Page 83 of Play Dirty
Nico doesn’t fight.
He just turns his head. Slowly.
And for a moment — I swear he looks right at me.
I step out into the light, as my chest caves in. Clenching tight the space between my breasts as if holding the pieces that shatter inside me. Zayden shouts. “What the fuck is this?”
Thiago's voice cracks, causing the tears swelling in my eyes to flow. “He didn’t do shit — get off him.” He steps towards Nico. “Don’t say shit, I’ll get dad to help.”
But Nico doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his head as they lead him towards the car. From behind the cruiser, Ezra and Wyatt step out of his car. “The fuck is going on?” Ezra shouts just as Wyatt's gaze falls on me.
I take a step back into the dark. My hand moves towards the ache in my chest, right in the middle, as I hear the way his voice breaks in the end.
“Shi?”
Zayden.
He’s staring across the lot. Straight at me.
“What did you do?” He asks, so quietly I could barely hear him. His question sounds more like a wound than anything. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. No words are strong enough to undo what I’ve done.
I just stand there as they drive away with Nico in the backseat.
Then, in the stillness, my phone buzzes in my hand and the screen lights up the space. My heart lurches in my chest, and I can feel it in my throat as warm tears slide down my cheeks.
Anonymous
If you want the truth, learn to play dirty. So close…
Chapter Thirty - Three
Shiloh
Idon’t remember the walk back to my dorm or even finding sleep without constantly seeing the look on his face as they took him away. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I turn to face June’s empty bed. I did what I promised her I'd do, so why does it feel so wrong? It’s a new day, a fresh start to the week, yet it feels like it’s suffocating me from inside a soundproof box.
The sun pushes through the curtains like it’s trying too hard to be cheerful. Normal. I hate it.
The flashing lights still haunt me, and I can’t escape Nico’s face. The way he looked at me when they cuffed him — like he knew what I'd done. Like I broke him, rather than the other way around.
My phone buzzes beside me.
I don’t want to look..You know how the saying goes? Curiosity kills the cat… every damn time.
The Pulse.
I don’t want to read it, but I do anyway.
The Pulse Blog
My stomach twists, my palms goes cold, and I let out a scream. One I’ve been holding in for far too long. Letting it all rip through me before slipping onthe mask. I slide out of bed and start getting ready for the day in a daze.
Ponytail. Uniform. No makeup.
I don’t even bother with lipgloss, which is a crime within itself. The woman reflecting in the mirror might as well be a stranger, since I can’t recognize who’s staring back at me. I grab my bag and keys and head out.
I don’t know what's worse — that I believe him or that I wanted to? That I still do, somewhere beneath all this rage and grief. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about him and how he makes me feel, like I’m more than what the world has made me into.
The trek to the art building feels like walking through a nightmare, where everyone knows what you did. I can feel the stares. Feel the judgment. Hear the whispers. I don’t know if they’re real or if I'm imagining them. Doesn’t matter; the shame feels the same. Stepping inside the studio, Ms. Medina’s class has already started.
