Page 33 of Massacre Monday
Elina pins a specially crafted blue hyacinth ribbon on Amelia’s shirt, and she takes a dramatic bow for everyone, then returns to sit next to me with a bright smile on her face.
While I’m thrilled for her, I can’t help but wish things had gone differently last night. I’dtrainedfor this. And I let everyone down, including myself.
It’s allRyan Cardell’s fault.
After the meeting is over, it’s late, and I hope to get to bed early after such a long week already. Amelia and I stumble up to the sophomore floor together while she rehashes how she sneaked away from the hordes ofThetamen who eventually took the fraternity prize for first place.
When I reach my room, I half expect Gwen to be there, sleeping in her bed. But nothing has been touched. Growing more concerned, I check my phone again, but she hasn’t texted or even read my one from earlier. Despite the reluctance I feel, I march up to the top floor and find the president’s room, lift my hand, and gently knock.
Elina’s light blue eyes peek through a crack in the door when she opens it. Her shoulders drop when she sees me. With a hurried turn, she waves me in, then strolls into her anteroom and sits at a vanity to remove her makeup. “Yes?”
“Um, Gwen is missing. She hasn’t returned from Massacre Monday. Hasn’t answered my text, and I’m worried about—” My breath gets caught in my lungs.
On her dresser is a line of framed photos of her…withRyan Cardell. Like, overyearsof pictures. Ryan and Elina at a carnival, looking like they may be around twelve. Ryan and Elina at prom. Ryan in a hockey uniform while Elina’s in a school dance team outfit, her pom-pom pressed to his wide chest.
Ryan and Elina kissing.
When I turn back, my vision is blurry, blood rushing to my head until I can barely hear anything else. Elina eyes me curiously in her mirror until I ask, “Is that your boyfriend?”
Elina looks over her shoulder and sneers. “Yes. Look, I know hewon youfor the month… Just don’t get used to it. We all know where he’ll end up after the games.”
I can’t even think; my brain is so confused with warring thoughts. Especially when she shrugs and says, “I’m his appointed.”
eleven
So,my girl is messy. I think I can deal with that. It’ll be difficult when we’re living in my studio apartment or an RV, but it’s something we can argue about and then passionately make up with sex. I’ll hire a housekeeper so we can live in peace about it. But then I’d miss making her angry enough to fuck her pussy into oblivion.
My dick stretches in my jeans at the thought, and I readjust myself to give it some space as I glance over the mess she left after running off to class.
Thegreatthing about Pippi having a disaster of a room is how easy it is to put a camera in her air vent without her noticing. When I check the footage on my phone, it gives me a shot of the entrance and floor area, so then I can see exactly who comes to her door.
After installing that one, I use her desk chair to climb up to her ceiling fixture and replace the bulb with a rotating camera. It’s a great gadget that has dual purposes as a light source and a way I can keep track of her movements while she’s in herbedroom. Looking at the feed, I’d get a clear overhead view of her playing with herself in bed. Perfect.
My morning lectures are over, so I have some time to kill before hockey practice. Pippi’s class schedule lays on her desk. I snap a photo of it. On her nightstand is a container of gum. I open it, lick each one, then drop them back in so she’ll have some of my DNA in her mouth whenever she chews a piece.
Her bathroom caddy holds her vanilla and caramel scented perfume. I grab a clean shirt of hers, spray some on there, then shove it inside my hoodie to take with me. Along with another pair of fragrant panties from her laundry bag. I should probably buy her more since I already have three pairs.
I pull out my phone, place an order with an upscale lingerie store online, adding not just panties, but some other goodies for me to see her in, and have it shipped straight here.
As my final trick, I leap onto her tiny twin bed, rip off my shirt, and take a selfie while snuggled up to her pillow, with her black velvet rabbit stuffed animal tucked under an arm. Giving it a little kiss, I scroll to Pixtagram to post it to my stories, but my breath halts in my chest.
What the fuck? Did she take down our pictures? Why would she do that?
Wait. Sheblockedme? My pulse races as I try to find her account, then see it with an incognito browser. Shedeletedour pictures?
Nah…nope. This is not happening. Flames of fury rise along my back as I sit on the edge of the mattress, but my rage quickly transforms into a slick smile.
Game on, my little partner-in-crime.
Her Harley is easily distinguishable in the parking lot of theSigmahouse, and as I slip out the side door with its shitty security box, I stroll straight over to it and set to work.
In three minutes, it’s got a GPS locator under the back wheel well that’s nigh impossible to see. Perfect. It only soothes my irritation at her rejection slightly, but it’s enough.
Instead, I decide to take out my frustration on the ice.
Except, my brain won’t shut off while I’m at practice. I’m constantly thinking about her Pixtagram page and what Pippi may be doing at this very moment. My phone, my lifeline to her, feels too far away, sitting in my locker.
Distracted and focused on just hurrying through practice, so I can go home and do what I need to do to find my pink cheeks, I miss a few easy passes on the drills.
