Page 75 of Crush
Shapeshifting God, my ass. He wishes that were his reality instead of a fantasy he panders to young girls across the world. If they only knew what a gaping asshole he truly is.
“Yo, you got a sec?”
The very guy I’m fantasizing about decapitating joins me at the sink, talking to my reflection in the mirror rather than meeting my actual eye. I feel better just looking at the angry purple, yellow, and red bruising on one side of his face and half-closing one eye. Like a masterpiece I wasn’t even trying to paint. “Depends. Do you need your arms to continue making movies?”
Zeke laughs until it gets caught in his throat. He clears it uncomfortably. “Look, I’m coming up to you for a truce here. This is an important meet. Both our heads need to be in the game, and what’s the point of wasting brain cells on a used pussy, am I right?”
“What did you just say?”
Zeke’s eyes dart around, probably searching for backup where there is none. I suspect my tone of voice has shrunk his balls. It’s certainly silenced the room.
He licks his lips. “Ember, right? She’s just a chick that we use, abuse, and discard. Why let her get in the way of us?”
I breathe through my nose, looking down at him, emitting every ounce of disdain I have for this dude through my stare alone.
“She’s—she wasn’t even that good.” Zeke attempts another grating chuckle. “Just laid there like a dead fish. Smelled like one, too. She’s nothing to look forward to, bruv. I figure I did you a favor by testing her out before you wasted your efforts—”
I don’t punch him this time. That’s been there and done. I decide to swipe my foot out and land him flat on his back instead. And oh yeah, my monster revels in the decision to let it loose. I press my bare foot on Zeke’s neck.
“Guh—gah!” Zeke’s hands wrap around my ankle, his eyes popping out of his head.
“First off,” I say calmly, “the girl smells divine. Second, she is mine alone to call damaged goods.” I sweep my gaze across the locker room, where the rest of my team stands and watches. “Have I not made that clear?”
“Crystal, my liege!” Jaxon calls out. I scowl in his direction.
“And have I not insisted on punishing those who speak against me?” I continue.
“Yuppers.” Jaxon again. I will shoot him at some point.
Zeke blubbers beneath my foot. I think I’m even seeing tears.
“I thought what I did to you at my party you weren’t invited to was enough. Apparently, it was not.” I bend to his level, keeping my foot on his thorax. “Mention Ember again, and I will disfigure you to the point that you will never work in off-Broadway. You can sure as hell kiss your Hollywood status goodbye. You annoy me, Zeke. To the point that I don’t want to waste time working you over again. I’m well aware of the rumors you’ve spread, that Ember’s begging to have you back and stalking your house, pleading and crying for your dick in her mouth.” I tuck my chin in my hand, resting my elbow on the same leg that holds him down. Zeke sputters at the additional weight. “I’ll be quick to start the damage control that the only cock she wants is mine. Be honest.” I whisper, “This isn’t how you imagined me choking you, is it?”
“Wh—whatever Ember told you—lies. It’s a lie. I don’t fucking want you—”
I step off his neck. Zeke rolls to his side, hacking and slamming his hand against the floor, tapping out.
“Too bad,” I say to his heaving form. “Guess you’ll just have to keep me in your fantasies.”
“Bastard!” he rasps. “She’s as rank as you are. You both deserve what’s coming.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what would that be?”
“Boys!” Coach Abernathy claps for attention as he steps into the locker room. “Gather round. Your captain has something to say.”
Christ. That’s me. I leave Zeke to struggle to a stand and head over to my cluster of teammates, ready to make the rah-rah speech Albright always likes me to spout off before the start of any meet.
Motivational shit leaves my throat without having to think about it. A good thing because the only tangible thing on my mind is Ember and what the fuck kind of deal she made with Zeke.
* * *
The meet is at home this week. Winthorpe’s rec center is crowded to the point of stifling as we exit the lockers and hit the pool deck.
Students, parents, and hangers-on pack the bleachers on one side, the balcony overhang including even more. I note the few Society members, sticking out with their grim lips and hard stares as we take the bench on the other side of the pool. The older ones like to come and ensure the boys and girls they’ve handpicked are maintaining champion status and decorum. My father is one of them, his stern expression more skull-like than the rest as he overlords from his position at the front of the mezzanine, his gaze boring into the top of my head through the glass barrier.
No need to mouth the words, Daddy. I see the college scouts, too.
He could buy my slot at an Ivy League, but that isn’t how the Briars achieve and prove their greatness. If I don’t win a scholarship into the Ivies, there will be hell to pay.