Chapter 1
@QweenPandora: Me again, lovelies! Still no word from NewGirl, but my sources say she was last spotted riding off into the sunset, following yesterday’s fiasco. Rumor has it, her knight in shining armor was none other than the mysterious cutie who has us all contemplating a move to the south side, SeXyBeAsT.
Maybe NewGirl has plans to test out a theory. The one about getting under someone new to get over someone from the past. Or, ya know, someone who released a sex tape where you’re the star.
What? Too soon?
Well, let’s take a moment to mourn the death of the KingMidas/NewGirl union. No way they’ll survive this. Not only did we all witness NewGirl getting the boot only moments after giving up the goods, but having your naughty bits plastered all over the web isn’t great for building a solid foundation.
Then again, I’m no relationship expert. I suppose only time will tell what’ll happen when all is said and done.
Later, Peeps.
—P
BLUE
It’s never-ending.
The insults. The hate they eagerly plaster wherever they can, for all to see.
And out of everything that’s gone on, the worst part is that they’re not just coming for me. A pack of venomous teens from South Cypress High—girls and guys—have made a target out of Scar, too.
I haven’t even had the courage to call her myself. Instead, I settle for check-ins with Jules every few hours, making sure Scar’s holding up okay. Every time, the report is the same: that she’s perfectly fine and is more worried about me than anything.
I bury my face in the pillow when my eyes need a break from the phone screen. Shame—my closest companion—curls up beside me, never letting me forget that it will always be there, no matter what I do.
The thoughts that must have gone through Scar’s head when she saw the video. After walking in on her with Shane, I made it so clear that we had to be careful who we let get that close to us. Turns out I should’ve taken my own damn advice.
I’m such an idiot.
Now, I’ve officially been labeled Cypress Prep’s whore. No, I’m not West’s first conquest, but I’m the first who let it get filmed and then leaked for the world to see. I’m also the first to, publicly, get kicked to the curb right after.
Pride is a funny thing, because I think that’s the part of me that hurts the worst. It’s not so much that the video is out there, but that West and I are clearly not facing this as a united front.
I’m alone.
My eyes drift back to the screen, and I’m not surprised by the list of new comments that have flooded in, a myriad of nasty names and taunts. None of which are aimed at West. Just me.
“You gonna put that shit down yet? You’ll drive yourself crazy, B.”
An exasperated huff when the other bed creaks behind me is proof of Ricky’s frustration, but I don’t turn to see his stern glare. Still, I feel it. It’s the same one he’s been giving me the past two hours as I pour through the shitstorm on social media.
Am I aware of how unhealthy it is? Sure, but I can’t turn away. It’s not every day a person gets to observe what the world thinks of them in real time. Not every day someone gets to read the unfiltered thoughts and opinions of their peers as they spill out onto their platform of choice.
The consensus is in, and it’s crystal clear. They think I’m a slut and an idiot for letting this happen to me. Apparently, sleeping with a guy who then kicks you out within seconds of it being over doesn’t do a whole lot for a girl’s reputation. Humiliated doesn’t even begin to touch what I’m feeling. There’s so much more than that.
Hurt.
Furious.
Disgusted with myself.
What got me through the night was fantasizing about the many ways I could kill West Golden. I settled on genital mutilation, bringing the torture session to a close with him bleeding out alone in a dark room, regretting that he ever crossed me.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jules. I read the message that pops up before swiping it out of sight. She wants me to call, but I can’t. Not yet.
For some reason, the only person I can stomach even looking at me right now is Ricky. He’s never one to judge, which reminds me of how I haven’t always afforded him that same luxury over the past few months. He showed up without a single question and had been holed up in this seedy motel room with me for a little more than twenty-four hours.
Not sure what I would’ve done without him.
‘What West did sucks, but you don’t have to hide from me,’ is Jules’ next text. ‘Remember that time I made out with that guy at Marie’s party? Only to find out he’s kind of my cousin? If I survived that, you’ll get through this, BJ. Trust me.”
I hate that she’s managed to make me smile. It feels undeserved, like all I should be doing right now is beating myself up for being so, so stupid. I’d been perfectly fine wallowing in self-pity before this.
‘Soon’, I promise her. ‘I just need a minute to clear my head.’
‘Fair enough, but call me as soon as you feel up to it.’
‘Of course.’
Ricky’s bed creaks again and I lower my phone, turning to face him. Both his arms are folded behind his head while he stares at the ceiling. The way he’s working his jaw makes it even clearer he’s not himself. Hasn’t been since he showed up. He stepped in to save me from the whispers, the pointing, the laughter at my expense, but it isn’t lost on me that seeing the video affects him differently than others.
Once upon a time, I was his. Which is why I know him to be a fierce protector. Like, the kind who once broke a guy’s nose for groping me at a party when he thought Ricky wasn’t paying attention. His temper is like nothing I’ve seen before, which is why I’m willing to bet he saw red the entire drive out to this place. Some of that may have been fueled by ego—the sting of seeing me with someone else—but it’s more than that. He cares, and he also knows I’m hurt.
Bad this time.
His phone chimes and he glares at the screen through the darkness. It’s gone off about fifty times tonight and I don’t have to guess who’s hawking him.
“Sorry I dragged you out here. I know Paul’s probably pissed you left,” I say quietly.
I see his silhouette, outlined in pale, fluorescent light filtering in from the bulb over the walkway outside our room’s window.
“It’s fine. I just left some things undone, now he’s all up my ass about it. Things have been … busy.”
Busy.
I know what that means, and it makes my heart skip a beat. It means he’s been out on the streets more, doing his uncle’s bidding, putting himself in danger. I knew as much when he took off his shirt before going into the bathroom to shower last night. Not only was there a gun visible, tucked into the back of his jeans, but there was also a new-to-me tattoo on his back. With its bold colors and pristine artwork, I found the depiction of a skull clutching a bloody rose in its teeth both beautiful and tragic. Above the image, words I’d seen and heard before.