Page 32 of Almost Rotten

Blowing out a breath, I pull my shirt off with one hand. To give myself time to come up with a response, I crack my neck. The audible pop doesn’t grant me any relief.

“I saw you at practice this afternoon,” I remind him, choosing to dodge the question.

“Yeah, but I didn’t see you at all yesterday. Did you even sleep here last night?”

No.

Technically, I haven’t slept anywhere since Friday night.

I also can’t recall huge chunks of time on Sunday.

This weekend was the longest, darkest spell I’ve experienced in years. But it’s over now. And given my new arrangement with Sawyer, I doubt I’ll experience that low of a low ever again.

I walked around campus for miles. Found a trail through the woods with a pond. Stayed up late in the computer lab, researching. Figured out how to anonymously send blackmail porn. Then, when I suspected it had been intercepted, I pivoted and came up with a game plan.

Atty can’t know any of that, and I’m awful at lying to him.

So I ignore him, kicking off my shoes and tossing my shirt and socks into the hamper. I’ll leave my shorts on until I’m in the privacy of the bathroom.

Atty tips back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. “The guys on the team were asking about you on Saturday night. You didn’t want to go out?”

I meet my best friend’s gaze with a hard glare.

He knows I fucking hate going out.

Unless his sister’s there.

Now that the season’s started, I won’t even have a drink.

What’s the fucking point?

With a sigh, he holds his hands up. “Are you in for the night? Do you want to watch something? I feel like we haven’t hung out in ages.”

Frustration builds in my chest, but rather than take it out on my best friend, I crack my knuckles and choke it back.

It’d be a hell of a lot easier to hold a casual conversation with him if I wasn’t running on fumes and covered in cum.

“I’m pretty tired, man.”

It’s not a lie.

“I think I’m just going to shower and crash.”

The hint of a scowl flicks over his features, but he schools the expression quickly. He rises to his feet, checks that the door is locked, and flips off the overhead lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow from the desk lamps.

“I meant to ask you,” he says casually as he wanders back to his desk. “Did you see that Sawyer was sitting with her boss at the game?”

Darkness flickers in my periphery.

“What’s that all about, you think?” He tilts his head. “You said the guy was a douche to her. Do you think they just bumped into each other? It’s sort of weird…”

He continues, but I can no longer make out the words.

I’m preoccupied with picturing Mercer Eden once again.

What he did. What he fucking took from me. How he gripped her hips. How he drilled into her from behind like an animal.

I wonder how many of his fingers I could saw off with a freshly sharpened skate before the fucker passed out. Would I need a hammer or another tool to sever the digits at the top knuckle? Or could I use the toe of the skate alone to—