Page 35 of Speak

Until me.

So why me?

I sip at my juice then sit back on my bed, crossing my legs. I shake my head. The library is new. Sure, it’s shaped like a circle, and has a secret entrance to the restricted section…

“…the entrance from the third floor was closed off in the seventies because three students fell down all three flights of stairs and died. Not together, obviously, but over the entire decade.”

Did they find something they weren’t supposed to?

Head spinning, I run my fingers through my hair, letting it cascade around my shoulders and gnaw at my bottom lip. John said the library was new when Axel and I attended the tour of the campus. What if he meant new-ish? Not to us but tohim? Or maybe he paid to add on to it? Fuck my head is starting to hurt.

I go back to my desk and look at the names beside the victims and look them up in the past alumni sections on the website but it only goes back a decade. Every man on the ledger was a sophomore when they committed their crimes.

I’m missing something. There has to be more to this. I lean back, silently groan and spin in my desk chair, letting my eyes stay glued to the ceiling to fight off dizziness. I’ve been at this since breakfast. I caught sight of Jonas this morning when I was leaving the dining hall and before he could come up to me, I turned and kept walking, obviously avoiding him.

I… am an asshole.

I put my hair up in a ponytail, throw on some black biker shorts, my oversized AC/DC tee, and grab my gym bag. I’ll hit the campus gym before it closes so I can hopefully sleep better tonight. Knowing the only place I’ll find answers is the exact place I’ve been avoiding – Monroe Student Library. I head to the gym, dreading having to face tomorrow. More like dreadingwhoI’m going to face tomorrow. It’s the last day of my first week here, I have Maverick’s class, and a twinge of something makes my belly flip.

His brutality… I groan inwardly, grimacing. I hate myself for how much I liked it and then craved it even after he called me tongueless and mute but then… he called me a good girl and a slut and fuck me, it feels both horrible and so fucking good. The sweet burn of him nudging the tip of his dick in my ass and shooting his load in me… fuck! I’m so confused. It feels like he’s playing with my head. I really don’t know how I feel.

And then fuck. Jonas. Ilove itwhen Jonas calls me baby and when he touches me, it feels like a sweet caress. Warm. Familiar. It feels so good. Like I could melt.

But then those naughty dreams I keep having of Damon… they leave me breathless. They feel so real. When I dream about shoving his face in my pussy, it’s like I can really feel his dark hair between my fingers, guiding him where I need him and the way he praises me afterward feels so right.

I guess weaning from my meds slowly has its side effects. I’m becoming delusional. And overtly horny. Insatiable.

“I knew your girlfriend was psycho!”

Maybe I am and looking at all the news articles isn’t fucking helping. My anxiety is at an all-time high.

Feeling the asphalt under my shoes and the slight cool of the early September air on my face grounds me as I come upon the large athletic facility.

So I don’t think of Maverick, I shake my head, thinking of the classes I have tomorrow after criminal psychology. English, Music Theory, and then with everyone leaving campus for the game and the weekend, I’ll be able to look up more information in the library tomorrow night. It’ll be nice and empty.

I need answers, but right now, I need to punch a few bags into submission. I swipe my student ID and then open one of the glass double doors and make my way in, earbuds in blasting I Prevail’s Deceivers. Passing the very full of female students yoga studio, I go straight to the turf area to stretch out my muscles, to warm them up and get limber. It’s when I’m bent over, legs spread wide, folded in half, palms holding onto the back of my ankles that I open my eyes to see a pair of strong, sweaty athletic legs in black basketball shorts. The person crouches and an upside-down Chase’s smiling face is suddenly too close to my crotch.

Ew.

He says something and I get up to pull an earbud out. “I said ‘are you coming or going?’”

I trail a finger against his sweaty, warm arm and then use the same finger to point out the difference in our skin, to show him I just got here.

“Cool. I just got off the tready. Mind if I stretch with you while I wait for my brother and Casanova?”

I move aside and make space for him even though the gym isn’t packed and he could go literally anywhere but here. I pop myearbud back in and get into a downward dog pose. He mimics me, (annoyingly gracefully) and I see his lips moving again.

Motherfucker. I pull the bud out again.

He grins that too perfect grin I know must melt panties. But now, thanks to the ledger, I don’t know him as Chase Prescott, charming Yellow Jackets Quarterback. No. To me, he’s Chase Prescott, possible murderer. I haven’t seen his or Riordan’s name on the ledger yet, but then again, I’m only in the 1960s. He could be a member of the Syndicate; he could not be. The thought alone makes me want to tense up but I keep my composure, sliding up, moving into a forward lunge, bending at the waist to touch the ground with one hand and reaching toward the ceiling with the other.

Again, he copies me, groaning. “Damn, this feels fucking good. But I was just saying,” we switch legs and get back in position facing the other way, “You seem to really like our JoJo.”

JoJo. That’s cute. I stand straight and look at Chase and send him a chaste smile before sitting on my ass and laying back. I leave one leg flat on the ground, tucking my hands under my knee, bringing it toward my chest.

“Oh, I can help with that.” Before I can stop him, Chase is straddling my thigh, holding it hostage between his, putting his hands over mine and forcing the back of my other thigh down, when I feel it. Him. Thickening above my sex.

“Fuck, Raven,” He whispers, blue eyes piercing my brown ones in a heady stare. “No wonder he’s obsessed with you. I can feel how plush your pussy is even through the fabric. I bet you’re so fucking tight… unless you got fucked by crazies during your stay at Lorne Wood? I heard mentally unstable bitches fuck the best. Is that true? What’s the saying? ‘Grippy socks, grippy box?’”

---