Fading Out (3 page)

There’s a sputter, and cold beer sprays the side of my face. Gavin bursts out with a deep boom of laughter.

Icked out, I use the hem of my hoodie to wipe away his beer spittle.

“Bro!” Gavin laughs between his words. “Burn!”

Ryder still hasn’t responded, and I glance up to catch his gaze. Hard on me. His forehead is creased, and he’s just staring. Then he shakes his head, as if he’s pulling himself out of some deep thought.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to put out that vibe.” He laces his leanly muscled arms over his chest, water bottle held out to the side. “This ride is only reserved for fun chicks. Not socially inept, stuck up bitches.”

My heart kicks my ribs. The air sticks to my lungs, my throat thick. My face blazes, and it has nothing to do with the bonfire’s proximity. I have never been called a bitch. At least, not to my face. I’ve never been around anything like this guy. So crass, so cocky. Outrage fuels my next words before I can think twice.

I step into his personal space and angle my head back uncomfortably to look into his eyes. “What ride? You mean,
The Ryde
?” I watch his features shift into realization as he connects the nickname I’ve heard around campus in only a day’s time. Vee, for one, having clued me in on his sexual status. “If it’s anything like that lame lick down you gave your own finger—by the way, not something a guy should do—I think I’ll take a pass, anyway. I prefer a guy who knows how to make me come, not clumsily lap around my vagina just waiting for his turn to ‘get off’.” I make air quotes.

Again, I have no idea where these heated words are coming from. I must be channeling every romance novel I’ve ever read, every sordid Internet tidbit—because I’m a far cry from experienced. Not a virgin, but still—I have no clue what makes a guy good at going down on a girl; couldn’t tell the difference, really.

Only as I glance back at Vee, I see her mouth agape. Her eyes bulging. Then I notice we’ve attracted the attention of some of the others around the bonfire. Oh, my God. There goes my low profile. I’m so mortified, so irked with Ryder now, I could scream. I just wanted to go to class, get good grades, get my parents off my case, and go on with my life. My very boring, but sturdy life.

The strain of the past few months must have finally caught up. I’ve been a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the right detonator to set me off. And it came in the form of one Ryder Nash.

Y
eah
,
this
girl has got a mouth on her.

I still don’t have a clue as to what her name is, but she can spew some serious venom. She’s snotty as hell, too. Whatever link there was to Alyssa has officially been severed. With the firelight dancing over her face, casting her features in alternating light and darkness, I can easily distinguish the two. The scowl marring her pretty face is helping, also.

What’s more, I’m not sure I have a comeback to the insult she just spouted off. I’m not sure I fully understood it… Was she shaming my technique? The whole time, I was checking her out, loving how—as she got more and more riled—her tiny frame reacted. Her chest bowed out, swelling her tits. Her face screwed up, pissed off as hell, but she looked so stunning. Like that inner fire could keep her going for hours…

I pull my wandering thoughts away from my cock—he doesn’t get a say in this—and focus on her snarling presence before me. People standing near are looking between us, waiting to see my reaction. A pressure builds between my shoulder blades.

I haven’t been this humiliated since high school. With a rush of adrenaline, my anger spikes. Warning lights are flashing in my mental peripheral—but I shut them down. I should walk away. Right now, I should just blow this off and leave. But I can’t. Some twisted need to finally get what’s coming to me battles an overpowering urge to defend myself.

I look her over slowly. She’s wearing a gray hoodie now, but earlier today, I remember her tight-laced clothes that stated
money
. And one of the guys on the team mentioned she drove a
Jag
. A freaking Jaguar sport’s coupe. Even for this preppy school, that screams money. A lot of it.

Maybe she’s pissed off that she didn’t get into her dream college and is taking it out on everyone here. Not just me. “You’re pretty pissy, you know that? What’s wrong, princess,” I say, dropping my head down to get closer to her. “Daddy couldn’t buy your way into Yale?”

And oh, the transformation on her face is priceless. Nailed it.

Her features drop. From superior to enraged in a nanosecond. She huffs out a long breath, and I can practically see steam rising from her head.

Then collectively, she pushes her loose curls from her shoulder and crosses her arms to match my stance. “It’s sad you have to go there in order to make a retort. But hey—” she cocks her head to the side with a half shrug “—can’t expect a titillating argument from a jock. That’s like asking the bull to swoon the cow. And again, it’s coming off just as clumsy.”

Mother fu… “The fuck?” But I’m over it. I refuse to let this little preppy girl embarrass me in front of my school. She’s not Alyssa—nowhere near, actually. And she’s not going to degrade me as if she was. “At least I’d have a better chance at getting a full handful from a cow udder, twigs.” I make a grabbing motion with my hand.

This gets a laugh from the crowd. But I only have a fraction of a second to register the hurt on her face, my stomach bottoming out with shame, before she snaps her righteous anger back into place.

Then tosses her cup of beer in my face.

The united gasp from the crowd hits me square in the gut. A memory triggers: Senior year, homecoming, my first party. My head submerged in a toilet bowl of piss and beer…the smell and taste. The squad all cackling as some of the team nearly drowned me. The pain as fists barrel into my ribs. All for trying to say “hi” to a cheerleader. To Alyssa.

Then the aftermath. No one picked on me and got away with it.

I took a backseat in high school, faded into the background, until I couldn’t hide anymore.

Maybe that’s why I suck so hard when it comes to picking up girls, I can admit it. I haven’t had to really try since my first month at Braxton. Better days, moving on. But the memory engulfs me in humiliation, and I’m moving before my mind catches up with my actions.

“That’s it, prissy pants,” I say, and swoop down, capturing the girl’s waist. She squeals as I haul her over my shoulder. Her tiny feet kick as she pounds against my back, shouting some expletive. I grunt as I adjust her, getting a firm grasp on her thigh to hold her in place.

I hike us through the brush and down to the hard-packed sand of the beach.

“Oh, my God…” she says. “You wouldn’t.”

A smile tilts my lips. “Oh, yeah. I
am
, carrot cake.”

“My name is Arian, asshat!”

Finally
, I think, as I wade into the water, going as far out as my knees. “Lovely name,” I say, then chuck her into the water.

I hang around, just to make sure she can swim. I mean, I’m not a total ass. Maybe.

When she pops up, flailing her arms and spurting water from her mouth, I rock back on my heels. “Now maybe you’ll chill out some, Buttercup.”

Her head whips around. Despite the near blackness of the beach, I can make out the surprised look on her face at my reference to one of my favorite books. I’m sure she’s seen the movie, and that’s probably where she thinks I got the name. But I don’t enlighten her. She’s made her mind up about me; I’m a dumb jock.

No need to correct her.

Without waiting to hear what vile slashing will fly from her sassy mouth next, I turn and head back to the bonfire. Who needs redemption? It’s overrated. I’ve been doing just fine all these years keeping to myself, keeping everything locked away. I was a fool for thinking she was any different than all the others.

A few more points for the jock. But really, who’s keeping score?

T
he bite
of icy ocean water stings my skin. Waves bowl over me, knocking me off balance as they roll toward the shore. As I shift my waterlogged Converse in the squish beneath my feet, trying to stay upright, I’m more in shock over what just transpired than angry.

My gaze moves to the group gathered on the beach. In the distance, I can see Ryder as he laughs with his teammates, the beautiful cheerleaders gathering close around. The rest stare and point at me. And then I see Vee. Making her way through the crowd.

I wouldn’t blame her if she bailed. Just ducked out. I can’t imagine how this will help her any with her plan to catch Gavin’s eye. Well, I think, starting to slowly wade toward the beach, I’m sure being my friend definitely won’t slip Gavin’s notice. Only, I don’t think this was the attention she was aiming for.

To my surprise, Vee doesn’t ditch me. Instead, she tromps into the water, hands waving at her sides. I half swim, half walk to meet her.

“What are you doing?” I ask her.

She sighs. I barely hear her heavy breath over the crash of waves. “That was insane,” she responds, shaking her head.

I press my lips together hard, my fury at Ryder sparking anew. “He’s a bully,” I say. “And a jerk.”

“No.” She grabs ahold of my arm and helps me toward the beach. “I meant what you said. What you
did
.” As we reach the sand, I shiver. Ignoring the glares from the partygoers, I turn and retreat.

“What do you mean?” I ask Vee. Clearly, whatever I said or did is what got me—and now
her
by association—drenched in salt water.

“I think you pretty much just made enemies for life.” She glances back to where Ryder and his football jock cronies—still sporting their face paint—start to drift back toward the bonfire. “I know this sounds dumb. Some college movie cliché shit. But he’s like Braxton royalty. Even the professors drool over him. You may have just become school legend. First day in!” She laughs.

I try to share in her amusement. Because really, compared to the crap I’ve gone through for the past half year, this minor incident doesn’t register on my life Richter scale. But my stomach roils with nausea. A side effect from my earlier purge before I left for the bonfire party, but also because I didn’t want this attention. I just wanted to coast.

Unnoticed.

Invisible.

Now, according to Vee, that won’t happen.

“I’d be prepared,” she says. We stop next to my car—the new one “Daddy” just bought me. His way of bribing me to attend Braxton, although I didn’t need the ridiculously expensive incentive. I open the door to grab whatever clothes I have tossed in the backseat.

“For what,” I say absentmindedly. I smell the tee in my hands and shrug.

“Ryder might not be all that bad, but the rest of the team?” She dips her head into my line of sight, gaining my full attention. “They’re all about that hazing shit. Even though technically they’re not a part of any fraternity…you can’t explain that to them. They’re just doing it because it’s what assholes do at college. But they’re vicious.”

She leans against my car and wraps her arms around her stomach, shielding herself from the crisp wind. I hand her an extra hoodie I found stuffed under a pile of books. “I can’t stand jocks.”

Vee shrugs into the hoodie, saying, “Yeah, well, it started just as pranks between the players. Seeing who could get the better of the other.” Her head pops through the collar, and she pushes the hood back. “Once that got old, they started in on other students. It died out some this past year, but I bet it’s safe to say since your stunt back there, they may have a new target.”

My stomach knots at the thought of having to faceoff with Ryder again. Or any of the Bobcats. “I went too far,” I say, opening my car door and sinking down into the seat. “I don’t really even understand what happened. He’s just a guy. A jock who only thinks with one appendage, sure. But I just…snapped.”

For the first time, Vee seems to drop her bubbly demeanor. She turns toward me, pulling a serious, concerned face. “You don’t have to explain anything, but I’ve been thinking… Something pretty bad must’ve happened before you came here. Maybe dealing with all that had a little to do with it?”

Still dealing
with all that, I mentally correct lamely. I can only nod. If I’d actually tried harder, sought out a therapist or group therapy locally—like my counselor at Stoney suggested for my aftercare treatment—maybe I’d be handling my disorder better. Maybe I would’ve been able to blow off Ryder without a second thought, and all this could’ve been avoided.

I shake my head. “Maybe. But this is so dumb,” I say, turning around to dig out my keys and crank the car. “They have to have better things to do than worry about me.” I’m freezing. Just wanting to blast the heat and get back to the room, where I can bury myself under a mound of blankets.

Vee takes the hint and gets into the passenger-side seat. She looks over at me. “Let’s just hope they defeat Engleton and are feeling so proud they forget about you.”

T
he news hits
during my last class of the day on Monday. Before I officially heard, I noticed the downturned faces, the hungover lethargy that wouldn’t be so prominent had the Bobcat’s won their game against their rivals.

If not for some snide comments and leering looks from members of the football team, and a handful of random people pointing and laughing, I could’ve almost forgotten the bonfire incident.

More pressing issues—according to Becca,
dire
issues—took precedence over my humiliating college life. After she told me that someone within my father’s firm had somehow inadvertently day traded a client’s retirement away, and that Wyndemere Enterprises was being forced to undergo a mandatory audit, I felt a sick drop in the pit of my stomach.

She went on to inform me of how this will affect me. That I should be supportive of my father, making an effort to attend all social events of the season, dressing the part as the dutiful daughter. The firm and all the “right people” had to see the family unit in classy, functioning order to reiterate our standing in society.

By “society,” she means money. Anyone and everyone who is somebody with money.

That tidbit on an empty stomach was enough to push me past any attempt to down my usual protein shake and mega vitamins. It meant the nauseas ache I always battle would be present regardless, so no need to upchuck. The ill-feeling emptiness lingered with me all morning.

By lunchtime, I was able to force down a measly handful of roasted peanuts and a small carton of milk. Vee assuming my nonexistent appetite was due to still being upset over Friday night. Luckily, other than the few points and giggles at the girl who got dunked in the ocean, there wasn’t much to do about it.

It was the least of my worries.

That is, until now, as I head out of East Hall toward the student parking lot.

The stench hits my senses first. As I walk slowly toward my Jag, my nostrils flare, and I scrunch up my nose. Then I see it. A creamy residue covering my car, dried and baking in the afternoon autumn sun. Condoms plastered to the paint. My car is littered with what looks like broken prophylactics and ejaculate.

For a short second, dread creeps over me, wondering if it really is… Until I recognize the sour smell of spoiled milk. It’s curdled on the hood, the plastic condoms peeling off in places. It looks like it was attacked by those disgusting monkeys at the zoo—the ones that sling their feces at you.

I walk closer, anger seizing my limbs and causing me to shake. Scribbled on the driver-side door, as if someone just ran a finger through the drying milk:
Prude
.

“Oh, A.” Vee’s voice sounds from behind me.

I spin on my heel, my face tight with strain. “Really?” A mock laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “Really?” I repeat, as if she can read my thoughts and I don’t have to voice the lunacy jumbling my brain. As if she can somehow put into context the reasoning behind this. But I already know.

“They did something similar to another girl’s car, if it makes you feel better.”

It does not. I only feel bad for her now, too. Who do these assholes think they are? I mean, it’s fracking football! Not the Olympics. They are not gods. They shouldn’t be allowed to do whatever they please and get away with it.

My anger is mounting the more I witness the sympathy in Vee’s green eyes. “Let’s take it to the carwash,” she offers. “I’m sure the paint’s not ruined.”

Screw that.

I’m storming off, my feet marching me right back toward East Hall, before I can fully register her words. I’m not all that worried about the paint—but she’s pleading with me to just let this go.

No way.

For the whole of my life, I might not have been a lot of things—

I’ve never been brave; I was mousy. I did what I was told by my family, because that’s what was expected of me. I’ve never been outspoken; I took the dishonoring from Dartmouth and my parents for my ultimate mistake. The embarrassment at having my “illness” outed. I accepted my commitment to a rehab facility with humility, regardless of the fact that I’ve never abused any substance.

—but I was always a Wyndemere. Bred and raised not to take shit from anyone.

And for the past half year, I’ve been taking a lot of shit.

Ryder Nash will be the last.

As I push through the doors, the thin thread that’s been stringing together my fragile sanity ever since I was kicked out of school
snaps
. The world cracks, and I literally hear the
pop
in my head as I make my way toward the group of jocks.