Page 26 of Freestyle (Boys of Frampton U #2)

Rowyn

I woke up late for class with dried cum across my lips.

I thought they were being sweeter last night after everything that had happened, but I guess they’re still the same fucked up boys that are holding a naked picture of me as leverage to do whatever they want to my body.

Anger swirls inside me, but a sick part of me knows I enjoyed whatever they did. What the hell is wrong with me?

I scramble out of the bed, wash my face, brush my teeth with my finger then I’m out the door, sprinting to my first class in Phoenix’s sweats .

Psychology is my favorite subject, that’s why I chose it as my career path.

As I sit in class, I lean forward, completely engrossed in Professor Sharp’s lecture.

The hum of the air conditioner fills the silence between their words, a steady backdrop to the discussion.

This week, we’re diving into mental illnesses, and I couldn’t be more curious.

“Antisocial Personality Disorder,” Professor Sharp begins, gesturing toward the screen displaying case studies.

Her voice is firm, but there’s an unmistakable empathy woven into her tone.

I listen intently as she describes the symptoms, ignoring right and wrong, telling lies to take advantage of others, physical aggression, hostility or violence toward others, reckless or impulsive behavior, and so on.

Every word sharpens a realization forming in my mind.

So many of these behaviors, so many patterns, align with things I noticed in Alberto.

I shift in my seat, tapping my pen against my notebook.

A classmate raises their hand, sparking a debate about genetics versus environment, about stigma and misdiagnosis.

Arguments bounce around the room, voices overlapping, each perspective making me reconsider what I know, or what I think I know about him.

My jaw tightens. I don’t want to think about him, but my mind won’t let it go.

My grip tightens on the pen until my knuckles pale .

Professor Sharp clicks to the next slide, an MRI scan of a brain labeled with cold, clinical text. Orbitofrontal dysfunction. Emotional blunting. Impaired empathy.

But none of those words capture the look Alberto had in his eyes that day. Not the kind of blankness you’d find in a chart. No, his was deliberate , aware, calculated, cruel.

I’m not sure what’s worse.

A girl two rows ahead says something about rehabilitation. “People like that can change,” she insists, voice full of hope. I want to believe her. I really do.

But I keep seeing that smirk.

The way he twisted kindness into currency. How every apology he gave was scripted, strategic. A performance. And how I fell for it, again and again, because back then, I wanted to believe in change more than I believed in myself.

Someone laughs. The discussion has shifted to pop culture now. How the media gets it wrong, how villains are glamorized.

I stay silent.

Because in the real world, the villain doesn’t wear a cape.

He wears familiarity.

I shift in my seat, glancing around the lecture hall. Students are engrossed in their notes, oblivious to my inner turmoil. The professor continues, delving into the complexities of the brain then the bell rings.

“We will continue this discussion on Wednesday. Make sure you read the assigned pages before our next meeting,” she calls from the podium as everyone shuffles from their seats to the door.

The warm air does nothing to cool the inferno building within me. Maybe I’m just being dramatic. It’s easy to hear symptoms and try to self diagnose someone, even if said symptoms appear like red neon signs.

Since this was my last class of the day, I slink across campus hoping I don’t run into Gray or Phoenix on my way to the dorms. I need some time to think. Time where two men aren’t hovering around me like I’m suddenly their property.

Waking up to cum on my face and in my panties infuriated me.

Of course they think they can take advantage when I’m asleep, but what pisses me off more is that a small part of me thinks I enjoyed it.

What kind of sick freak am I? Why don’t I fight them more?

Do I actually like feeling this used all the time?

Maybe I should be the one under the microscope.

Willowbrook Hall emerges in the distance and I hold my bag tighter and speed walk the rest of the way. Entering the building, I jog to the elevator and slump against it once the doors close. I take a deep breath but a nagging feeling continues to plague my body.

The doors slide open and I’m barreling down the hall, needing to be in my personal space more than anything. Before I reach our door, I see something pink taped just above the handle.

Slowing my pace, I reach our dorm and see my name scrawled on the piece of paper. I look both directions to see if anyone is looking, but I’m eerily alone in the hallway.

Curiosity piqued, I peel the note from the door and unfold it carefully. The pink paper feels soft against my fingertips, and I can’t help but wonder who would leave me a message like this. As I read the words, my heart races.

Rowboat,

You are a naughty girl. Playing doctor with someone else is not how the rules go.

You don't want to end up like Pinkie

I'LL FIND YOU. EVEN IN THE DARK.

-A

A as in Alberto . He’s the only one that called me Rowboat, and he knew of my obsession with those damn ponies .

Shakily, I push the note into my pocket and head into my room, the door clicking shut behind me. The familiar scent of lavender from my air freshener calms me, but the tension in my chest remains. I toss my bag onto my bed and plop down beside it, staring at the ceiling.

What did he mean by “end up like Pinkie”?

Does he mean the one I found in my pocket?

My mind races with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, that he is lurking just beyond the edges of my vision, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I try to focus on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint, but my thoughts spiral back to the note. Alberto had always been unpredictable, but this feels different. This feels dangerous.

I sit up abruptly, my heart pounding in my chest. What if he is watching me, waiting for the right moment to make his move? I glance around my room, searching for something, anything, that can protect me.

The thought of the pink pony with its eyes gouged out flashes in my mind, sending a chill down my spine. It’s a grotesque image, one that seems to embody the twisted nature of Alberto’s obsession. I can’t shake the feeling that this was a message, a warning of some sort.

I don’t call the police.

I think about it more than once. My fingers even brush the edge of my phone, lingering there like touching it might be enough to summon safety. But I don’t do it.

Because what would I even say?

That Alberto left me a note? That he used a nickname no one else would know? That I think a mutilated toy in my pocket means something?

No bruises. No forced entry. Just paper, ink, and fear curling in my stomach like smoke.

And what if they don’t believe me? Why would they? I have an juvenile record, for fuck’s sake. Stealing that car was one of the worst mistakes in my life and now when I need the police the most, I’ll just be reminded that I’m a juvie.

What if calling him out makes things worse? What if the very act of speaking his name out loud draws him closer, reminds him I’m still here, still looking over my shoulder?

I’ve seen what he’s capable of. The way he smiles when he lies, the way he makes other people think you’re the unstable one. That was always the trick, wasn’t it?

So instead I breathe in the lavender of my air freshener, trying to press myself into the present. I try to believe that the closed door means protection and not a cage.

I don’t call the police .

But I hide the note and the pony like it’s evidence, and I move through the room like he’s already here, like the walls might whisper if I listen hard enough.

I remember when I first got that pony, how it was meant to be a fun, lighthearted addition to my collection. Now, it feels like a dark omen. The juxtaposition of innocence and horror is unsettling.

What if he has more planned? What if he’s already taken things too far? The note, the pony—everything feels like pieces of a puzzle I can’t quite put together. He always said I was his and maybe he still believes that.

I glance at the door, half-expecting it to burst open at any moment. The tension in my chest tightens as I think about the possible consequences of confronting Alberto. Would he lash out? Would he come after me?

The last I heard, he was in a mental institution after what he did during my time in foster care at his parents’ house.

Nine years old…

I sit on my bed, the thin mattress sagging beneath me, and stare at the peeling wallpaper in the foster home.

It’s another dreary day, the kind that makes the walls feel even more confining.

I can hear the distant sounds of other kids playing, but I feel like I’m in a bubble, separate from everything.

That’s when I see Alberto, his dark hair damp from the rain, a grin spreading across his face as he approaches me.

“Hey, Rowboat! Come outside!” he calls, his voice bright and inviting. I can’t help but smile back. There’s something about him that draws me in, something that makes the world feel a little less heavy, even with the weird games we play. At least I finally have a friend.

As I approach him, he takes my hand and leads me outside. The air is crisp and cool, the scent of rain still fresh. I take a deep breath, letting the calm wash over me.

In front of us, a large box sits on the ground. It has colorful wrapping paper and a bow on top. Alberto picks it up and hands it to me.

“Open it,” he says, his eyes twinkling.