Since P.E. is supposed to be my final class of the day, I haven’t had to use it yet this year, opting to wait until I’m home to shower there. Now? I don’t have much of a choice, unless I’d like to develop some pretty nasty chemical burns.
Music thrums through the wall as the school band plays a rendition of “Seven Nation Army,” loud enough that I’m not sure if I’m hearing things at first. A small squeal resonates from the farthest end of the locker room, sounding an awful lot like the rusty hinges of the hallway entrance. I keep an ear out, andanother squeal cuts through the air, definitive this time as I finish up and shut off the water.
I poke my head around the corner, peering into the rest of the locker room to see it’s still empty.
Too empty.
No one is visible between the rows of lockers, and the towel rack beside the shower bay entrance is now bare, despite being freshly stocked when I arrived.
And my uniform is gone.
When I had stripped down, I set my clothes on the bench next to the towel rack, but all I find now is one of my socks lying on the floor in front of it. Even my shoes are missing.
All at once, I have the inconsolable urge to scream and cry, because it takes about half a brain cell to figure out who’s behind this.
Since it’s still doused in bleach, I hadn’t planned to put my uniform back on, but I still planned to salvage what I could. The blouse is already white, but the skirt will be ruined for good if I don’t get the chance to treat the stain. Your parents or guardian can always purchase new uniforms, but that would also mean explaining what happened to Blythe, who would most likely makemepay for its replacement. It’s recommended that you buy at least six uniforms at the start of the school year, but it was like pulling teeth to get my stepmom to purchase five. And since Winterborn Prep doesn’t like to skimp out on anything, their skirts aren’t made of the much more affordable nylon or polyester. I’d either have to flush a good two hundred dollars down the drain or pray like hell that my stepmom doesn’t notice the absent skirt during her regular inventory of my closet.
Now, without so much as a towel, I’m forced to tiptoe out of the shower as naked as the day I was born. The air in here is already cool, and the ventilation system kicking on overhead only sends a bitter draft to pierce my soaking wet frame. I headover to my assigned gym locker and dial in the combination when I hear an unmistakable click behind me.
I scramble to pull out the largest article of clothing I have stored in my locker, an oversized workout sweater, but it’s promptly ripped from my hands. Even without seeing her face, I would recognize Sienna’s diamond bracelet anywhere. She shoves me aside, and with my soaking wet skin and the trail of water I’ve left behind me, I slip and hit the floor, hard. My elbows and forearms take the worst of it, but I still catch my chin on the mosaic tile, the reverberations from my teeth sending a wave of nausea throughout my head. Still, I pry myself back up to my feet as fast as I can and scurry around the row of lockers.
I may be out of view from Sienna, but I crash to a halt at the realization that she’s not alone.
Trent stands at the end of the locker bay, his cell in hand, the camera directed at me. My sopping wet hair may be plastered across my chest, but that doesn’t stop the instinct of using one arm to shield my breasts as my other hand covers my pubic area.
For as much of a cruel bitch as Sienna may be, my odds of getting past her are infinitely better than trying with Trent, so I whirl back around, only to find Olivia there too. She pulls the rest of the clothes from my locker as Sienna holds up her own phone, no doubt recording me as well.
When Olivia sees this, something in her expression shifts, any trace of humor collapsing. She tugs on Sienna’s arm, attempting to coax her back towards the hallway entrance. “Come on. We’ve got all of her clothes. Let’s just go.”
Her eyes shift behind me, and the color drains from her face altogether just as a meaty fist grabs hold of my hair. I hadn’t heard so much as a footstep coming from the other aisle, and yet Trent’s right behind me, wrenching my head back with enough force that I’m surprised he doesn’t tear the hair clean from my scalp. I collide with his chest, and before I regain my bearings,an arm hooks around my middle as I begin screaming. The hand Trent had in my hair suddenly clamps over my mouth, reducing the sound to pitiful muffles against his palm.
I claw and thrash and kick out, but it’s not enough to deter him. If anything, it encourages the asshole. I reach behind me to slash my nails at Trent’s face, only to be whirled around and all-out thrown into the wall. The entire front of my body takes the impact, driving the air out of my lungs as Trent grabs hold of both my wrists. He forces them up over my head, and the pathetic twigs masquerading as my arms don’t stand a chance of pulling free from his grip. Trent doesn’t even need both his hands to keep me pinned.
I struggle to drag in enough of a breath to scream again, but before I can, his hand is back over my mouth as the other easily holds my wrists in place overhead.
He practically lays his entire body against my back, and like the rest of him, his muscled legs have no problem pinning my thighs down enough to restrict any decent movement.
I can’t help it. I begin to sob, feeling the bulge in his jeans rub against my ass as he lowers himself to hiss into my ear.
“Does that feel ‘micro’ to you?” His laugh is nearly breathless. “I warned you, Birdie. We don’t have enemies. We have victims.”
The harder I struggle, the harder he becomes, and he’s right. Nothing about him is small.
I can hear Olivia, her voice distant, likely near the door, pleading for them to leave, but Trent just barks at her to shut the fuck up.
And like a switch being flipped, his voice turns eerily cheerful as he asks, “Would you mind doing the honors, dear? My hands are a little full.”
Footsteps come up behind us, and Trent draws his hips back from my ass as I hear a zipper draw down and rough fabric being tugged.
His jeans.
The unmistakable sound of a foil wrapper follows, and I try for the hundredth time to scream, wrenching my jaw as far apart as I can. The effort does little good, save for amusing Sienna.
Her hot breath hits my ear as she whispers, “Still feel like Jase’s unique and beautiful snowflake?” The bitch’s laugh comes out more like a hiss.
If it were possible for my blood to turn cold, it would be arctic right about now, becausewhat the fuck?
Is that why she’sstilltormenting me? Not simply because I’m an easy target, but because ofJase?
