Wednesday: 4:58 a.m. — 75 push-ups
For thinking about her in class when I should’ve been focused. The way she flicked her strawberry-scented hair when she walked past—on purpose—had me tightening my fists until my knuckles cracked.
Thursday: 3:05 a.m. — 105 push-ups
For breaking a vow. One I’m never ever supposed to.
Hand on my cock, tugging hard.
Thinking of her.
Again.
Every day on the way to class, Hailey Twinston tries to stick herself to me like gum on a shoe, offering blowjobs in the library, in the bathroom after lectures, sliding onto my lap at lunch.
But she’s not the problem.
The problem isher.
Gold hair like a loaded gun.
Ashlyn flipped me off in the quad while Sutton was scratching my back between classes. Eyes locked, daring me.
And then on Wednesday afternoon, she lobbed a full bottle of chocolate milk at the back of Elowyn’s head as Elowyn was leaning in to kiss my cheek. The splatter ran down her brown hair like she’d been shot.
The hellkitten laughed.
I added another twenty push-ups to the count for escaping to the restroom to jerk one off, remembering the sound.
By Friday night, I’m coiled tight for the race.
Blaire rides shotgun. Hailey crams into the back, still clinging to the fantasy that she’s one of my crew. She’s not. But fivesomes can be fun, and if she’d show an ounce of interest in the other girls, maybe she’d earn a seat closer to me.
Instead, she stays locked on me like I’m the only meal on the table.
Too sweet for the bitterness that rots in my chest.
The WRX growls into The Underpass, swallowed by a ring of Maned Marauders MC leather and chrome. My vintage Porsche is too pretty to show off for the swine. So she’s sitting inTheta’sgarage. In my exclusive presidential bay.
I thumb the Glock under my jacket, check the magazine, and rack the slide. This is enemy territory, and I’ve learned to keep my welcome loaded.
Then Moretti flashes me a sly grin—one of those warning looks that says something stupid is about to happen.
And it does.
Ashlyn slides her hand up his neck, tilts his head, and plants her mouth on him like she’s sealing a claim.
Oh,baby girl…
She’s asking for it.
Hailey slips her hand into mine as Blaire gets comfortable at my side. I stroll up to Moretti and his crew with the two women under my arms.
Moretti’s toothpick is annoying enough, the way his coated tongue rolls it around and around. But then, he spits, and it lands on my Adidas. That’s when Iknoweverything I’m about to do to him is something he deserves.
“New WRX, or the same one you had before?” he asks, and it makes me rage thinking about our last race.
“New,” I say casually, not telling him how much work I’ve had done to it. “Same BMW?”