What doesn’t kill you…

Chapter 1

The classroom reeked like hell—sweat and cheap-ass deodorant baked into April heat. No AC, windows cracked a couple inches like that was supposed to matter. Girls fanning themselves, boys sticking to plastic chairs. Everyone was wilting.

Except Ashlyn. Of course. Front row, all posture and poise, sundress perfect, hair not even frizzing. Barbie couldn’t melt if you shoved her in a furnace.

I didn’t need to hear Noah and Tanner whispering. I saw it. The way Tanner leaned in, the way Noah’s eyes kept sliding from Ashlyn to me and back, like he was trying to decide if he’d traded down or just woken up. Boys never shut up about girls, and they never realize how easy it is to read their faces.

I stretched in my seat, one knee propped high, flip-flop dangling from my toes, red tank top clinging for mercy. Shorts cut so short they might’ve been a dare. My hair wild, unbrushed. I liked the way it made me look—dangerous, like I didn’t need rules.

Then I turned. Slow. Let my smirk curl on just enough to sting.

Watched Noah lock up. Watched Tanner’s eyes widen, then dart away like he’d been caught stealing. Didn’t matter what they’d been saying—I knew it was about me. It always was when the room went still like that.

So I gave them a show. Leaned halfway out of my chair, arched my back, reached for my bag, let those cutoffs ride high enough to burn into their brains. Heard Tanner’s breath catch. Saw Noah shift, trying to play it cool.

Straightened up slow, let my chest bounce against the thin red cotton. No bra, obviously. My cleavage sat heavy, right there for the taking.

And then I looked right at Noah, made sure they knew who I was interested in. Tilted my head, studied him until he squirmed. Then I slid my tongue out, slow, lazy, and let it rest on my lip.

Didn’t need to hear a damn word. I knew what was running through their heads. I could see it plain as day.

And when I glanced back one more time, I gave them the smile. That slow, smug, knowing smirk that said: Yeah. You’re already mine.

*=*=*=*=*=*

The bell rang.

The cheap plastic seat peeled off the back of my thighs when I stood, slow and lazy, stretching just enough to keep the right eyes glued to me. I didn’t need to check. I knew. Noah Whitmore wanted me. Tanner wanted me. Half this pit of sweaty, over-polished teenage desperation wanted me.

They pretended otherwise. Called girls from Stackhouse trash, dirty napkins, whatever. But I saw the way they looked. Heard the little dips in their voices when I passed. Not hard to tell when somebody’s jeans just got tighter.

Noah, though—he wasn’t like the rest. Big. Clean. Poster-boy handsome. Quarterback stride. And he didn’t even have a record. Novelty of the year.

I wasn’t fooling myself. Girls like me didn’t end up in Willow Creek. We got talked about in Willow Creek. No ring, no white house, no brunches with in-laws who wore pearls to Walmart. But for some dick? Oh yeah. I’d take that. Especially after Rhett and his goddamn fists.

The hallway filled up like cattle chute traffic. I slipped ahead of the other Stackhouse boys—loud, stupid, always trying too hard—and slid into the Willow Creek flow like smoke. Noah was right there, gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, that half-arrogant stride already making me think about straddling him.

I shifted my hips, timed my step, and bumped my ass right into him. Not hard. Just enough to make it clear I could.

Paused, steadying myself like it was an accident. Felt it. Yeah—that was a boner. God, it felt like one.

I didn’t bother saying sorry. Just looked up at him through my lashes, gave him a lazy wink, and walked on, swaying my hips like the hallway was my runway. Too damn easy.

Then I saw her.

Ashlyn Montgomery. Sundress, swan posture, standing by the lockers like she was about to hiss feathers. Perfect, polished, boiling behind her lashes.

I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just popped open my locker and started tossing books inside.

“You got some fucking nerve,” she snapped behind me.

I smiled, still facing my locker. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Don’t play dumb, you backwoods bitch. You were flirting with my boyfriend.”

I pulled out my lip gloss, popped the cap slow. “I heard y’all were over.”

“It’s a break, slut. And you used it to crawl all over him like some—some fucking trailer park whore!”

There it was.

I turned then. Dead-eyed, flat, unamused. “You made a mistake.”

And I punched her.

No warning. Just knuckles to cheekbone. Ashlyn gasped, stumbled, cracked into a locker, stunned. Her friends froze. Someone screamed. Nails raked down my cheek—hers, desperate—but I didn’t stop.

I swung again. Harder.

This one cracked her eye socket. Her head snapped, and down she went—heels slipping, dress riding, body hitting the tile like a sack of sequins.

Gasps echoed down the hall. Footsteps. Shouts. Somebody pulling out a phone.

I stood there, chest heaving, face stinging from the scratch, blood on my lip. I wiped it off with the back of my hand, eyes locked on her crumpled body. Mascara smeared, mouth gasping, queen of Willow Creek flat on her ass.

“So much for being unforgettable, bitch,” I muttered, low but sharp enough to cut.

I glanced up at Britt and Chloe, frozen behind their wreck. Britt clutching her purse like it might save her, Chloe’s lips parted like she forgot what words were.

I stepped toward them once, eyes hard, jaw tight, blood flashing on my teeth. “Y’all want some too?”

They flinched. Both of them.

Then came the teachers—heels clapping, voices shouting, pushing kids back. Principal’s bark carrying down the hall.

The girls shrank, helpless.

I smiled. Calm. Cruel. Certain. “Thought so.”

Then I turned, shut my locker, shouldered my backpack, and walked off like nothing happened at all.

*=*=*=*=*=*

The plastic chair squeaked under me as I shifted, bare foot hooked on the rung, thumbnail picking at the scab on my knuckle. The cheap wall clock ticked louder than my breathing.

And then the screaming started again.

“We said it from the start!”

“You can’t just mix in the damn trash from Stackhouse and expect nothing to happen!”

“Look at her face! LOOK at what that trailer park bitch did to my daughter!”

My lip curled.

Stackhouse. Always Stackhouse. Like it was a disease they might catch if they sat too close. Like if they scrubbed hard enough, they could peel me off their shiny floors.

“She punched her. Twice. She broke her cheek!”

“You let that girl in this school and now my daughter’s going to need facial reconstruction!”

Ashlyn’s mother. Easy to tell. That brittle, high-pitched rage that came wrapped in pearls and clutching a PTA microphone.

“She doesn’t belong here. I want that trashy little bitch expelled—today. And I’m pressing charges.”

I leaned back in my chair, let my head rest against the wall, smirk tugging at my lip even as the cut stung. My pride stung more, but not in the way they thought.

You want me out?

Try me.

Then came the principal’s voice. Calm, strained, like she’d been swallowing parents like that for twenty years.

“High school fights happen, Mrs. Montgomery. I’m not minimizing it, but let’s remember we’ve had incidents on both sides. This is a tense year. These kids are adjusting—”

“That thing assaulted my daughter!”

Thing.

I grimaced. Thing. Like I wasn’t even human now.

The yelling dragged on. Footsteps, heels clacking like gunfire down the hall. Somebody hissed about lawsuits. Somebody else about bad press.

The door creaked.

Principal Walker stepped in—mid-fifties, gray at the temples, eyes bagged deep. Woman looked like one PTA meeting away from snapping. She glanced at me like a migraine already forming.

Door shut. Thud. She crossed to her desk, not even looking straight at me, like eye contact would make it all too real.

I stayed put, leaned back, fingers laced over my stomach, one sandal swinging lazy off my heel. “How long?”

She sighed, lowered herself into her squeaky chair. “One week. Suspension.”

I nodded once. No surprise. Expected worse.

“It’s the minimum,” she added. “Jolene, this is your fourth fight this year. And the worst one by far.”

I snorted, eyes drifting to a crack in the linoleum. “She started.”

“You punched her. Twice.”

“They always start.”

Silence. Walker rubbed her temple. Looked every inch the woman who’d rather be anywhere else.

“There’s two months left ‘til graduation. I could’ve expelled you. Don’t give me a reason to.”

My gaze lifted, steady. “I’m not gonna let them belittle me.”

“You don’t have to let it get to that point.”

“They call me trash to my face.”

“They call you a lot of things, I’m sure,” she said, voice tight. “But you can’t solve every insult with a fist.”

I leaned forward, voice dropping, cold and sharp. “Disagree.”

Walker stared back. Worn, frustrated, maybe even afraid to push harder.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. I’d take the week. I’d take the suspension. But no one was gonna call me less and walk away clean.

*=*=*=*=*=*

Sun was low, hot and spiteful, throwing long shadows across the busted sidewalk outside Ashwyck Regional. I shoved the doors open with my shoulder, backpack hanging off one arm, cheek still stinging where Ashlyn’s claws had caught me.

Detention always had its little inconveniences, but the worst one was missing the ride back to Stackhouse. Carpool was gone.

Guess I’m walking.

I yanked my phone out of my pocket. Dead screen. Of course. Forgot to charge again.

Then I heard it.

That fucking engine.

Guttural, coughing, loud like a dying animal pretending it still had teeth.

I stopped mid-step. Didn’t even need to look. I knew that sound.

Goddamn Mustang. Matte black, dented side, duct tape on the back window. Pulled up to the curb like it was growling just for me.

Rhett got out.

Same as always. Tall, broad, bad tattoos crawling down his arms, black tee stretched tight. Skeleton flipping the bird inked down his bicep. Pale eyes, sharp jaw, wired like he was half-drunk on adrenaline. A warning sign with a dick.

And the way he walked toward me—dangerous, but tail low, like a dog that bit the wrong hand and wanted forgiveness.

I didn’t move. Crossed my arms. “Well, shit. Ain’t you supposed to be in county this week?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, crooked grin that didn’t land. “Got out Monday. They dropped the charge.”

“Which one?”

Shrug. Nothing.

“What the fuck do you want, Rhett?”

“Heard you were in detention.”

“And you thought that meant I needed you?” I scoffed, looking past him. “I’d rather bum a ride off one of the Willow Creek sluts. Maybe Ashlyn’s daddy.”

He flinched—tiny, but I saw it.

“I can drive you home,” he said. “Just tryin’ to help.”

I stepped back half a step, lip curling. “You wanna get fucked? Half the girls at Stackhouse’ll let you. Hell, they’ll even let you smack ‘em around. But I ain’t one of ‘em anymore.”

His mouth twitched. Bristled. “You hit me too. Don’t act like you’re some innocent.”

“Yeah?” I hissed. “I should’ve bit your fuckin’ dick off. That innocent enough for you?”

He blinked. Swallowed. Stunned for a second.

Then it flipped. Fuse lit.

“Fuck you,” he snapped. “You think you’re better than me now? Little high school bitch with her tits out, flirting with rich boys—”

I was in his face before he finished. “Insult me again. I dare you.”

We were nose to nose, breath hot, words slamming like fists. People across the street glanced, but no one stopped. They knew better.

My fists clenched. My jaw ached from grinding it. But I didn’t back up. Not an inch.

I raised my middle finger as I walked away. Didn’t even look back. Let him stare at it instead of me.

Mustang revved behind me, growled like it might lurch forward. Didn’t.

“Pussy,” I muttered.

Four goddamn miles to Stackhouse Court. My sandals already chewing my heels raw, sun baking me all the way. But I’d walk barefoot on glass before I got back in that car with that animal.

We’d been on and off since I was sixteen. He was five years older, dangerous even by trailer park standards. Tattoos, short fuse, kissed like fire, punched quicker. The kind of scumbag that made dumb girls wet and smart girls curious. I’d been both.

And yeah, when it was good, it was real good. But it never lasted. Not with Rhett. Not when his love came with bruises and busted screens.

My stomach growled halfway home. Didn’t slow me down. Just veered off toward Corner Stop, flickering sign missing the “O.” C RNER ST P. Fitting.

Bell jingled when I stepped in. Every head turned.

Always the same. First the lust. Old men by the beer fridge, boys pretending to pick candy. Eyes dropped straight to my chest like magnets. Faces shifted, mouths parted. Couldn’t help it. I made them twitch.

Then the envy. Two women by the freezer cut me that side-eye, tight lips, up-down like my shorts offended them personally.

And then the part I hated.

Suspicion.

The shuffle of feet behind me. Clerk with the comb-over and a Jesus fish on his neck hovering closer to the register, not looking but watching. Watching my hands like I was already guilty.

My cheeks burned. Jaw locked tight.

I yanked a cold sandwich, grabbed a milk, stormed to the counter. Bell jingled behind me, more eyes.

I slammed the food down, pulled crumpled bills from my waistband and slapped them hard. “I can fucking pay, alright?”

Clerk flinched, said nothing. Just rang it up slow, like he wanted me to twitch so he could call somebody.

I snatched my change, muttered “fuck this town,” and stuffed my food into my backpack.

Door slammed behind me, bell gasping twice.

“Rot in hell, you judgmental pricks,” I muttered, not even looking back.

*=*=*=*=*=*

By the time I hit Lot 13, the sun was gone. Gravel lot cracked and dark, only light coming from the bug-zapper buzzing like it was dying and the TV flicker through the living room window.

The mailbox was open.

Hanging there, half-cocked, like somebody pawed through it and didn’t even bother hiding it.

My stomach dropped.

No. No no no.

I bolted up the steps, shoved the screen door open. The air inside was stale sweat and bourbon. He was sprawled half off the couch, snoring, one hand tucked under his chin like some oversized baby. Carpet stained. Bottle on the floor—good bourbon. Too good.

No way he paid for that.

I stormed past him, straight to the kitchen table. Envelopes ripped open, scattered across the laminate like a raccoon tore through them.

Found it fast.

White and blue. Seal torn. “Silverpine Clinical Research Center.”

The check was gone.

“You son of a bitch,” I whispered. Then louder—“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

I yanked the bucket from under the sink, filled it with ice and water, stomped back into the living room.

“WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

Dumped the whole freezing thing over him.

He jerked, sputtering, choking, drenched. Bloodshot eyes wild, slow to focus.

“Wh-what the hell, Jolene—”

“Where is it?”

“What?”

“My check, you goddamn leech! You took it again, didn’t you?”

He blinked, stammered, slurring something like, “was just checkin’ it fer ya.”

“Don’t you fucking lie to me. That was my money. I put my body through that bullshit so you could what? Drink it down and pass out in your piss-stained boxers?”

He tried to stand. I shoved him back down.

“I’ve been taking care of your sorry ass since I was ten. Ten. You know what a ten-year-old should be doing? Playing. Not forging your signature so we didn’t starve.”

His eyes watered, lips slack.

“You could’ve done us both a favor and gone out like Mom did. But no—she had to be the one. She was smart. She was good. And you stayed. You ruined her, pushed her to swallow a bottle of pills, and now you’re robbing the last thing I have left.”

“Baby, don’t—”

“I’m not your baby.”

I shoved him hard. He toppled off the couch, thudded to the carpet, groaning.

I didn’t look back. Just stormed down the hall and slammed my bedroom door hard enough to knock a picture off the wall.

Then silence.

Except me.

Standing there in my tiny room, fists balled, chest shaking. Eyes wet—but not from crying.

Just rage.

*=*=*=*=*=*

I woke up late. Room was stuffy, smelled like hairspray gone sour and motor oil. Rolled out of bed in cutoff sleep shorts and a tank that barely covered anything. Cheek still stung, jaw sore, but I didn’t bother checking the mirror. Didn’t need a reminder.

Out in the living room, Mitch’s snoring buzzed like a chainsaw choking out.

Kitchen. Cereal box scraped empty, crumbs in a cracked bowl drowned in warm milk. No spoon—I slurped it like soup and dumped it in the sink. Didn’t rinse. Didn’t care.

Bag over my shoulder, door slammed behind me, heat already baking the morning.

Kayla Deen was leaned up against her Oldsmobile, cigarette hanging from chipped black nails. Twenty-one, curls spilling, tank with a skull and angel wings, legs long enough to get her in the wrong kind of movie. She squinted at me, brow cocked.

“What the hell you doin’ walking around this late? Ain’t you supposed to be in school gettin’ your diploma or another write-up?”

“Suspended,” I muttered.

She snorted smoke. “Shit. Again?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“That a record yet?”

“Workin’ on it.”

I hooked my thumbs in my shorts. “Need a favor.”

Kayla arched a brow, smoke curling out her nose. “Depends. Involve murder?”

“No. Just need a ride.”

She eyed the Oldsmobile like it might argue, then nodded.

Inside smelled like old smoke and hair dye. Upholstery torn, wires hanging, radio worked when it felt like it. We rattled halfway down County Road 7 before she finally spoke.

“I can’t believe Mitch stole your check.”

I scowled out the window, foot on the dash. “He did. Blew it on bourbon.”

Kayla shook her head. “Your life’s a country song.”

“Needs more murder.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

We bounced through a pothole, springs screaming.

“Rhett came by yesterday too,” I said.

Kayla’s head snapped so fast ash flicked across the dash. “Jesus, Jolene. You still talkin’ to him?”

“Didn’t say I talked. Said he showed up.”

“You be careful, girl.”

“He should be careful,” I muttered. “Last time he tried his shit, I nearly broke his jaw.”

She glanced over. “That mark on your cheek… was that him?”

I smirked. “Nah. That was from the bitch I laid out before they suspended me.”

Her eyes widened. “Ashlyn? Montgomery girl?”

“One and only. Punched her square. Twice.”

“Holy shit.”

“I’ll fuck her ex so hard he’ll forget her name,” I said flat. “Forget her Barbie ass, her little sweaters, her ‘Daddy’s gonna sue you’ threats.”

Kayla whistled. “You’re a menace.”

“Damn right.”

We rode in silence a while. Engine rumbling, wind whistling through the cracked seal.

Then Kayla asked quieter, more curious. “What’re you gonna do? About Mitch. About Rhett. You ain’t seriously gonna marry that rich quarterback boy, are you?”

I laughed dry. “Please. Noah’s just for a good fuck or two. That’s it.”

Turned to the window, trees blurring past. “Soon as I graduate, I’m gone.”

“You got a plan?”

“Workin’ on it.”

“Money?”

“Workin’ on that too.”

“Where you gonna go?”

“Anywhere that ain’t Stackhouse.”

She flicked ash out the window, nodded.

“Clinic’s the first step,” I said.

We pulled into the lot. Beige squat box, weeds climbing the walls. Black letters over the door: SILVERPINE CLINICAL RESEARCH CENTER.

Place always gave me a bad feeling. Too clean. Too quiet.

I leaned down to Kayla. “Wait for me?”

She flicked ash, gave a two-finger salute. “Sure. Unless you sell a kidney in there. Then I want gas money.”

I smirked, slung my bag, pushed through the doors.

Inside smelled like antiseptic and lemon lies. Lights buzzed, tiles cracked, plant on the desk long-dead.

I slapped my folder of paperwork on the counter. Nurse didn’t even look up. Hair fried from bleach, scrubs stretched wrong, crooked smile full of tired teeth.

“You been eighteen for what, three months now?” she asked, flipping pages.

“Yeah.”

“Then you don’t need to fake Daddy’s signature anymore, sugar.”

She stapled it all like it was nothing.

I sat under a busted vending machine, 2019 magazines stacked beside me. Five minutes. Ten.

“Miss Black?”

Hallway was narrow, then the room opened up into a whole different world—dark wood desk, glass cabinets, faint citrus scent. Money scent.

Dr. Bryant stood, slick hair, white coat clean enough to blind. Late forties, lean. Smile that didn’t mean shit.

“Jolene. Good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” I dropped into the leather chair. “Got my results?”

“Your last round came back solid. Liver stable. No major side effects. You’re resilient.”

“Damn right I am. Ready for another.”

He folded his hands, leaned back. “That round’s over.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Study’s concluded. No further sessions.”

Stomach dropped. Bills, groceries, the way out—gone.

But he smiled again, little curve like a secret. “But we do have something new. Exclusive.”

I lifted a brow. “What kind of exclusive?”

“Private research. Small pool. High pay. Doses every day for a week.”

I leaned in. “Of what?”

“Metabolic enhancer.”

“The fuck’s that?”

“Designed for athletes. Performance, endurance, muscle response, cellular energy. Could change the whole field.”

“I ain’t no athlete.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re young. Healthy. High pain tolerance. Perfect candidate.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It’s illegal, isn’t it?”

He didn’t blink. “Ten thousand dollars.”

My jaw went slack. Ten grand.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Tax-free. Payment at completion. Interested?”

I let it hang a moment. Then nodded. “Just don’t mail the checks to my place.”

His brow ticked.

“I’ll pick ‘em up here.”

That too-smooth smile spread again. “Excellent. We’ll start tomorrow morning.”

*=*=*=*=*=*

Sat on the toilet in the clinic’s one-person bathroom, legs spread, elbows on my thighs. Sterile plastic cup clutched between my fingers, stuck awkward under me while I pissed. Fluorescents hummed overhead, buzzing like they were tired too.

My face? Flat. Bored. Just another hoop for cash.

Finished, capped it, stood up with a stretch. No shame, no modesty. I’d had worse mornings. Flushed, yanked my shorts up, reminded myself to wash my hands. Last time I almost walked out smelling like ammonia and spite.

Bryant was waiting in the hall.

I held the cup out to him like it was a coffee. “This what you needed?”

He blinked, fighting a grimace. “Yes… thank you. Just set it on the tray.”

I plunked it where he pointed, wiped my palms on my thighs. “So glamorous,” I muttered, and walked on.

Back the next day. No waiting room bullshit this time. Bryant skimmed through a folder while I leaned on the exam table, sipping water from a paper cup. Loose tee over spandex shorts, hair up, legs bouncing like I was wired.

“Results were perfect,” he said, not even looking up.

“What’s that mean?”

“No trace of the substance.”

My brow went up. “So a girl could juice, win medals, and nobody’d ever know?”

He just smiled that Bryant smile—like he knew the joke and wasn’t telling.

“There’s one more thing. Final comparison test. You did the first run Monday. Let’s see where we are now.”

He gestured at the door. Treadmill room.

Lights harsher here. Mirrors across one wall. Treadmill shiny, military-grade, like it belonged somewhere fancier.

I stepped up, cracked my neck, tapped the controls. He stood at the terminal, clipboard ready.

“Start at six.”

The belt hummed. I ran. Easy.

“Eight.”

Picked up. Breathing smooth, heartbeat steady.

“Ten.”

Still fine.

“Twelve.”

I grinned. “Starting to get interesting.”

“Fifteen.”

Belt flew. Ponytail bouncing, sweat tracing my collarbones. Breathing measured, body steady. Five minutes. Still cruising.

“How do you feel?” he called.

“Gettin’ a little tired,” I said, like I’d almost forgotten.

He watched me with that look—eyes wide, nostrils flared, lips twitching into a grin too pleased for a man in a white coat.

“That’ll do,” he said, punching the stop.

Machine slowed. I hopped off, barely winded.

“Should sign up for regionals,” I joked. “Might get a scholarship. Hell, I could win barefoot.”

Bryant laughed, fake casual. Didn’t stick.

Then he pulled out a thick envelope. Handed it over.

“As promised. Ten thousand.”

I took it. Thumbed the edges. Crisp, heavy. Real.

Held it for a second. Then smiled—first real one all week.

“That’s my fuckin’ ticket outta Stackhouse.”

*=*=*=*=*=*

Heat was already clinging by nine a.m.—Ashwyck spring, thick with pollen and asphalt sweat. I stepped off the bus and crossed the lot with my lazy strut. The one that said I didn’t give a damn and knew every pair of eyes was on me.

And they were.

Even the girls who hated me the most—especially them. Watching with claws out, like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to stab me or swap places.

I took my time heading in. Let the stares drag. Smiled when some sophomore nearly faceplanted over his backpack trying to check out my ass in these cutoffs.

Pushed through the double doors, strolled the hall, slid into first period. That’s when I caught him.

Noah.

Already in his seat. Jacket slung behind, hair too perfect for this early. I saw his Adam’s apple jump when he swallowed.

I smirked. Slow. Dirty. The kind that made girls whisper and boys shift. Walked right down the aisle like it was mine.

And there she was.

Ashlyn.

Hair tied back like she hadn’t had time to curl it. Sunglasses inside. Hoodie up. Pale face, jaw tight. Black eye makeup caked on, couldn’t hide the bruise I’d left. Couldn’t hide how much it still hurt to smile.

I leaned close, dropped my voice sweet as honey.

“You missed a spot, princess. Shoulda gone with somethin’ thicker… like paint.”

Her nostrils flared, fists balled small. She stayed quiet.

That’s what I thought.

I tossed my hair and moved on.

Class. I slouched like it was my porch. Tank top riding low when I leaned forward, angled just right toward Noah. No bra. Not even pretending.

Every time I caught his eye, I gave him a smile—lazy, wet-lipped, like I’d just remembered a secret I might moan against his neck.

Leaned back once, stretched slow, arms over my head. Tank inching up, shorts riding down, teacher frowning like I’d just spat on his rulebook.

“Miss Black. Sit properly, please.”

“Sorry,” I drawled, not sorry at all. “Back still hurts. Bad mattress.”

A couple guys laughed. One dropped his pencil and never bothered picking it up.

Bell rang. Papers, zippers, shuffle. I stood, slung my bag, and slid past Noah like it was an accident.

Not just brushed him. Pressed full, soft, warm. My cleavage against his arm.

He froze.

I leaned close, breath on his ear.

“You comin’ to the bar tonight?” I whispered, voice syrup-thick. “Might need some extra hands.”

Winked.

Then gone. Just a swirl of black hair, denim, and strut walking out without a glance back.

*=*=*=*=*=*

The Rusted Spur wasn’t much more than neon signs and busted string lights buzzing like hornets on their last legs. Beer, sweat, fryer oil soaked into the wood so deep you could taste it. Not the kind of place a Willow Creek boy should’ve wandered into.

But Noah did.

Stepped through the door like a deer in the wrong woods. Eyes blinked toward him. Jukebox thumping low, pool table laughter, some idiot cracking a bottle with his teeth. He didn’t belong, and every soul in that room knew it.

Then his eyes found me.

Shorts painted on. Tank hanging low. Hair teased just enough to look like I’d been fucked in the alley. Behind the bar, moving like I owned it. And I did.

Caught him staring. Grinned. “Well, well. Ain’t you overdressed for Stackhouse country?”

I leaned in on the bar, cleavage making its own damn statement. His throat bobbed.

“You… work here?” he asked, voice cracking polite.

“You got a problem with that?”

“You’re… eighteen.”

“And you got a mouth.” Smiled sweet. “Neither of us supposed to be here, but guess what? Nobody gives a shit.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Tried again. “Didn’t think you worked during the week.”

“I work when I can. Bills don’t care what day it is.”

I tilted my head, studied him. “So what’s your deal, Willow Creek? Come slumming for a warm beer and bad karaoke?”

He flushed. Tried to form words.

“I’m workin’ late,” I cut in. Tossed a cap in the sink. He deflated.

Then I leaned close, voice low and wicked. “But I got a fifteen-minute break. Out back. Wait in your car.”

He did as I told him. And he waited. Leg bouncing, palms sweating, three minutes dragging, four. Then the door opened and I slid in—back seat, not front. My rules from the jump.

I stretched across the cracked leather like I owned it. Heavy-lidded eyes, grin sharp. “You look like you’re about to piss yourself.”

He tried to laugh. Failed. “Didn’t expect you to actually come.”

“I said I would. I don’t waste time. Don’t play games.” I hooked his shirt with one finger. “What’d you think this was, Noah? Daddy’s movie scene? Just somethin’ to check off before college?”

He swallowed hard, nothing to say. Didn’t matter. I smirked slow. “Don’t worry. I ain’t lookin’ for forever. Just want you to remember me when you’re sittin’ in that dorm bed alone.”

I let it hang, then leaned back, eyes glittering. “Ten minutes left. You wanna do somethin’ real stupid?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Back seat.”

Command. No blush, no giggle. He scrambled, damn near fell climbing over. I watched, amused, cat toying with her mouse.

Bar’s neon spilled stripes across the cracked leather. Door clicked shut, world sealed off.

I settled slow, one knee up, tank slipped lower, voice buzzing in his chest. “That’s better.”

He tried for cool, but his breath was shallow, hands twitching on his thighs. I leaned close enough for him to smell the smoke in my hair, cheap perfume clinging. “What’s the matter? Don’t know what to do?”

“No, I just—”

“Shhh.”

Dragged a finger down his shirt. He flinched, stared. I wasn’t gentle. I was deliberate.

“You think I don’t know what’s been running through your head, sittin’ there in class, tryin’ not to stare?”

My smile showed teeth. Heat. “Well… now you get to see what it’s like when the girl from Stackhouse makes you a story.”

His body buzzed, mouth dry. I leaned closer, tongue brushing my lip. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle. Probably.”

I unzipped him, slow, eyes locked. His breath hitched. Second later, he was bare to the warm air and my colder smirk.

Tapped my watch. “Eight minutes.”

Then I moved.

Whatever swagger he thought he brought melted the second my lips wrapped around his dick. Gasps, knuckles white, windows fogging, his body twitching under my hand while I pinned him in place.

Seven minutes later, he was slumped, breathless, staring at the roof like he’d been struck by lightning.

I pulled back, swallowed, wiped my mouth with my thumb, popped the door like it was nothing. “Don’t forget to tip, sweetheart.”

One leg out, then I turned, smirked lazy and lethal. “Your little blonde Barbie? Too stuck-up to even spit on it.”

He just stared, brain fried.

I winked. “Tomorrow night? I’m off.”

Then gone. Hips swaying, back through the Spur’s door, leaving him wrecked and mine.

*=*=*=*=*=*

The banging hit like thunder—three hard slams that rattled the thin trailer walls. I shot upright, breath caught, heart hammering. Then came the voice. Ugly. Too damn familiar.

“Jolene! Open the goddamn door!”

Rhett.

Drunk. Again.

I grabbed a T-shirt off the floor, yanked it over my bare chest, stomped toward the front. I’d told him. Warned him. Spat it in his face last time—no more. But hearing him now, slurring my name, pounding my door like he owned it?

The rage came fast. Burned out the fear.

I flung the door open. “I told you not to come back, Rhett—”

He cut me off with a shove.

My back slammed into the counter. Pain shot up my spine, hot and sharp, made me see stars. He staggered in after me, face flushed, breathing heavy.

“You think I didn’t hear? You think Stackhouse don’t talk? Everyone saw it, Jolene. Saw you on that rich boy like you were born for it.”

“So what?” I shot back, standing, ignoring the pain in my side. “Not like you ever earned it!”

His eyes narrowed. “You ungrateful bitch—”

I didn’t wait. Swung.

My fist cracked his cheekbone. Sick sound. He buckled, spit red across the vinyl.

I froze.

That… wasn’t normal.

I was strong for a girl. I’d hit him before, plenty, but never dropped him like that. Never that hard.

He looked up at me wide-eyed and bleeding. Then the fury came back.

“You think that’s funny?” he snarled, lunging.

I went flying, crashed into the table, lamp and bills scattering. My ribs screamed. Something cracked. He was on me, spit flying, voice lost in the ringing in my ears. His fist hammered my side again. I cried out.

Trailer stayed dead quiet otherwise. Mitch didn’t stir. Passed out in the back, useless as always.

Blurred vision, crawling, dragging myself toward the drawer. That drawer.

I yanked it open. My hand wrapped the cold steel of the revolver.

Click. Hammer cocked.

Sound cracked the air like a whip.

Rhett froze mid-charge.

My chest heaved, tears burned hot, but the revolver didn’t shake. Not a damn tremor.

“You touch me again and I’ll put you in a box so deep even your bastard daddy won’t claim you.”

He stood there, cheek split, blood dripping, lip curled rabid. “You won’t shoot me.”

“Bet your life on that, Rhett?”

Silence.

I aimed low. Right at his crotch. “Try me.”

He stumbled back, eyes wide. I followed, steady.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Now.”

More silence. Then he backed out through the door. No slam. No yelling. Just gone.

I kept the gun raised until his car rumbled off and faded.

Then my arms dropped. My knees gave. I sat there in the wreckage, ribs screaming, hand locked tight around the thing that might’ve saved me.

Later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, bare feet on the cracked linoleum. Reflection pale and bruised under the flickering light.

Cheek blooming purple. Ribs screaming when I pressed them—maybe broken. Back throbbing, every breath sharp. No doctor. No money. No point.

Groaning, I staggered back to my room. Revolver slid under my pillow.

Laid on my side, careful of the pain, covers pulled half-up. Stared at the ceiling.

I wasn’t going to sleep. Not after that.

But I did.

*=*=*=*=*=*

Sunlight leaked through my busted blinds, warm on my face. I blinked. Sat up. Blinked again.

I felt… good.

No—great.

Didn’t make sense. After a night like that, I should’ve been aching, ribs screaming, skin bruised. Instead? Nothing. Just this steady hum under my skin, heat in my limbs like I’d been plugged into a socket.

I swung my legs down, padded barefoot to the bathroom.

The mirror hit me with the truth.

Bruise on my cheek—gone. Dark circles—gone. Skin looked fresh, lips fuller, hair fallen into a tousle like I’d paid someone to mess it up perfect.

I touched my side. No pain. Rolled my shoulder. Flexed. Twisted. Nothing.

“What the fuck?” I whispered at myself.

Pulled my shirt up, ran my fingers over where the bruises should’ve bloomed. Skin smooth. Scar near my hip—lighter than it had been in years.

My eyes narrowed. Blue. Sharp.

Something was off.

And if there’s one thing I know? If it feels too good to be true, it’s probably coming for you later.

*=*=*=*=*=*

Noah tossed his gym bag into the trunk, sweat still drying from practice, cicadas buzzing, traffic humming in the distance.

Then he saw me.

Perched right on the hood of his car like I’d bought it. Long legs crossed, chewing a banana slow, peeling it back like a snake unhinging its jaw.

He froze. Whole body lurch. His face said it all—wanted me bad, didn’t know what to do with it.

I smirked. Hair wind-tossed, smug as sin. “Hey there, golden boy,” I purred, licking the last bit of banana off my thumb. “Wanna go somewhere a little more… private?”

He nodded. Like an idiot.

I slid off the hood, hips swinging, denim clinging. He scrambled with his keys, almost forgot to unlock the door before I was sliding inside, already owning the space.

*=*=*=*=*=*

We’d been driving twenty minutes. Some overlook past the county line—one of those spots built for bad choices. My hand had been on Noah’s cock the whole way, hard as stone, poor boy about to crawl out his skin.

He pulled over, engine still rumbling.

“Back seat,” I whispered, voice low, dark with promise. “I wanna thank you properly.”

He scrambled like a dog, panting. I slid out slow, smirking.

Then—headlights.

Bright. Close. My smirk dropped.

“What the fuck?”

Pickup rolled in. I knew it. Tanner. Of course.

He hopped out grinning. I turned on Noah, glare sharp enough to cut.

“Seriously?”

“I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought maybe we could… all three…”

Silence. Cold enough to snap.

Then I went off.

“So that’s what I am? Some trailer park whore for your little fantasies?”

Tanner raised his hands. “Whoa, no need to freak out.”

“Freak out?” My voice spiked, sharp and venomous. “You dumb motherfuckers really thought I was that girl? What—just ‘cause I suck your dick once, Noah, I’m lining up for frat-boy buddy too? Fuck you.”

Tanner scoffed, hands still raised. “Jesus, calm down—”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down.” I stepped closer, boots grinding dry grass. “You think I’m a toy? Something to pass around, high-five after? Not a goddamn chance.”

I whipped back to Noah. Eyes straight through him. “And you? You said you liked me. Wanted me. Not just my mouth.”

He flinched. Mouth opened. Nothing came.

I turned back on Tanner, hellfire in my throat. “You ain’t shit. You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like me if I paid you. I’ve seen tougher balls on toddlers. I wouldn’t fuck you for a million dollars.”

His grin cracked. “Jesus… trailer trash psycho.”

That was it.

I shoved him.

Hard.

He flew. Ten feet, easy. Slammed into his own truck with a crunch of metal and a scream.

Noah just stared. I stared too. “What the hell…”

He reached out, shoved me—reflex, light. But my boot caught a rock.

Crack.

Another rock met my skull. Hard. Neck too. My body seized. Froze. Limbs stiff, useless.

“Oh… oh…” My voice was just air, wet and weak.

Noah dropped beside me, panicked. “Jolene? Jo? Oh fuck—”

But nothing came. Just staring. Just stars above me.

Everything hurt. Not bruise-hurt. Not Rhett-hurt. Worse. Inside. Cold and crushing. Arms dead. Legs gone. Mouth stuck open, twitching. I could only stare up at the sky, black sprinkled with ashes of light.

And listen.

“She’s not moving,” Tanner whispered. Voice cracked. Said it a dozen times already.

Noah, low and frantic: “She’s breathing. We need to—fuck, we need an ambulance—something.”

“No. No way.” Tanner pacing. I could hear his sneakers grinding the grass. “I can’t go to jail. I’ve got a full ride to fucking Dartmouth. You think they’ll keep it if I got an assault charge?”

My throat tried to form words. Nothing but a wheeze. Fingers twitched. Back screamed.

“So what, leave her here?” Noah again. Scared. Maybe still human. “Tanner, we can’t.”

“No one saw us. We’ll say we were at my place. Studying.”

“Studying?” Noah echoed, hollow. “She’s paralyzed, dude—”

“She’s trailer park, Noah. What, you gonna ruin your life over some backwoods blowjob?”

My eyes widened. That cut deeper than the rock under my skull. My lips parted, air stuttering. Fuck you. Wanted to scream it. Couldn’t. My body was a coffin.

Noah shuffled closer. Quiet.

Tanner’s voice dropped cold. “It’s her or us. No cameras. No witnesses. One bad choice or a ruined future. You wanna be stuck here?”

Silence.

Then hands. Rough. Hauling under my arms. My head lolled sideways. Grass. Moonlight. My own arm twisted wrong.

Then nothing under me.

For one heartbeat, it felt like flying.

Then—black.