Unspoken(69)

“You want to fight me, little boy?” Bo taunted. He had stopped next to by Ellie, and they were both trying to fight for me, but what was the use? Put out one fire and five more would pop up. It just wasn’t worth it. “Put up. Otherwise, you’re just some blowhard who tries to compensate for his tiny dick by making girls who’ve turned him down feel small.”

I closed my eyes. The whole situation was spiraling out of control. Bo strode toward me, and this time instead of feeling protected, I felt like a target. I had no doubt that Clay would be making good on all his threats. Roger would be getting a phone call this weekend about the fact that his daughter was the campus whore. I choked down the bile climbing the back of my throat.

“Come on, Bo, he’s not worth it. No blowhard is.”

“Ah, honey, I’ll fight even dickheads for free, and frankly we both know he’s all talk and no action. I’m thinking the only time he forms a fist is to jerk it at pictures on the Internet.”

Perhaps if there hadn’t been so many people around, if the taunting wasn’t so public, Clay would have been able to leave the challenge unmet. But with all the avid eyes and ears here, there was no doubt that this would spread like wildfire across the campus; he had to accept.

“No problem, bro,” he said, faux swagger front and center. “I’ll take you right here.”

Bo took a giant step from me and held out his arms. “Come at me then, bro.” Clay launched himself at Bo, but even though they were about the same height, he didn’t have the experience fighting that Bo did.

Bo didn’t step to the side. No, he leaned forward and as Clay was bringing up his right arm to swing at Bo, Bo blocked it with his left, brought his right fist up and rocked it into Clay’s face. Bo followed up the crack to the cheek with an uppercut left under the jaw and one more right punch.

Clay’s head snapped back and he stumbled, trying to grab for something to hold him up, but the crowd, even Rebecca, stepped back. His cheek looked like it had caved in, and he fell to the floor. The music had stopped and the sound of Rebecca’s screams were about the only thing I could hear.

I took one look at the scene and ran out of the room.





Chapter Twenty-One



AM

BO FOLLOWED ME BACK TO the apartment, but I didn’t stop. He kept saying I shouldn’t run, that it made me look weak.

“I’m not weak. I don’t need to be saved from anything,” I yelled at him.

“You aren’t standing up for yourself,” he yelled back.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“What did you call me, the campus vampire? You’re the campus ghost. That’s not standing up for yourself. That’s hiding.”

“Just because I’m not in everyone’s face, punching their lights out whenever they piss me off, doesn’t mean I’m not standing up for myself.”

“You’re running away.”

“I am not!” I screamed.

“I know all about running away. I’ve been doing it for years.” Bo’s suddenly quiet tone broke through my madness and my anger. “Why don’t you just fucking transfer, AM? I’ll go with you. I hate this fucking place anyway.”

My anger gave way to frustration, and the tears I’d battled all night spilled out. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Even if I’d slept with the entire lacrosse team, I still deserve to go here without a bunch of assholes calling me names.”

“You live in an utopia. This is the real world!” We were back to screaming at each other, the tension of the night overwhelming me so much I couldn’t control my tears, my hurt. I couldn’t keep it in one minute longer.

“Running away doesn’t solve anything,” I yelled.

“You’re so wrong. It does. Sunshine, let me take you away from here.” He’d switched from shouting to cajoling, but I wasn’t having any of it.

“I don’t want to go anywhere.” I wasn’t just hurt or humiliated. I was damn angry. I was angry at myself for being so stupid in the first place, for allowing the rumors to fester. I’d been wrong to stay off campus and let the lacrosse team control my image. I was angry at the other students for not standing up for me. And I was angry at Bo for not understanding all of these things.

Bo let out a bellow and turned and smashed his fist into the plaster right by the front hall closet. The sudden shift from calm to violent action shocked me. For a moment there was no sound but our heavy breathing. He looked at me, and then his hand, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done. When he slowly pulled his hand from the wall, plaster pieces fell to the floor, creating a tiny plume of dust. White chalk or dust coated his fingers and when he uncoiled his fist more detritus fell to the ground and onto our jewelry and makeup.