Page 27 of F*ckboys

I straighten up, pushing the swirling thoughts aside as I step back into the chaos of the hallway. A wolf in sheep's clothing, hiding my true nature behind a mask of arrogance and bravado. No one knows the truth—not even Fallon—and that's the way it has to be.

For now.

--Junior Year--

The bell rings in my ears, drowning out the conversations that fill the halls of Palm Falls High School. My gaze drifts down the hallway, drawn to the vivid red hair that still stands out like a beacon among the sea of students. Fallon Dempsey.

"Hey, Aksel!" I hear someone call out, but my attention remains locked on her as she confidently navigates the crowded space. She's always moving with purpose, head held high, seemingly oblivious to the whispers and stares that follow her every step.

"Fallon," I breathe the name, tasting it on my tongue like a forbidden fruit. I watch her laugh at something her friend has said, and I can't help but feel the magnetic pull between us. It's a dance of distance and proximity that neither of us seems willing to break.

"Fuck," I curse softly, tearing my eyes away from her as I make my way to my next class. I can't let her get under my skin, not when there's so much at stake. But it's not just her presence that haunts me, it's the unspoken emotions that linger in the air whenever our eyes meet.

"Get it together, Aksel," I warn myself as I take my seat in the classroom, focusing on anything but the burning desire to seek out Fallon's fiery gaze once more. "You can't let her win."

"Hey, King!" a voice calls from behind me, and I turn to see Fallon standing in the doorway, her green eyes locked on mine like a predator sizing up its prey. My heart hammers in my chest, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

"Fallon," I say coolly, offering her the same sly grin I've perfected over the years. It's a disguise, one that hides the storm raging beneath the surface.

"Looks like we're lab partners today," she says, stalking towards me with a confidence that sends shivers down my spine. Her proximity is intoxicating, but I mustn't let her get too close. "Try to keep up, King."

"Never had an issue before," I retort, allowing her challenge to fuel my own determination. This game between us is dangerous, a dance along the edge of a knife that could easily cut both ways. But I won't back down, not when revenge, justice, loyalty, and love are all tangled together in this twisted web we've woven.

"Let's see if you can handle the heat," she taunts, her eyes glistening with excitement. And as we begin our work, I can't help but wonder if either of us will ever truly escape the gravitational pull that binds us together, or if we'll simply burn in the flames we've ignited.

"Bring it, Dempsey," I reply, knowing full well that this battle of wills is far from over, and the stakes have never been higher.

I lean against the cool metal of my locker, trying to appear nonchalant as I watch Fallon breeze down the hallway. She's laughing with a group of her friends, her red hair catching the light and drawing eyes like moths to a flame. She's becoming more stunning with every passing semester. It takes everything in me not to stare openly, but I've become an expert at playing this game.

"Hey, King," a familiar voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see my best friend, Jace, approaching with a smirk. "You daydreaming about your next conquest?" He nods towards Fallon, and my jaw tightens involuntarily. "That fiery freak show?"

"Hardly," I snap, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. "She's not my type."

"Right," Jace says, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. But he knows better than to press me further, and we fall into conversation about the upcoming football game instead.

As the morning passes, my mind keeps returning to Fallon. Her presence is like a magnetic force, impossible to ignore. And while I try to convince myself it's just competitive rivalry, the truth is far more dangerous.

The lunch bell rings, flooding the hallways with students eager to escape their classrooms. I find myself standing outside the cafeteria, scanning the crowd for that flash of red that has become both my torment and my obsession.

"Hey, Aksel," Fallon's voice sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I curse myself for being so easily affected. She saunters up to me, her green eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ready to admit defeat in that bet of ours?"

"Never," I retort, desperately clinging to the façade I've built. "Just you wait, Dempsey."

"Keep dreaming, King," she smirks and walks away, leaving me feeling like I'm drowning in an ocean of my own desire and frustration.

Every time I see her talking to another guy a jealous rage swirls within me and I plot and plan against her, sure she's making conversation with them just to taunt me. I vow to hurt her in the same way but worse, in a way that will humiliate her. By doing so, I hope that my feelings for her will go away and she will stop occupying every corner of my mind.

Over the next few weeks, our rivalry escalates. I find myself going out of my way to one-up Fallon on every front—academically, athletically, socially. Each victory feels hollow, tainted by the knowledge that I'm fighting against the very thing I crave more than anything.

It's when I see her out at the town's diner with a male classmate that I snap. They're huddled together, laughing, and he feeds her a bite of his ice cream. She giggles and touches his arm. Gross.

Every time she wears a new outfit or hairstyle I find a way to make a subtle critique. "Oh, those are interesting bangs," and "What a unique color choice you've made today." I see the way my little barbs erode her self-confidence. On several occasions, she's changed her hair and clothing soon after I've made these remarks, and each time she does, a little victory band plays in my mind.

I see the way she reacts when I beat her at anything, her fiery hair a symbol of the simmering rage about to boil over at any moment. When the student election comes, I devise my magnum opus of pranks, drawing her in close and encouraging her to run for class president. She's reluctant at first, but I convince her she's the only real contender.

"Fallon, trust me, you'd make a great class president," I say, my voice smooth and encouraging.

"Are you sure?" she asks, uncertainty lacing her words. "I don't know if I can handle all the pressure."

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