Page 94 of No Romeo
My palm collided with her face hard enough to leave a bright-red mark on her traitorous skin.
“You bitch!” She fisted my hair, but this wasn’t my first catfight, and I was far more Dayton than she ever would be.
I elbowed her in the gut, then grabbed the back of her head and smashed her face into the lockers. “I fucking warned you, you cunt.”
She let out a pathetic scream when I rammed her head against the locker again, leaving a bloodied dent in the metal.
Arms wrapped around my waist, picking me up. “I knew this shit would happen…” Wolf huffed, carting me away as Jessica crumpled to the floor with a bloodied nose. “You are just as psychotic as Hendrix’s ass.”
“Fuck you, Wolf.”
“No thanks.”
“Ladies! What on Earth?” Brown clapped as he came down the hall. “Of all the unladylike things…”
What was unladylike was that bitch’s spit on my cheek…
His stern gaze pinged from me to Jessica, then back. “Miss Stevens, my office. Now.”
On a sigh, I reluctantly followed Brown. If I got suspended over Jessica’s bitch ass…
***
“Suspension goes on your permanent record!” Kyle said later that evening, eyes wide and cheeks stuffed with popcorn like a hamster.
“So? I’m not going to college. What does it matter?” Definitely not as much as rearranging Jessica Master’s face. That had been a long time coming, and I regretted nothing.
My attention drifted to my phone and my other problem this evening: Wolf’s InstaPic story. Posted ten minutes ago. Jealousy ate away at me as I glared at the photo of him, Hendrix, Zepp, and Bellamy in our living room, surrounded by most of our school and half-naked women in the background. Literally. They looked like strippers.
Wolf had texted me right after I had gotten suspended and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not invited to Hendrix’s birthday party tonight. Evidently, because of my “temper.”
I could just imagine the redhead in the back of that image straddling Hendrix’s lap, grinding her tits in his face. It wouldn’t surprise me if she offered to screw him afterward. And I would have told myself to get a grip, that we’d agreed to be friends—if it weren’t for yesterday.
Friends with benefits. That was a toxic pile of shit waiting to catch fire and poison us all with its fumes. As proven by my current stalker tendencies and feral rage.
Part one of whatever trilogy Kyle and I were watching ended. “Intermission,” he said, jumping up to refill the popcorn bowl.
The microwave had just started when my phone beeped.
SATAN: I DOnrty hae E Birthdsy. Cocksucker huhuyt nem.
Why was he drunk texting me?
I couldn’t even attempt to decipher that. Except for birthday. And Cocksucker—of course, that one autocorrected. I started to text him back, but if he couldn’t type, he probably couldn’t see. So, I called him, bracing for loud music. Maybe even a girl moaning his name.
When it picked up, the music was as loud as I expected, permeated by female screams that felt like a lit match to a stick of dynamite.
“Lola Canola Samola! You called me!” And holy crap, did he slur that.
“Yeah. Because I can’t read bullshit gibberish.”
“Bicka-Bicka. Slim Shady…”
I dragged my palm down my face. “What do you want, Hendrix?”
“You used to love Eminem. Who are you, Lola Canola?” Something rustled over the line before there was a thud. “Wait. I dropped you. God, I’m so drunk…Hello?It’s Hendrix.” And yes, he sang that to the tune of Adele’s “Hello.”
I covered my laugh with my hand. “Why are you texting me? You’re supposed to be partying.” With strippers. Not that I was hung up on that or anything. The thought threatened to burn me to ash.
