Page 51 of Knot Your Romeo

She leans down, inhaling near my cheek. “You smell pretty bad, so it’s not your scent either.”

“It is,” I beg as the scissors glint in the overhead light. “Please don’t.”

But it’s too late. “He’s not your Romeo. He’s mine.” Menace coats her voice, but it’s the blades opening and closing that ring in my ears.

My hair falls away. Chunk after chunk falling to the ground around my feet. Years of growth scattering before my eyes. The girls laugh as Cerise pushes me. My hands slam on the floor as I stumble forward, only just saving my face from crashing to the floor.

I turn to sit on my ass and see my long strands covering the floor. Tears are already streaming down my face as my hands fly to my head. What’s left of my hair hangs in uneven chunks, some pieces barely reaching my chin.

“Stay away from Romeo,” Cerise calls as I get to my feet. “And start walking to school. I don’t want to see you in that car again.”

I wait until she is gone before I run blindly, tears streaming down my face, only stopping when I reach an old maintenance shed behind the athletic building. The corrugated metal walls provide blessed privacy as I sink to the floor, pulling out my phone with shaking hands.

“Lottie?” I sob when she finally answers. “Lottie…” Another hiccupped breath. “I need to get out of here.”

“Emmie? What’s wrong?”

“Can you put me on video? Please?”

When her face appears on the screen, her expression immediately crumbles. “Oh, my God. What happened to your hair?”

I’m crying too hard to explain coherently, just showing her the damage through the phone camera. We’re talking frantically when I hear voices approaching the shed.

“I have to go. I’m going home. I’ll call you from there.” I end the call and creep to the small window. Three groundskeepers walk past, their voices fading as they head toward the main building. When I’m sure they’re gone, I slip out of the shed, away from school, and start the long walk home.

I’m walking down the high street when a familiar Range Rover pulls up beside me. The window slides down and I hear, “Who did this to you?”

My eyes lock with Beck, but I can’t tell him.

I shake my head, stepping back from the car. “Nobody. I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” Beck says. “Get in the car.”

“No, thank you,” I say stiffly. “I’d rather walk.”

“Jolie,” he tries again, softer now, like he is conscious of his tone. “Please get in the car. Let me help you.”

When I don’t answer, he says calmly, “Please let me take you home.”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

“Please. Let me help you.”

I’m worn out and just need my bed. And something in his tone breaks through my defenses. I climb into the passenger seat, immediately feeling small and exposed under his concerned gaze.

Beck reaches over without asking, his fingers gentle as they touch what’s left of my hair. “Who did this to you?”

I can’t answer, too afraid of the consequences.

“My son?” he asks quietly.

“No. His girlfriend.”

Beck’s jaw tightens, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “I’m taking you back to college. We’re going to find out exactly what happened and—“

“No!” The word comes out as a sob. “Please, I can’t go back there. I’m too scared.”

Beck stares at me for a long moment, then puts the car in drive. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

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