about to cry. They’re walking around, cocks in the wind, unlike Carson, who, come to think of it, always seems to be quite reserved when in the locker room.

However, when Coach Anderson rounds the corner, it seems Carson is reserved aroundhim.

Carson’s fists clench slightly by his sides when the coach slaps him on the back. “Good play out there, Beckett. You boys could learn a thing or two from our quarterback.”

Usually, I would have zero interest in this roughhousing, but Carson is actually squirming, and I wonder why. His fists clench tighter.

Carson notices me watching him, and his discomfort twists to rage. “Watch out, boys,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I think Rev is checking out your cocks.”

The brain-dead losers laugh and fight to gain dominance over the sound of the shower spray against the tiled walls. It’s a cesspool of testosterone, ball sweat, and arrogance, but at the core is Carson’s deflection. He wishes to redirect the attention off him, which just makes me all the more curious.

I don’t entertain him, however.

“I think you’re the only one who has penis envy around here, seeing as you’re the one who is always dressed first,” I state, never breaking eye contact with Carson. “Don’t want your clones to see their big, brave leader has a runt dick?”

Foss’s mouth falls open while Buckets stifles his chuckle behind his large hand.

I know what’s going to happen, and I welcome it because if this fucker throws the first punch, he better make sure he knocks me the fuck out because I won’t stop until I knock out every single one of his teeth.

He charges for me, shoving my back against the lockers. The meatheads holler, jumping up and down like wild monkeys in a jungle as they egg Carson on. He punches me in the mouth while I laugh hysterically. Blood trickles down my mouth and somersaults onto the floor.

“Is that the best you got, you limp dick motherfucker?” I taunt, wiping the spilled blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “No wonder Darcie laughed at you. You’re a fucking chump.”

I wanted to add that in there to add salt to the wounds and also to remind him that she will never be his.

He raises his fist again, but this time, I grip it in midair and twist it outward.

It’s on.

Shoving against his chest, he stumbles backward, which I use to my advantage as I launch at him and headbutt him. One of the guys pushes him back into the fight when Carson falters once again.

I punch him in the jaw and nose, which cracks—music to my ears.

Lifting my chin to the ceiling, I inhale deeply. I love the smell of victory.

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