Vicious Texts Page 2

  Okay, so no lap dance. My hands slide up my side, skirting the outline of my body until they find the edges of my top and I toy with the strings again. Clearly, he wants more of what he witnessed on stage.

  Again, his hands find mine, and he pushes them away from the string. Shocked, my hands go slack and allow it—allows my hand to land by my hip, where he puts it. Usually, they’re not permitted to touch, but that’s to prevent over-eagerness and keep us safe. I’ve never had a guy push me away not only once, but twice.

  Then the door opens and shuts as his friend likely arrives, but instead of twisting to get a glimpse of the new addition, I’m locked in a silent battle of confusion with the one in front of me.

  The guy’s bright eyes flash to mine, hardening as he speaks, “Don’t strip. You’re not my type.”

  Not his type? My skin flushes hotter, and it has nothing to do with the dance. Anger bubbles to the top and I jerk away, straightening my spine and stepping back a few inches.

  “Then why the fuck pay for this? If I’m not your type, why not choose someone else?”

  “I didn’t,” he says simply, shrugging and lifting one leg until he drapes his ankle over his opposite knee.

  “Then who did?”

  “I did, Cherry-Girl.”

  Everything comes to a screeching halt. My mind, my body, my heart, and even my fucking soul stops working, because the voice that just spoke isn’t the guy in front of me. The name he called me is one I’ve heard countless times before, and still sometimes do, buried deeply in my dreams and memories. Of the boy who uses that name while he saves me from the darkness I’m constantly locked inside.

  With my heart thumping so loud, it overtakes the music, I turn to face my past.

  TEAGAN

  Ten Years Ago

  I’m the new kid.

  Again.

  You’d think after being the new kid five different times, I’d be used to it by now.

  Used to the comments. Used to the anxiety as my new grade eight classmates all stare me down, pre-placing me into their already-existing social hierarchy. Used to the struggle of catching up to whatever subject the teacher is working through.

  But mostly, used to the rumours that’ll float around. Once classmates discover I’m not like them—that I don’t have a pretty home filled with adoring parents who love, cherish, and spoil me, or have siblings who can be my honorary best friends—they’ll start talking.

  I’m a foster kid.

  And after my last family decided they already had too many kids in their house, regardless of the income accompanying me, I was the one booted since I was the newest and they felt it fairer to the others.

  “Class, please welcome Teagan. She has recently moved to town.”

  Thirty-some eyes narrow on me. The girls scan me, noting my ripped jeans and baggy shirt, and already label me an outcast, deeming me different from them. My jeans are faded from use, not from the designer who made them so. My bright red hair isn’t because of a dye job my parents forked money over for. It’s all-natural, which somehow makes it uncool.

  In the end, it doesn’t matter. I give it a month before my current foster family tires of me, and I’ll have to start all over again.

  “There’s an empty desk at the back you can take.” My new teacher, Mrs. Novak, gestures toward the back of the room.

  “Thanks,” I mumble and haul my bag closer to me as my feet eat up much of the floor in my rush to get to my seat. Every single kid’s eyes stalk me, watching me calculatingly, waiting for me to slip-up so they can use it in their attacks later.

  I keep my eyes locked on my tattered shoes as I slide into the desk Mrs. Novak indicated. My back is so hot I’m shocked I don’t stick to the plastic chair. My hair falls in my face, and I wait for my classmates to find something better to stare at.

  Only when Mrs. Novak takes command of the class once more, commenting, “All right, everyone. Get your math books out and we’ll check how you’ve done on the homework,” do I look up.

  Homework. Which means I’ll sit here bored until they get to the new stuff and hope it’s not a subject already covered at my last school. Worse part about switching schools partway through the year is being retaught topics I’ve already learned, while missing out on the subjects I haven’t studied yet.

  I sit back, crossing my arms across my chest, and listen to the teacher drone on as I study each one of my classmates, searching for anyone with at least a shred of kindness within their judgy looks.

  Life sucks.

  When the end of the day finally comes, after hours of the same thirty people sneaking looks at me constantly, the only thing I want to do is curl up in bed and forget today happened.

  As I exit the school, a scuffle at the edge of the school’s property catches my attention. There’s two guys towering over another one. Shorter and wider than the two, he steps back, arms up in defence.

  I sigh, shoulders lowering. Bullies suck worse than first days. No matter what, I don’t ever allow myself to be bulled. People can speak negatively about me behind my back all they want, but they’ll never say anything to my damn face and make it out unscathed.

  I glance to the right, seeking out a teacher on duty, but most of them seem occupied with organizing the bus lines for the younger kids. Everyone’s so worried about young kids’ safety, leaving the older ones to fend for themselves.

  Maybe it’s dumb of me. Maybe I shouldn’t make waves on the first day. Either way, it doesn’t stop me from marching over there and pushing between the three bodies, even noting the two bullies are much larger than me and can easily squish me if they wanted to.

  “Hey!” I call, shoving my hands on one’s chest. “Back the hell off. What is wrong with you?”

  Both guys stop what they’re doing, their gazes dropping to me. One sneers, but his attention remains locked on the kid they were pushing around. “Thorne, you’re pathetic. Needing a girl to friggin’ protect you.”

  “You’re pathetic,” I counter, before the guy—this Thorne—can speak, “for picking on people. God, what is wrong with you? You realize there are bigger issues in the world than your pettiness, right?” Past the bully’s body, I catch the eye of a teacher, who’s finally turned around, noticing us. “Look, a teacher is watching. There’s nothing you can do now anyway, without getting in trouble.”

  The one I pushed away steps farther back, his fist clenching his friend’s shirtsleeve. He rolls his eyes, scanning me, his gaze stopping on my ratty shoes. “Whatever, you two are made for each other.”

  Grumbling, they run off, and once there’s a few feet of distance between us, I do too, marching in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, wait! You can’t just leave after that.”

  I spin on my heel, arms crossed and hip cocked out, as the kid I saved jogs closer to me. His blond hair hangs over his eyes, as is the style with most guys my age right now, but his kind smile shines through.

  Still, I don’t fall for it. Every foster family I’ve ever had smiles kindly in the beginning. Then it goes downhill. “Why, because you want to insult me for ‘taking care of you?’ Sorry for having a heart.” Guys are all the same—unable to handle being “saved” by a girl.

  “No, I wanted to thank you.” His hands at his sides curl, his sapphire eyes darting all around my form.

  Oh. “No worries.” I turn to leave again, shrugging off his apology. Being a decent human doesn’t mean I need a reward.

  And again, as if he’s a glutton for punishment, he speaks, “It is a big deal. Not everyone does stuff like that.”

  He’s not going to let this go apparently. I spin again until I face him and roll my eyes. “That’s the issue. Too much bad in the world, and we’re not saving each other often enough. Why were they bullying you anyway?”

  “Look at me.” His hands gesture to his body. “I mean, they’re on the track team. Fit. Popular. And, well, I’m not.”

  Like he suggests, I scan him. I suppose he’s on the thicke
r side. Some would call him fat, but I’m not some. Weight doesn’t really matter. Fat or skinny, if someone is evil, they’re evil. Everyone worries about looks, but it’s personality and having a heart mattering more.

  “Still no reason for them to make fun of you.” I shrug again, wondering when he’ll be satisfied enough with this conversation to allow me to leave.

  Not yet, apparently, since his next words are, “You’re the new girl, right?”

  Of course he knows me.

  “I’m in the other grade seven class, and well, you were mentioned,” he adds, stuffing his hands inside the pockets of his baggy jeans. “What’s your name?”

  He seems harmless enough and is, so far, the only kid to look at me like I’m worth a moment of their time.

  So, I say, “Teagan. Yours?”

  “Brent. I like your hair,” he comments, his bright eyes landing on my head. “Cherry red.”

  My fingers find the edges of my most noticeable feature. “Yeah.” Does he want me to say anything more to that?

  “It’s too bad we’re not in the same class, but tomorrow for recess…” He trails off and shuffles his feet side to side as his teeth sink into the corner of his lip. “Wanna hang out?”

  Is he trying to be friends with me? I tilt my head. It happens so infrequently in all the schools I’ve been to, I forget what friendship looks like.

  He’s—Brent—is offering me a hand. Kindness. Friendship. And though I may not be in this town for long, there’s no reason I shouldn’t take the leap and risk it. Time will tell if he remains so, or if he’ll tire of the new kid, like so many others have in the past, and ignore me.

  “Sure.”

  Little did I know on that random Tuesday, Brent would become my everything.

  My friend.

  My hero.

  My enemy.

  My saviour.

  My future.

  TEAGAN

  * * *

  “Brent,” I breathe, my mind finally alert enough to speak—though with my barely-there volume, you can hardly deem what I did as talking. “H-how… What?”

  My words are disjointed, as are my thoughts. Nothing makes sense. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. What he’s searching for—the girl he’s hoping to find—she doesn’t exist anymore. She withered away with every passing year.

  Brent’s appearance steals my breath, making the room suffocating. Because even through the red lighting and the four years that have passed since I ran away, I know it’s him.

  My Brent.

  But he doesn’t look anything like the version I left behind. The Brent I knew in high school was a chubby kid, but now, I’m not sure if there’s an ounce of fat on him. Not in his muscular arms, his shirt pulled tightly against his chest. His jawline is pure bone. His blond hair lies flat, making it easier to see the hatred spewing from his eyes—bright blue ones that hold none of the sweetness I once revered. Now it’s something else.

  Darker.

  Deeper.

  He needs to go now before he finds out Brent is around.

  The guy behind me moves, and I realize I’m boxed-in between them. My nails sink into the skin of my thighs, being my only defence mechanism against the onslaught of what the two of them can do.

  “Surprised?” Brent prowls closer, his tone chilling the air around me. Brows lift and a cocky smirk hints on the corner of his mouth.

  I open my mouth, waiting for something to come from my lips. Some form of a sentence that’ll verbalize everything flying through my disjointed mind.

  What are you doing here?

  How did you find me?

  Do you still hate me?

  Do you still love me?

  But he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. “Not as big of a shock as I had when I found out you’re still in the area, despite me previously searching for you.”

  His steps bring him no farther than an inch away, his dark eyes—normally such a bright colour—narrowing down at me. They’re cold. Winter cold, and not at all like what I remember.

  But then I recall I’ve changed too. Not for the better but changed, nonetheless. There are reasons I shut that door on my life and pretended there wasn’t once an ounce of happiness in it, and these reasons haven’t changed. He ensures it, and it’ll be safer for Brent if he continues to avoid me.

  My spine stiffens, and I lock my knees, jutting my chin and giving back every bit of hate, needing to push him back to wherever he’s come from. Hopefully, my voice remains intact long enough not to waver through my next words.

  “It was my choice to leave, Brent. Exactly like it is now. Excuse me.” I sidestep him and his friend, who is still hovering at my back.

  I manage an entire step toward the door before I’m yanked backward, a hand clamping down on my arm. In a flurry of movement, I see nothing but the blur of the red light and his snarling expression as he walks us to the far wall. I swallow, my hands flying up to his and pushing at them, but making no headway to rid the clasp on my arm.

  “B-Brent.” It’s so obvious now that this isn’t the childhood friend I abandoned. The Brent I once knew protected me, and would never lay a hand on me. “Stop.”

  “Not,” his teeth bare, “until you answer a few fucking questions.”

  I shut my eyes briefly, mentally praying this isn’t how I meet my end. I always assumed it’d be at the hands of a psychopath, and while that option is more painful and horrifying, it’s expected. Not this. Not from someone who once loved me.

  My nerves freeze beneath tingling skin. “What?”

  “Who are you to Alex Miller?”

  Everything in me comes to a halt again. What does he know? He can’t know. I won’t let him know. I’ve done so much over the past few years to save who I could, and it’s with my next words, I hope he’ll accept my response and leave. Leave and forget me and remain safe.

  I’m not the friend he left behind, and it’s with this fact, I push my ex-best friend away all over again. Self-sabotaging, perhaps, but I need this—need to know Brent will be safe from what Alex could do to him. From what Alex has threatened to do to him, time and time again.

  “Nothing,” I whisper, shaking my head. I’m nothing to Alex. Nothing and everything all rolled into one.

  His grip tightens, sparking a gasp from me. I yank at my arm but, somehow, he holds firmer.

  “Brent.” His friend’s warning tone comes from behind us.

  Please listen to him.

  He does, letting me go but not moving away. “I ask you again, Cherry-Girl, who are you to Alex Miller?”

  Cherry-Girl. The nickname came out of nowhere, sometime after he stated my hair reminded him of cherries. It stuck though, and I never minded. In truth, I loved it. It made me special. Made me belong to someone. Little did I know then, I would belong to someone, but it wouldn’t be Brent, the person I had wanted it to be.

  “No one,” I murmur, as my heart shatters all over again. “Why do you want to know?”

  His mouth opens again, but instead, it’s his friend who speaks. “Brent, our time is up. Her boss will come looking soon.”

  Brent doesn’t seem to hear him. His eyes bounce around my face, and despite the darkness in his normally-bright depths, I see something else there.

  Fear. Pain.

  It crushes me inside, but I breathe through the feeling, forcing my mask in place. He steps away, putting space between us, but still, I don’t move. I won’t until he leaves my life again.

  “I will find out, Teagan. You have information I need.”

  Need? Oh, Brent, what have you gotten yourself into? Nothing good comes from needing to know about Alex Miller.

  Hell, if time travel is a thing, I’d go back and tell myself that in high school. That instead of panting over the popular kid, I should have been running far away from the power he wields.

  “Don’t,” I offer a warning. “Don’t go down this path, Brent. Alex Miller isn’t worth your time.”

  He freezes, his steps c
oming to a quick stop. “You know something. Tell me, Teagan. Tell me what you know, so I can help you.” All the ice in his tone melts away, leaving a flicker of the guy I once knew.

  Help. He wants to help me. But he can’t. No one can…

  The door bangs, followed by a “Hey!” It’s Mason coming for me. “Time’s up in there.”

  Brent drops his gaze, scanning my body, for, I believe, the first time since entering. It’s no different than when we used to go swimming during the summer months, so many years ago. Yet, as his eyes stroke my bare skin, breasts much firmer and larger than they were last time he saw them, in a bikini, leaving much more of me visible, it feels—No. Don’t go there.

  “It’s a fucking shame, Cherry-Girl. After all this time, you’ve popped back up like a dream come true. It’s as if my hopes and prayers have finally been answered… all to discover, you’re on the wrong side.”

  He leaves then, taking his friend with him. The door opens and I see Mason peer through, noting my still-dressed appearance. Noticing I’m physically okay, he goes too, following them out.

  Key point in that is that I’m physically fine.

  Physically, yes. Emotionally, no.

  When the door shuts behind them, I drop to my knees, bowing over on the ground as I allow countless memories of the past invade my mind until I hurt. Until the pain and agony of the past swells up like a huge wave and wipes me out.

  Brent believes I’m on the wrong side.

  Alex believes I’m on his side.

  What neither of them realize is, I’m on my side.

  And my side involves surviving.

  BRENT

  * * *

  “What now?” Hawke asks as we make our way outside the strip club.

  “Now, you leave it to me.” I clap him on the back, striding toward his car parked nearby. “Thanks for helping, but I’ll take it from here.”