Page 6 of Burned By Sin
He’s right, he is damn fast as he runs for me as instructed. I brace myself low as if to tackle him, but once close enough, I grab the scalpel between us and ram it into myself below the collar bone. Jerking back, his eyes widen with shock before darting past. He’s out the fire exit and enveloped into the night while I continue to play my part for the camera, sinking down against the desk beside me and holding a shaky hand up to the blood seeping into my t-shirt. It does sting like a bitch, but nothing I can’t handle.
Once I’ve given enough time for thesurprise attackto be processed, I reach across and hit the security button beneath the desk before slumping back. Now, I wait to be discovered and hope he got away in time. That his little legs carried him far enough, that he avoided being seen. Fuck, what if he’s caught and he spills everything?
Before long, I don’t have to fake the tremors raking through my body as I realize what I’ve done. More than that, what I’ve risked for akid I don’t even know. Yet I can’t bring myself to regret it. A part of the old me clicks back into place, the one from before my life went to shit. The one who was loyal to the streets.
No matter how much I try to deny it, these people are my family and the streets are my home. Joined by hardship, we must fight together to survive. Once, I would have given anything for those who needed me. That’s the Clayton I need to find again, because that fucker would never have let Harper Addams close enough to hurt him.
Chapter Four
Tapping my pen on the open textbook before me, I check my phone once again for…well I don’t even know what. I deluded myself into believing Rhys would actually turn up. I haven’t seen him since the night we spent holding each other, but I’d told him to be here.Monday morning, Peterson’s class, don’t be late.That was the instruction. So far all I’ve proved is I’m still an idiot when it comes to him.
Peterson places a test tube rack of clear liquids onto all the other tables before approaching mine with an unconcealed grimace. Even the faculty has been treating me differently, following some big review that the Clayton incident sparked. It was decided that the students have too much scope for boredom and as such, our timetables have been intensified. Friday basketball rallies are cancelled until further notice, a curfew has been put in place. Staff have been ordered to be vigilant, and far more assertive.
The review also saw all investigations against Peterson dropped, concluding that Rhys was the culprit behind my implant attack. The decision doesn’t sit right with me, especially with the way Peterson has been singling me out lately. I get my equipment last, often the shoddy pieces, and my assignments have been given shorter deadlines than everyone else. I accept it all without complaint, simply grateful that hehas started wearing a mic clip on his lab-coat pocket so I can hear him clearly, since I don’t have a partner or anyone to swap notes with anymore.
I don’t know why I feel so miserable about that. I’ve never needed to rely on anyone before. But I suppose now I’ve sampled what companionship could be and how it can end far too suddenly. Who’d have thought all those days reading in the attic wouldn’t have a patch on how lonely I could feel whilst surrounded by people.
Shaking myself, I pull the rack closer to familiarize myself with the contents. The powerful smell coming from the tube on the left tells me that’s the hydrochloric acid and the odorless tube on the right must be the hydrogen peroxide. Following the instructions provided, I head to the equipment cabinet for a beaker, small bottle of distilled water and an iron nail. The other students give me a wide berth as I round the room back to Clay’s old table.
Donning my latex gloves and plastic glasses, I begin the experiment Peterson called ‘Bleeding Iron,’ in which dissolving the outer coat of iron makes it appear as if the nail is bleeding. I’m happy for the distraction, playing around with chemicals as if I’m back at Aunt Marg’s with the science kit she bought me on our first Christmas together.
Soon enough, I’m sitting back in satisfaction, the red swirling inside the beaker. My eyes slowly drag across the room, seeing five pairs of lab partners working together and sharing inside jokes. They’re more concerned with something on their phones, a new meme no doubt. I couldn’t care less, but find joy in the fact that the gif is becoming old news. Let the world move on whilst I fade into the background. It’s like I’m seeing the room from Clay’s perspective, and it’s depressingly detached from reality.
Peeling the gloves off, I lean on the table and lower my face into my hands. I know I had no part in Clay’s departure, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty. I should have done more, tried harder to make him listen to me. And it's times like this, when I can’t distract myself byreading or even studying, I can’t deny the simple truth any longer. I miss him.
A drop of water lands on my palm, a tear escaping my eye. Dammit, I need to get a grip on myself. I try to shift my mood to one of anger at the asshole that has essentially stood me up, but even then a small voice in the back of my mind whispers ‘I really thought he would come.’
Peterson touching my shoulder makes me flinch, a sharp prod of his finger to tell me the class has ended. Once the beakers are washed and the table is wiped clean, I shoulder my backpack and head towards the quad, hoping to become another body lost to the crowd. Although, it seems I never get the reception I want. Side glances single me out, students shifting far away as if I’ve got a virus.
Ignoring them, I make a beeline for the library for a brief study session before Hargreaves’ next lecture. I’m going to have to bust my ass, squeezing every drop out of the days if I don’t want to have my head in a book over the entire Christmas break. Outside, the reactions are even worse.
Sophomores jump out of my way like I’m on fire, whilst students sitting on the lawns try to hide their faces before I see the expressions of awe or confusion. The cheerleaders lining the wall by the library turn away dramatically. All except for Klara. Her eyes are burning a hole straight through my skull and her lips are pursed like she’s chewing on a wasp.
Jumping down from the wall, she storms toward me, intent on a screaming match until an arm links with mine and drags me away. For a brief, stupid second I mistake the tattooed forearm for someone else until I notice the candy-pink skater dress floating around her thighs. Addy doesn’t care about the dip in temperature like I do, wrapped in black jeans and two underlayers beneath my leather jacket.
She drags me into the cafeteria, the grin on her face stretching at her dermal dimples. Her brown eyes are filled with mirth. Releasing me, she grabs a plastic tray and proceeds to add two paninis and coffees. Iwalk ahead, tapping my college ID on the payment terminal before she has a chance, and turn to find her already scanning the room with mirth shining in her brown eyes.
Every seat is occupied, every face turned my way. A creeping sensation slithers up my spine, one I can no longer ignore. There’s something going on, and I want no part of it. Hunting down some takeaway cups, ready to take this spontaneous lunch over to the library as planned, Addy strides into the center of the room. I follow behind, cautious like we’re entering a lion’s den. There’s not a single seat available, yet Addy’s steps don’t slow as she approaches a table of five jocks. I can’t hear the complaints, but as she shifts her shoulder to the side to reveal me standing there, they all jump up and scurry away in a rush of movement. I’m left gawping, confused, and lowering into a rather warm seat.
“Okay, start talking,” I sign, leaving my receivers in my backpack. “What the hell is going on?”Addy’s smile is huge and beaming, her eyes alight with mischief.
“You’re a genius, that’s what!”I raise a brow over my coffee mug as I take a sip. Instead of signing back, Addy pulls out her phone and shows me a public post pinned to the student newsfeed.
Harper Addams belongs to me. Anyone who disrespects, threatens, or even looks at her the wrong way, will answer to me. No fucking exceptions. RW.
My mouth drops in time with my stomach, my hand barely able to place the coffee mug down before I’ve shot out of my seat. What the actual fuck?! Backpack in hand, I abandon my brunch, marching out of the building with my boots stomping against the icy ground. Howdarehe!
Every step I take across campus feeds the anger growing inside of me. I don’tbelongto anyone. Least of all the man who begged me to reprimand him and then didn’t bother to show up. As usual, Rhys has taken the easy way out, using his reputation to do the work for him. It’s as if he’s forgotten who I am.
A winter wind whips through my hair, curling around my hands as I aggressively snap my receivers in place. I want to hear his bullshit excuse to justify me battering him with my textbook. Lost to my own grumbling, I barely register stepping out in front of a car that swerves to avoid me. The blare of a horn seeps a headache straight into my skull but I don’t flinch. My eyes are rooted on the oddly quiet house at the end of the street. There are no lights on inside, but I’m not fooled. I can sense he’s in there, a monster lying in wait of a worthy adversary.
Throwing the front door open without the courtesy of knocking, I search the bottom level, much to the surprise of some guy I’ve never seen before with a cleaning caddy in hand, before jogging up the stairs. The only door closed is the one to his bedroom. My hands shake as I push down the handle, then kick the door open with my biker boot like a true badass. Damn, I’ve always wanted to do that.
However, I was not prepared to come eye to eye with a recently showered Rhys stepping out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets sliding down his skin. Registering me in the doorway with fury seeping from my eyes, his chest falls on a sigh and he drops onto the edge of his bed. Defeated and slumped, just like he was in my room the other night.
I don’t know what I expected to find. His usual cocky self, guarded by a designer tracksuit and reassured smile. The stunt he pulled on the app is something the old Rhys would have done, leading me to believe the scene I found in my bedroom was just that. An act from the oh so wonderfully talented master of masks. Well, if this is still part of the performance, he isn’t going to fool me.
“Belong to you, really?!” I ask, dropping my bag and folding myarms. Rhys’ tattooed shoulders slump further, a finger drawing the figure of eight on his bare thigh absentmindedly.
