Republishing because Chance's POV has been extended. Also, some parts have been changed (they contribute to the storyline), so if you've already read this when I published it previously, skim through so that you can read the changes and additions (additions start from: I play cards...).

Chapter 17 has been republished with an extended version of Callista's POV if you haven't checked yet (I've cut out Callista's POV from this chapter and included it in the previous one, skim through to see if you've read it or not). 

This chapter is dedicated to every reader who reads but doesn't vote 
:( 

A/N: I've drafted a prequel for CHANCE titled LORENZO, but I don't know whether to write both at once or complete CHANCE and then start on LORENZO or stop writing CHANCE altogether and complete LORENZO first because: 

If you read LORENZO (Book #0) first and then CHANCE (Book #1) you'll have more insight into other characters, you'll know who they are, what they're doing, and you'll be like wtf how did we end up here, but it'll spoil the second half of CHANCE (not that much but there's a lot of character crossover so yeah). 

If you read CHANCE first and then LORENZO, it's just going to be a lot of information dump in the second half of the book (don't worry I'll make it dramatic, [hopefully]), and it'll spoil the "is it over?" part of LORENZO. 

Tell me what to do. 

Have a wonderful read <3 

I want to k i _ _ you (answers may vary).  

Capernoited 
(adj.) peevish; tipsy or slightly intoxicated 

Tuesday — September 5, 2023 

I've never been so torn over a girl. 

One second I'm trying to strangle her and the next I'm flipping her skirt up and micrometers away from tongue fucking her cunt. 

I'd tasted pussy before, but I'd never physically salivated at the thought. It turned me on, but that was the extent of it. 

I'd only tasted the arousal seeping through her panties. Hadn't yet nipped at her clit, hadn't yet lapped up every last drop of a release only I could provide— 

And— 

I'm fucking brainless. Case in point. 

I haven't even asked her why she's back in town, how long she's staying. Maybe her mother divorced that Canadian dude and came running back into Marcel Huxley's conceited arms. 

I'll ask the West girl to do a bit of digging. She's got her claws deep in the not-so-legal side of the internet. I could look for some OSINT on my own but why bother when you have people do it for you. 

I slam the bottle of Vermouth on my mattress, and drops of wine from the sort-of-empty bottle spill onto my sheets. 

I hate this shit. No buzz at all. 

I (try to) read the label. Golden letters branding a black label. I catch only a few readable words. 

Aperitivo. 

Specialità. 

And inside a gold border VECCHIO. 

Which fucking language is this. I read Specialità again. French, probably. Mom loves France. Fucking cat crap. 

If she drags me to Paris or New York for Fashion Week again next year I'll plant a bomb in my ass. No joke. And I'll strap Callista next to me so that she goes down with me. 

And those bastards Marcus and Drake. 

I consider taking another swig but I've been at this for fifteen minutes already and I feel just as sober as I was before. Fucking hate high tolerance. 

Should I just corner her tomorrow and ask her why she's back? Yeah, solid plan. 

Except that whenever I'm around her, I can't seem to keep it in my fucking pants. We've had a total of five interactions since Sunday and all of them ended with me jerking off either to my fist or inside another bitch. 

Except for the third one. That one ended with me blowing my load down her throat. 

Lord. 

Fuck. 

Shit. 

Fucking Hell. 

My dick is screaming for attention again. I'm so hard, it's clinically painful. I'll have permanent blue balls by the end of the week. 

I wish I was born a fucking girl. 

Rolling off the bed with the neck of the bottle still in my grasp and stalking to the dining room, I toss the bottle on a chair on my way to the end of the room for the staff to find and put away. 

I'm already aggravated. Just need a bit of booze to push me into the pit of rage and intoxication. Then I'll jerk off in the shower and everything will be back to normal.   

Opening the credenza, I find it only half-stocked. 

Between my drinking to drown out thoughts of Callista, Mom's drinking to spite Dad, and Dad's drinking to spite Mom, — all this past week — I shouldn't be surprised. 

"Are you drinking again?" 

Adella Thatcher, my Hellsent boozeblocker. More commonly known as: my housekeeper. 

I turn around. 

Ooh, tits. Heaven yes. 

A phantom memory of Dad whacking me with some investment documents has me tearing my eyes away from the tits in question. 

That whacking hurt like a canine, by the way. 

"Wait a sec—" I fumble through my pockets and flip out my phone, going to my call history and scrolling through it, frowning. "I didn't call the booze police." 

She swipes the wine bottle from the chair and looks at it disapprovingly. 

"It's empty." 

"Sort of." I correct her. 

She presses her lips together and flips the bottle upside down, holding it by the heel. An unfortunate droplet splatters on the tiled floor. 

"Okay, maybe I drank a little more than usual. So what? Not like I'm drunk or anything." 

And then she's next to me, shooing me away from the credenza and shutting the paneled doors. I hate her. 

For a woman of forty-five — forty-six? — and a height of four-eleven with ordinary blonde hair, she has a lot of balls.

Mom must be overpaying her.   

I shove my hands in my pockets and stand there with a sour look on my face, not obeying like a compliant lap dog because I am not a compliant lap dog. 

I try to mostly keep it together because Mom will have my head on a spike on our front gates if I frighten Adella again. 

Not my fault she's so jumpy. 

When I returned home on Sunday night after my chance encounter with a certain white bitch, I was sort of pissed (which I had every right to be). So I may have sort of aggressively launched three liquor bottles at the living room wall and I may have snapped not-so-nicely at her. 

She was terrified. 

Mom asked me not-so-kindly what the fuck was wrong with me. I snapped at her, too. 

Dad heard the commotion and came down from his study, whacked my head with a Picasso 902, and told me to chill the fuck out. Then I remembered Marcus saying the exact thing, which reminded me of him fucking with Callista, which reminded me of Callista fucking with me, which brought up fantasies about Callista being fucked by me. 

And then Dad sat me down on the couch to wrap my knuckles which were for some reason bleeding and asked me if I was okay. 

I said yes. 

Then fell asleep on the couch and woke up on the floor with Mom sleeping beside me. 

I blink and present me is being dragged somewhere. 

Adella has a palm locked around my forearm in a firm grip and drags me to the kitchen, sits me down on a barstool, and meanders over to the sink. Grabs a glass of water and fills it. 

At least some liquid will go down my throat. 

She stands opposite me and I reach for the glass with a muttered "thanks" until she pulls back her arm and splashes the water all over me. 

Over me. 

Me. 

My jaw falls slack as water drips from my hair, lashes, nose, lips, jaw onto my shirt. Drenching me. 

I retract my hand stiffly. 

"I hate you." I declare. "I hate you so much." She has the nerve to smile. "Fuck, I hate you more than her." 

Damn, Callista, you better be fucking celebrating because you just got demoted to Number 2 on my People-to-Murder list. That bastard Drake's Number 3 now. 

A raised eyebrow. "Who her?" 

"Callista." I sigh, dropping my face into my hands. 

Callista is an evil bitch. Why couldn't she just look like a hag. That would make life so much easier. But of course, fake people are always pretty. Even Mom agrees. It's not fair. 

And then someone turns me around and hugs me. 

Heat creeps up my neck as I remember the trainwreck I was after The Callista Event. Adella had seen the bitchiest and sappiest and sobbiest parts of me, saw how torn I was over her; my parents, too, of course. 

Then again, she did wipe my ass from the day I crashlanded on this planet — as she likes to insinuate. 

"Thinking about her again?" she murmurs into my hair. 

You're not gonna fucking cry like a baby, Chance, get your fucking sobshit together. 

"More like her infiltrating my life again," I confess. 

"What—" 

And then I hear a car aggressively pull up somewhere outside. Footsteps stomp through the front door and head straight into the kitchen — Christ knows how he knew where we were — and then I'm staring at an exasperated and not-so-not-fuming figure of my father. 

Adella smoothly pulls away but doesn't leave like she always does. 

"Chance Dexter Ambrose." 

Ouch. 

I make an attempt to sit up straighter and push my hair out of my eyes. 

"Yes, Father?" 

"Do not 'yes, father' me." He pulls out a barstool in front of me and sits down. Did he seriously drive back home in the middle of a Tuesday working day to chastise me? 

I eye the cuffs of his four-figure Armani suit as he rests one hand on the kitchen island. Water seeps through the black clothing and I look away before he notices it and starts grumbling. 

"Yes, Father." 

Adella rubs her temples, steering clear of the two of us and busying herself with rearranging the cutlery. 

Dad appears unamused and unimpressed. Runs an eye over me. 

I realize belatedly that I'm still in my school uniform. It's now rumpled and looks sadder than I did after The Callista Event (yes, that's what I'll be officially calling three years ago's happenings). 

"I got a call from your school. You skipped Eighth Period." Hmm. School should be out by now, though. 

"You drove all the way home from Ambrose Headquarters for that?" I'm disappointed in him. Sigh. 

"When were you planning on telling us that Huxley's daughter is back in the city?" Ohh. He found out. "And that she now attends Blackwood Creek Academy?" 

My lack of reaction confirms his suspicions that I'm already aware of the bombshell he dropped. 

There's a clatter of metal falling to the ground. Oh, yeah. Adella didn't know either. Sorry, I mouth silently as I glance at her.  

"Yesterday," I say truthfully, "But you and Mom already had a score to settle, so I thought today." 

Dad's breath is measured. Glare suppressed. Disapproval discernable only by the demurral curve of his mouth and my knowledge that his assertion will enrage him. 

He shuts his eyes, contemplating probably. Thinking of every possible outcome to this conversation like he does during board meetings. Or while arguing with Mom. 

"Adella?" 

He turns to our housekeeper who slides a plate of food to me just then. Carbs to soak up the booze. And two glasses of water for each of us. I eye my glass warily, my hair and shirt still wet. 

"Can you give us a minute?" 

She nods like she was already expecting this, and sends me a sympathetic smile before grabbing a rainbow-colored feather duster and heading upstairs. Then poking her head back through the doorway. 

"He's wasted, just so you know." And then she's out. 

Snitch. 

I'm going to lock her in her wardrobe someday. 

Which housekeeper has their own five-star en-suite and fully stocked walk-in closet, like for real. It's preposterous. 

I wonder how Dad managed to survive so long. With her and Mom always indulging in do-not-try-at-home activities and teaming up against me whenever Marcus and I are on my Xbox, there's more estrogen in this house than any male should legally have to put up with. 

Dad has a bad habit of whacking me every time I express discontentment. 

He turns to face me. 

"Have you run into her?" There are still embers of fuming hatred in his eyes, but he looks at me with genuine concern. 

Sometimes, I wonder if he hates her more than me. It would be easier for him; no tethering cords of desire or deep, rooted connections. The same can't be said for me. 

I hold up five fingers, grinning. "Five times." 

"What th—" he cuts himself off before he swears. He has a strict No-Cursing-in-This-Household rule (that doesn't apply to his wife). 

He's looking at me like I'm bone china that'll crack any moment. I roll my eyes. Everyone in this house is a pussy.  

"I need only a few hours and I'll pull some strings to have her kicked o—" 

"NO!" I shout, my palm slamming down on the island countertop and sending the contents on it vibrating. 

He appears startled. Like he doesn't understand me. 

I glance at my watch. 2:25. 

It was one o'clock three minutes ago, I swear. 

2:25 pm, Tuesday, September 5, 2023. Kitchen island barstool rendezvous. I startled Father for the first time this year. Cause of startlement: Callista Azalea Willow. 

"Sorry," I mumble, gaze dropping to my dusty shoes. And soiled trousers. For fuck's sake, Callista. So animalistic, that bitch. 

"Did something happen?" I love him. He's such a bitch to everyone but those who live in this house. Perfection. Paired with a bit of Mom's genes, it's no wonder I'm amazing. 

"Somethings happened." I correct him. "Many things. Don't kick her out, she's fun to play with." I smile, but it dissolves into a smirk when I remember her writhing body. 

He's looking at me disconcertedly. Concernedly. Blinking. "Is everything alright?" 

"No." I sigh, dropping my head on the counter. Callista happened, so nothing's alright. 

"Chance," I feel a hand on my shoulder. I rotate my head to look at him until it's my ear that's resting on the counter. 

"Mhm?" 

"How much have you had to drink?" 

"Vermouth," I say, honestly. 

"How much," he enunciates right into my ear. I clap a hand over it and shut my eyes. 

"Christ, only one bottle, don't shout." 

"Adella!" 

Did the thesaurus change the meaning of the phrase don't shout? 

"Yes?" 

"I want all liquor bottles out of my son's reach by the evening." 

I sit up straight with a cry of protest. My protest remains unacknowledged. 

Ouch. 

Is this how Callista feels every time I ignore her protests? 

"Eat," Dad pushes the plate toward me. "And sober up. We'll talk when you aren't wasted." 

Mom, save me from your evil husband. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I play cards with Adella and Mom on the terrace late into the night. 

I'm the dealer — because they said so — and so I shuffle the deck and give them their cards. 

I get lucky only twice. Once with a blackjack and once with my sum higher than theirs. I'm bored after the seventh round and we switch games. 

Mom ditches us midway, — she sees Dad standing at the entrance with his arms crossed and thoughtful gaze watching us (he smiles when she catches him lurking) — claiming fatigue but I (would rather not) know very well that they're just going to head to their bedroom and— 

Anyways. 

Adella's being a cruel witch with her misleading and perfectly timed facial expressions and it unsettled me enough to have me folding more than once for the first half. 

We're at our twenty-first game now. 

I flip the river. 

Seven of Clubs. 

Sitting beside Five of Diamonds, Ace of Hearts, Five of Clubs, and Queen of Clubs. 

Adella glances at my face. It's impassive. Playing with Dad for the past year has taught me how to mirror his poker face. She lays down her cards on the glass table top first. 

Six of Clubs and Two of Clubs. Her smile widens into a grin. "Flush." 

I reveal my hand. Five of Spades and Five of Hearts stare up at the starless night sky. Her lips part in disbelief. 

"So," I say, stacking up the cards and reshuffling them. We aren't gambling money. We're gambling favors. "I'll be expecting a crate of vodka in my closet by the morning." 

She grinds her teeth and stands up. That's the fourth game in a row she's lost. "Bye." 

I smirk. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I skipped school the next day. 

I can tell Dad disapproves of slacking in the first week of the year, but with the topic of Callista's reappearance still being debated, he lets me off. 

Marcus shows up after First Period to drag my ass to school, suggesting something about fresh meat. I grab his collar and pull him out to the balcony in my room. Shove him off the railing. He freefalls into the infinity pool with a loud splash. 

I smile. 

That high of a fall is painful; I know from experience. 

Marcus bunks the rest of the day with me. Other than a few, fleeting, inappropriate thoughts, I barely think of Callista. He doesn't risk drowning by bringing up the topic of her again. 

He drags me downtown as the evening creeps up.

Fifteen miles from the heart of Blackwood Creek, we're pulling up outside the bar cum strip club cum underground fight club at the edge of Sparrowville. 

Marcus and I discovered the seedy, rundown place four years ago when he stole his older brother Mason's motorbike while he was away for the night. We discovered other less-fucked-up-but-still-fucked-up places too, places that we never frequented.

We hid behind the crowd that night and witnessed drunken jeering, head-smashing, nose-crushing, ball-kicking, and neck-snapping in real time for the first time. 

The owner was a short man with too much fat on his body where muscle should've been, smoking cheap marijuana. Cheap because that's what Marcus told me, judging by its smell.  The owner in question caught us lurking and sized us up. 

I was a very tall, broad-shouldered, attractive fourteen-year-old thank you very much. Marcus — in comparison to me — was... meh. 

Said owner jerked his chin toward the ring and asked if I "wanted to give it a shot". 

I declined. He patted my shoulder and told me it was alright if I was nervous. Said he'd pair me with a gangly, inexperienced dude whose ass I could kick without blinking. His sly grin revealed crooked yellow teeth. 

We never went back there. 

Not until months later — the two-week anniversary of The Callista Event. 

Marcus stole his brother's girlfriend's motorbike this time, — while they were inside upstairs tearing each other's clothes off — sat me down behind him, broke a dozen traffic rules, and then we were outside FLESHLIGHT? 

Marcus was cackling at the flickering neon sign. He turned to my blank face and frowned. I did not know what a fleshlight was until then. 

Fourteen-years-and-three-hundred-forty-nine-days-old Chance had more balls than fourteen-years-and-two-hundred-one-days-old Chance. 

Marcus and I walked in like we owned the place — him smirking at the harlots and me glaring at every soul, wishing they were Callista so that I could grab her by the shoulders and ask her WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? 

Scrawny teenagers had been sitting at the bar, drinking, and there was a dank smell of piss and sex. I only knew what sex smelled like because I'd walked in on Marcus just finishing up shagging a girl and there had been a pungent scent in the air. 

"You're a horrible influence." I'd told Marcus as we walked in. 

My family was already under intense scrutiny. If anyone had found out about my being here, my parents' millions would barely be enough to salvage the Ambrose name. Barely be able to save it from being dragged through muck and mud. 

Marcus just clapped me on the back in response and wordlessly handed me a plain black cloth to tie around my face to mask my identity. He did the same. I looked a little less my-Daddy's-a-millionaire after that. Just a little. 

Still, I won my first fight. 

The yellow teeth owner — who no longer had yellow teeth — came up to congratulate me with that same, sly smirk. He didn't recognize me with the mask around my face, though. 

He dragged me — and so I dragged Marcus — to the supposed VIP lounge, which was pretty much the same as the rest of the place, only a bit more quiet and private. 

Losing my virginity in a seedy strip club to a (twenty-two-year-old, super hot) prostitute isn't my greatest achievement. 

At least I delighted her with a 50. Which she ended up spending on drugs that she forced me to snort with her, but that's beside the point. 

I came here every month since then with Marcus and his "borrowed" motorbikes. Until we got our own when we turned 16. 

The then flickering FLESHLIGHT? at present has deteriorated to FLE H  GH  ? 

We head past the bar, past the strip club, and down a narrow, decaying staircase that leads underground where the fights take place. 

Alfie, the yellow-teeth-owner-who-no-longer-had-yellow-teeth, spots us walking in and walks over to us with a holler. We ditched the masks last year. 

We exchange pleasantries. Drunkenries, actually. Marcus engages him while I see what new debaucheries this place has descended into. 

Joe is the co-owner of the place with Alfie. Nice guy. A very questionable appearance that sports a three-sixty-five-day leer and drunken smile, but a nice guy nonetheless. Except he's always horny. I don't say anything because I've begun to suspect it might be a medical or mental condition. 

Joe organizes the fights. I see him standing near the ring, writing board in hand. And beside him, I see a mop of bright blonde hair. Too clean and too shiny to belong to this rundown area. 

My jaw locks. 

Introducing Drake Valentino to this place sophomore year had been a bad idea. I realize that now as I see that smug, blonde, British, wannabe American asshole's face. Fucking White Knight. 

Finding him frequenting here after the introduction had been a pleasant surprise. 

He'd even won me 5k the last time — four months ago — I'd been here when I'd bet on his win in the ring. Good times. Times when Callista had reduced from a bloodthirsty bitch that hounded my heart to an irritating pang I'd grown accustomed to and nothing more. 

"Ay!" Joe waves me over when he sees me, eyes glinting. Ah, fuck. "C'mere, kid!" 

I manage a tight smile and head over to him, resolutely ignoring the presence of the blonde beside me. Finding him here went from being a pleasant surprise to a nasty reminder of a brunette in less than a week. 

Fuck you, Callista. You ruin everything. 

"Y'fightin' t'nigh'." Joe says as he shuffles closer to me, scribbling down my name. 

"Not really." 

My knuckles are still aching from when I'd continually smashed them against the wall Sunday evening. 

"Ain' a quest'n." He gives me a pointed look. 

"What? Too much of a pussy to get in the ring?" Drake's looking at me with a pretentious smirk as he turns sideways to Ryder, — how did I not see him? — who hands Drake some cotton wraps. 

"He's probably fantasizing about the new girl's cunt again." Ryder chuckles, then looks at me. Falters at the receiving end of my glare. "No offense, dude. That chic's hot as fuck. Too fucking bad Drake won't share." 

I turn my stare to Drake, asking for an elaboration on the degradation. He shrugs innocently. 

"Three min's, then you're in the rin', kid." Joe slaps my back, nodding toward the ring. His hand drops to my waist and he grins. Oh great, he's drunk. Watch him mess up the points. "An' ya too, Val'ntino." 

I'm fighting Drake Valentino? 

There could be worse things. 

I'm about to ask Ryder what the fuck he meant by Drake won't share, but I'm pulled through sweaty bodies — I hold my breath amidst the stench — over to the other side of the ring where Marcus joins me. 

"I thought you weren't fighting," he says, an incredulous arch in his brow. 

"Me too," I say dryly, cracking my neck. "Motherfucking Joe put my name against Drake without my consent. If I say no now, I'll just look like a pussy." 

"Time to watch you get your ass kicked," Marcus mumbles, grabbing a pair of cotton wraps from a plastic box and chucking them at me. 

I curl my lips. Those things aren't going anywhere near my cuts; I'm not planning on getting an infection. Besides, Drake's a ponce who can't handle his knuckles breaking skin. Doesn't mean I can't. 

"Fucking overpampered bastard, I'm telling you." 

Says the asshole who can't bother to pick up the fallen wraps and instead grabs another pair from the box. 

He pushes apart my crossed hands and wraps each of my knuckles. Then kisses each of them "for good luck". I raise my hand to flat-out bitch-slap him for the fucking audacity, but he blocks the attack. 

Whatever. 

"Death toll was only four this week," Alfie announces proudly as he appears beside us again. 

"Oh, that's comforting," I mutter, stripping off my shirt. He doesn't catch the sarcasm in my voice and smiles widely at my words, hands on his hip as the two, bulky men in the ring finish their fight. 

The bearded man grabs the bald man's head and slams his fist into his head repeatedly, backing him to the edge until the bald man slips off the edge and topples off the raised platform into a heap of body fat at the base of the ring. 

There are no ropes around the perimeter of the ring. No padded mat either. It's just a fifteen by fifteen raised cement platform painted bright blue years ago. The blue is now a blotched shade that resembles blunt force trauma, spotted with dry blood. 

The drunken crowd starts hollering at the victory and I spot faint traces of fresh blood on the cement. 

Valentino better slip on that and fall flat on his ass. It'll be the best sight ever. 

A conclusion I come to exactly three minutes later when Drake and I circle each other in the ring is that getting in the ring after four months without a single fight isn't that good of an idea. Especially when your knuckles are already busted and shrieking like a dying banshee. 

Well, shit happens. 

I'll survive. 

And I am not going to let this arsehole blonde knock me out and gloat about it later. Fuck no. 

We'd been pitted against each other only once before, and that was because Drake landed every other person on their ass and needed competition. 

I broke his nose and ribs that night. 

This time, he doesn't go on the offensive the second the shrill whistle blows. He waits, circles, and assesses, just as I do. Learning from the best, I see. 

"She told me all about you, you know." He's grinning, fists curling. 

What? 

My guard drops for a moment as my steps falter, my mind getting distracted. He strikes, right in my jaw, and I stumble back. 

His fist packs an evil punch. Sharp pain blossoms across my lower jaw like a venomous flower stretching its petals. 

The golden retriever's gone wolf.  

"She's still upset over the show you put on last night, and I don't like seeing my girl upset." 

I regain my balance and easily move my head the other way when he swings again, grabbing his arm and slamming my fist into his gut, below the ribs. His intestines better fucking dislocate. 

He doubles over and I bare my teeth as I smash my fist into his skull. My torn knuckles pulsate but I don't relent. 

He swipes my feet out from under me. My back and skull collide with the cement. I curse and push back, seeing Drake righting himself on his feet, the hand clutching his stomach gone. I roll over when his boot comes down to crush my face and get back on my feet behind him. 

He turns around but I'm quicker. I wrap an arm around his throat, kicking the back of his knees until he falls to his knees. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I bend and hiss into his ears, tightening my grip around his neck. 

He gasps for air, but that manic grin is still on his face. 

"Texted me," he rasps, pulling his head forward for momentum and then slamming it back against my face. My jaw gets the worst of it again. 

I stagger back as he turns around, and swing before he can. He grabs my arm and mirrors the move I did, going for my ribs but I slam my skull against his before he can, hissing, "And why the fuck would I care?" 

My vision blurs as my head begins throbbing and I blink away the haze. 

Valentino takes the moment to barrel toward me, forcing his eyes open. I'm not the only one whose head took a hit. 

He swings his elbow sharply against my ear, but instead of blocking the hit, I take it, simultaneously wrapping my arms around his torso once he gets close enough, slamming him to the ground with me. 

A faint ringing develops inside my ear from the impact of his hit. I grit my teeth and push through. 

I get on top of him, straddle his hips, and set my sights on mangling that smug face. 

"Last night," he continues, speaking just as I'm about to begin my assault. I pause, my lips curling into a snarl and leave his face alone to let him speak, hitting him right where I did before again. 

"All night," he coughs, splattering blood on his chest and mine. I halt. Fuck, he's not dying, is he? 

His lips stretch into another smile, ruby teeth winking at me. He takes my moment's hesitation and uses the grip my thighs have around his hips to roll over, switching positions before I can blink. 

"Facetiming. Her PJs are so fucking short and sexy. I'd drive over and fuck her senseless, but I like my girls willing." 

He bends forward, laughing like a madman, and then my skull smashes into concrete and a shout tears from my throat. 

"Bet you're thinking about her, aren't you? Her soft skin. Lips aching to be kissed, an ass asking to be bent over and defiled, a body that's begging to be destroyed." 

He's wild today. So I go feral too, fisting his hair when he leans down to break my skull again and pummelling my fist into his temple, but it lacks the force required to knock him out. 

He curses in pain and bitch-slaps me. That's worse than a punch. It's fucking degrading. 

What the fuck is up with the bitch-slaps today? 

His forearm crushes my throat as he leans forward, ignoring my fists pounding against his ribs and temples. The pain combined with his inability to stop grinning makes him appear delirious. Deranged. 

I struggle against the forearm weighing down on my Adam's apple, crushing my larynx and windpipe. 

Black spots cloud my vision and I throw my hand out, ready to tap out, until he speaks again. 

"You could have her too." My eyelids flutter, the pressure against my ears building up. "You just have to ask nicely. Not threaten to fuck her in front of the entire school. It's as easy as that. I mean, I got her, didn't I? We had so much fun today at school. Pity you missed it. What were you doing? Alternating between sucking Sawyer's and Marcus' cocks?" 

What the fuck is he on about? 

Callista has standards. Standards that this— this fucking motherfucker will never meet. He's blonde, for fuck's sake. What the fuck could be worse? 

"We could share her, you know." I can't think, can't breathe; my neck's going to snap, I'm going to die; I'm going to be murdered by a blonde Brit. 

"Your micro-dick won't satisfy her goddess-cunt—" A break in his voice and he coughs again. "I'll let you have her mouth. Bet you wouldn't last a minute in her throat. I'll let her pussy make a mess on my cock and then I'll let your throat make me come. Or are Sawyer's privileges exclusive?" 

I don't fucking suck anyone's cock, what the fuck is he high on— 

I tear out a page from Callista's book and jam my knee into his spine, his back arching backward and a scream tearing from his mouth as his hands abandon their assault on me. 

And I don't fucking have a micro-dick. 

"Bloody bastard!" he shouts, butchering the letter R as his neck snaps back.   

I buck him off me, knee pressing down his chest as I push him forward, teeth gnashing as I glare a hole between his eyes. 

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you today?" 

His eyes flutter, still in pain, and I take my revenge as I bitch-slap him right back, and, because I fucking can, do it again. I grab the back of his neck, fist the hair curling around the nape, then pound my fist into his maxilla, his temporal, the protrusion of his Adam's apple. Then thrice in his gut. 

He stills underneath me, breath ragged, uneven, coughing, sputtering blood again, and then he's throwing his head back and whooping like he won the Most Charming Male Grin Award, 2023. 

And then he slaps the cement thrice, tapping out. 

My chest is heaving, my body aching, my skull pounding, my vision doubling, and my ears ringing. 

The pressure in my ears dissipates as I take a breath and the world comes rushing down to tackle me back into my surroundings. 

Clamor rises from around us as the crowd roars, a stark contrast to the mute rage that was driving me the entire fight. 

I cast a derogatory look at Drake before moving off him, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back, whispering into my ears, "Oh wait, you lost your chance. She's mine now." 

I grab his head and bash it against the concrete. 

Knocking him out cold. 

●⁍●⁍●  

She's still upset over the show you put on last night. 

She's still upset. 

She's upset.  

I can't sleep that night. Cold sweat sticks to my sheets despite the air conditioner. Shouldn't have had that cup of coffee after dinner. 

We had so much fun today at school. 

The sleepless night passes uneventfully. I spend part of it buried under my black comforter, part of it on the carpeted floor, part of it on my balcony, and part of it underwater. 

You could have her too. 

We could share her. 

Yeah, right. Ask me again in Hell. 

I lounged in warm water in the corner bath briefly until my idle mind drifted to thoughts of a five-five woman with a teasing smile and bright, enticing eyes, luring me toward her. Wrapping her legs around my waist and toying with me with languid strokes. Until she turns feral and wrings out her release and rips away before I can find my own. Taunting. 

I drew an ice bath in the jetted bathtub after that. 3 am thoughts have no business being so intrusive, distracting, illusory, and offensive. 

When I head downstairs half an hour later to grab a glass of water, I hear a noise from outside. 

I head to the living room to unlock the front door and check it out but I only make it to the threshold of the room until the door in question flies open. 

I'm at a loss for words at the scene. 

The lights are off and all I can make out are two silhouettes. Dad pushes in through the door, Mom clinging to him, barely standing on her own, shaking so much, crying, and I blanch. 

He sweeps her off her feet and into his arms, shoulders hunching as he bends over and whispers something to her. Her arms wrap around his neck, holding tightly. Hysterical mumbling of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

My heart clenches with dread. 

"What—" 

My voice cuts off as his head snaps to me. His body goes still, pulling her closer to him until he sees that it's just me. The hairs on my nape and arms lift. 

"Go to your room, Chance." His voice is strained, tired. A lethal edge of festering rage. I swallow. 

In the dim moonlight of the last quarter, the silhouetted figures of my parents look like a picture out of a book. A chapter commencing with mute dread and doom. 

I lean my back against the wall and my clammy fingers scramble against the wall as I hunt for the light switch. Rooted to the spot as my pulse spikes. 

"Don't fucking turn on the light." My hand halts at the command in his voice. 

The shadow of a mass of hair whips through the air. Hair that I would recognize in the light as raven black. 

My mother looks at me, face and expression masked by the darkness. I faintly hear another low, painful sob. Is she hurt? 

And then I'm taking a step forward, about to run up to them and ask what the fuck. 

"Go to your room, Chance, please," she says, repeating my father's words. The shakiness and outright anguish in her voice make my face turn ashen. My stomach turns to stone. It isn't a command; it's a plea. 

I can't— 

But my father doesn't seem inclined to move until I leave. 

The terror is cleaving me apart. "Will you be alright?" I ask her, my own voice trembling. 

Something's happened.  

"Yes," both my parents say together. 

Something's happened and my mother's hurt and she's crying and neither of my parents wants me to know what's going on. 

They aren't going to tell me anything, I realize. 

The wind blows through the front door and brings with it the scent of car exhaust and grass. The silence is interrupted only by the loud, ragged breathing of my father. 

"Okay." I whisper and my feet somehow carry me out of the room. 

I shut my bedroom door behind me wordlessly, mute terror still cloaking me like a second skin. Lean against the door. Hands running through my hair, fisting them anxiously. I run a hand down my face. Movements numb. 

I sit down at the foot of my bed, head in my hand for a while until I lie down. Gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

I have a brand new reason for my present insomnia. 

A heartwrenching feeling of dread. 

SCREAMING RN CUZ IF ONLY YALL READ (and if i published) LORENZO BEFORE THIS—