No, that one there, he wants to bury me…and have fun doing it.
I press my lips together, trying to hide how much I don’t want to be here right now. Keeping my eyes forward, I focus on the door at the end of the corridor, like it’s going to somehow save me.
Mr. Narrow Eyes is behind me now, but I can still feel his gaze, like a laser beam between my shoulder blades.
I won’t turn back.
I’ll never turn back again.
“And up this way is your room,” Dean Hancock says.
I hold the door while he walks through it, then follow him up the stairwell. Our clumpy shoes echo in the isolated stairwell. I rise to my toes so I’m not quite so loud, then realize how girly it must make me look.
The dean doesn’t notice.
He’s moved on to dorm expectations, evening schedules, the dinner routine.
I take it all in without a word, following him to my room and absorbing all I can.
New faces watch me, crowding in their doorways to check out the fresh meat.
I can’t help wondering where the hockey guy is. His gaze was different. His face strong and confident. His eyes telling me…what?
That he’ll be an ally? That I can trust him?
I must be out of my mind.
I finally reach my room.
My hand is on the door; a small reprieve awaits me.
“Dinner will be in thirty minutes. We don’t tolerate tardiness at Eton, so you best be on time. Bathrooms are down this way.” He flicks his finger at me and I’m forced to let go of my door, to prolong my nightmare.
I shuffle after him.
Doors are closing now. The boys have had their peek of me and are no doubt satisfied until dinner.
A loud belch makes me grimace. I’m not sure if I hide my expression in time but a big bear strolls out of the bathroom, scratching his chest and looking pleased with himself.
“Afternoon, Mr. Blair.” Dean Hancock nods.
“Sir,” the guy mumbles and lumbers past us, scratching his ass cheek.
Bile surges up my throat. Yes, an extreme reaction to a belch and butt scratch, but those two little things seem to crash in on me from both sides, reminding me of what I’m really doing. I’ve been thrown into a cold lake with weights around my ankles, dragged into the pitch-black depths.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, rushing into the bathroom.
“See you at dinner, Mr. Lorden,” the dean clips.
Lorden. Chris Lorden. That’s not my name. And it never will be.
I rush past the urinals.
Ew. Smelly urinals where boys stand to pee.
Yellow spots stain the white porcelain, making me gag. Stumbling into the end stall, I slam it shut behind me and drop to my knees. Leaning forward, I wretch into the bowl, the smell fueling my nausea and emptying my aching stomach.
There’s not much.
Eating has been damn near impossible since the night I turned back.
How do I chew and swallow after what I’ve seen?
Closing my eyes, I lean my head against my forearm and fight the burning tears.
I want to slide to the floor and crumple into a feeble ball.
But I have to stay strong.
Can’t be late for dinner, right?
I smash my teeth together and squeeze my eyes shut.
A gunshot rings in the back of my mind. So loud. So final.
Rage surges through me again, snapping my body up.
That’s why I’m here.
That’s why I have to pull my ass off this floor and pretend I’m a boy.
I can’t show my true self until pre-trial when I walk into the courtroom and scare the shit out of the accused…bury him with my eyewitness testimony.
I wonder what his eyes will look like when he’s staring at me.
I already know. They’ll be cold and hard, warning me of my impending death. It doesn’t matter that we’re related, that he watched me grow since I was a newborn. It doesn’t matter that I used to call him Uncle.
We’re enemies now, because he killed Robbie and he has to pay for it.
This is why I have to stay hidden.
Until I step foot in the courtroom, flanked by bodyguards, I have to be Chris Lorden. The rich kid who transferred from Wesley Academy in Maine because I want to graduate with honors from the more prestigious Eton Preparatory School for Boys.
It’s a lame backstory if you ask me, but it’ll have to do.
Rybeck promises it’ll keep me safe. Alive. Unlike Robbie.
I fight a whimper and push myself up. The door creaks, followed by a shuffling of feet and then the lowering of a zipper. I press my shoulders against the wall and cover my ears when the stream of pee hits the porcelain.
As soon as he’s gone, I flush the toilet and slip out of the stall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and wondering how many days I’ll be scratching off on the wall before I get my life back.
#4:
A Turf Takeover
Trey
I dump my hockey bag at the base of my bed, my sticks rattling together. Shoving it with my foot, I push it under the metal frame and pull off my hoodie.
“So, who wants a little contraband?”
“Me.” Riley raises his hand.