22
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Levittown High
September 26, 2018
4:25 p.m.

SCHOOL IS MOSTLY EMPTY during this time.

The majority of the student body is long gone, tucked away in their houses by their parents' order to hide from whatever dangerous being lurks in the night. The jocks are out in the football field, running some laps in preparation for a practice game. Their calves are probably burning from the pressure, bodies soaked in sweat as they breathe out strings of curses. They must be used to the muscular pain.

The cheerleaders are practicing their traditional routine in the school's gym, probably searching for ideas to twist the monotony in their moves and change it to something worth seeing. Something like extra cartwheels and extension stunts. Not exactly new, but it's different from what we're used to watching. Some students take Advanced Classes, so they stay until late with their study groups. They always want to be one step ahead of the teacher, a million steps ahead from the rest of the students.

I'm in Advanced Science, but I can't be bothered with it anymore. It's not the same as a couple of months ago. There was a time when I loved science so much that I wanted to become a doctor. Before Melody's murder, I was still indecisive on the field I wanted to specialize on. All I knew was that I had to become a professional doctor. Senior year was supposed to be the year where I focused on my career choice, college, my future. Now I don't have that option.

The girl who could tolerate blood and dreamed to help people by becoming a doctor is long gone, buried away alongside Melody. I can't stand the sight of blood anymore, let alone the thought of it. What stands in the place of that hopeful girl is a weak, pathetic shadow of what she used to be; what she was going to become.

I sigh as I walk through these empty halls, my boots' heels clicking against the marble floor. There's a silence in here that's only interrupted by the distant sound of the cheerleaders singing in unison. From time to time, the sound of the coach's whistle vibrates through the metal lockers, and his constant screaming penetrates the concrete walls.

"You call that a field goal?!" His voice booms through the school. "Faster, faster, faster. Am I not being loud enough?"

I open my locker and search for some books, rearranging the order of things inside it and stuffing the needed books in my bag. Suddenly, a note slips out, zig-zagging and twirling in the air until it lands safely in front of my feet. I crouch down and stare at it for a second. It's folded once down the middle, my name typed on its bottom right corner. As I pick it up, my legs aching as I stand straight, I notice how small it is on the palm of my hand. My eyebrows knit together the longer I stare at it, its pale beige surface so different from Melody's letters. I unfold the note and-

"Tara, I didn't know they let suspects in school premises," Polly says, her high-pitched voice loud and obnoxious. "That's, like, a threat to our safety."

I roll my eyes while throwing the note inside my locker. Instead of reacting to her pathetic attempt to get my attention, I continue to rummage for some books in case I forget one for my study section with Catalina and Micah.

"Totally," Tara says, her squeaky voice bouncing on the walls all around us. "If there's the possibility that she killed Melody, then what would she do to girls like us?"

"Nah. She's not capable of killing," Polly mumbles. "But she is of lying."

My grip tightens around a Math book, all my body paralyzing as it grows alert. She isn't worth my time, I have to remind myself. I stuff the book inside my bag with rigid movements, my body probably appearing tense from the back.

"Still, someone has to be a special type of rotten to keep a secret like that," Tara remarks, a sugary mocking tone coating her annoying voice. "That's, like, helping the killer."

Polly hums in agreement. "An accomplice to a crime, I think it's called. It doesn't come as a surprise, really. It's simply history repeating itself."

"Doesn't help her a lot to look like her sick mother."

The mention of my mother in her voice awakens something violent within me. Nobody's allowed to talk about her as if they knew her, as if they know what really happened. Only my father. I feel the tears rising up as I throw a book in my locker, hard enough for the metallic sound to rattle for a few seconds. My father's words float in my mind like a whisper, a soothing humming that makes me flutter my eyes shut.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. My heartbeats come down to a normal pace. The violence goes back to its deep slumber.

"At least her mommy was thin." Polly giggles, coming close to my ear. I feel her warm, strawberry breath fanning my exposed neck. "Poor, Alexa. She got to inherit her mother's demented mind, not her looks."

I slam the locker shut, my hands curling into tight fists. Polly whimpers behind me, and I turn around to face her. "Look, Polly, I'm not in the mood to fight."

Polly stands tall and glorious, a couple of feet taller than me, her vibrant blonde hair swept back graciously into a high ponytail. Her big, blue eyes stay focused on me and the fairness of her skin is accentuated by the ceiling lights that currently surround her, almost making her seem holy.

Almost.

With a raised eyebrow and my jaw set, I look over her shoulder to find Tara smirking. Her strawberry blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in loose curls, the soft pigment accentuating her sparkly green eyes. Her sun kissed skin complements her flawless hair, and the freckles that dot on her thin nose spread as her smirk widens.

My eyes shift from her to Polly again, who's looking down at me. I suddenly feel so small in comparison to them. They're tall and thin and effortless, the complete opposite of me. Heck, even the sheen of sweat that covers their bodies make them look effortless, the blue and white cheerleader uniform some sort of symbol to their social position in this school. They could be beautiful, if only they weren't so intentionally mean - so consciously dark.

"Sure seems like it," Polly mumbles, looking down at my fists. "Now tell me, Alexa, do you feel it? Your mother's insanity, coursing through your blood?"

I do. It's always been there in preparation to wake up... in preparation for something or someone to ignite it. The darkness is coursing through my blood, hot and nasty, constructing thoughts in my mind, things I shouldn't want. It's in the dangerous palpitations of my heart, the rapid swelling of my veins. It is me, giving in to my mother's side. What's the saying? Like father, like son? Does it apply to women, too?

Like mother, like daughter. It has a nice ring to it.

It doesn't matter now. All I want is to connect my fist to Polly's face, feel the bone crushing beneath my knuckles, hear the wail of pain that'll emit from her stupid lips. I want to leave a pretty nasty bruise on her perfect skin, purple and painful and permanent. It will remind me of what I did. Somehow, that will make me feel powerful.

Just when I take a step forward, my fist ready to plunge at her face, Christopher comes out of nowhere and holds me back. As his strong arm pushes against my torso, his shoulder grazing my right temple, he smiles at Polly.

"What's going on here?"

"Nothing," she says, fluttering her eyelashes as she steps back. "Just Alexa over here being her savage self."

She's a mean version of Melody. The thought scares me, makes me tremble. Christopher notices. Without looking at me, he wraps his hand around my hip and soothes my burning skin by drawing circles with his thumb.

"Really?" he says, a mocking edge to his voice. "Takes a savage to know one, wouldn't you say?"

"Really, Christopher?" Tara says, rolling her eyes. "You're defending her?"

He smiles brightly at her, the way I adore to see him smile - showing his teeth, his chin propelled high to define his sharp jawline, his blue eyes crinkling just the slightest around the corners.

"Where are we, Tara, in second grade?" he says, laughing. "Alexa can defend herself just fine as you can see. As much as I would've loved to see her punching the shit out of you guys, I couldn't allow it. She's not at fault here."

Polly's expression changes to one I know so well. It's not serious or angry, it's dark. Dangerous. Her eyebrows are furrowed, eyes squinted in a pointed glare, her body shaking as her hands ball into fists, like a child who's about to have a petty tantrum.

"Being mean and nasty doesn't make you guys cool." He continues, and by the tone of his voice, he's already bored with this pointless conversation. He even yawns to demonstrate his disinterest with them.

Polly bites the tip of her forefinger softly, rolling her eyes as she thinks about the petty thing she's probably about to say. She's so predictable. "Oh, I almost forgot. You're definitely a daddy's boy."

Tara snorts a laugh and clears her throat when noticing how ugly it sounds. Christopher's smile drops just as fast as it came, and his body stiffens against me. He covers half of my body from them with his own, his shoulders squaring, body feeling like it's about to explode.

I'm lost in between what she just said and Christopher's murderous glare.

"Come on, Tara. Let's not waste our time here." She snakes her arm around Tara's shoulders. "He's just defending her 'cause he's as rotten."

Tara giggles, her lips curving to form a malicious smile. "You're right, P. They're exactly the same."

Polly steers her toward the direction of the gym, but before walking away, she turns around to look at me. "Oh well, at least my mommy doesn't support a serial killer."

I launch toward her again, but Christopher holds me back gently. My torso is bent over his arm, which is now in between my breasts, and I try to reach for her knowing well that she's too far away. Polly laughs and Tara laughs and their echoes make it seem as if the school is laughing as well. Laughing at me. I don't know why that hits me so hard, but it does. It makes me seem pathetic.

Their laughter continues, it rings through all the halls they pass, until they enter the gym. My body is left buzzing and vibrating, the adrenaline still coursing through it. It doesn't help that Christopher's touch feels electrifying against my boiling skin, so I detach from his hold and press my back on the set of lockers. They rattle against me.

I'm not my mother. I'm only a product of her, still my own. As I uncoil my fists, I see a little of her in me. It's in the puffy indentations left behind by my nails, the proof I held my violent self for too long. They're wine red, my blood pressing on my skin to find a release. My eyes are glassy as I look up at Christopher, the marks throbbing on the palms of my hands.

He embraces me and it's then I notice the uncontrollable shaking of my body. His strong arms hold me in place. They're steady as I nuzzle closer to his chest, my ear pressed against his left pectoral to hear the beating of his heart. It's loud and aggressive, each bump anxious to produce another one. His skin is cold with the kind of sweat that comes after a heavy work out, but his body heat is there, finding its way to my body, warming my heart. I breathe in his natural scent, the one that transports me to the memory of us.

The memory of what I can do to his body, how it reacts to me.

"Are you okay?" Christopher pulls away from me, his hands gripping my shoulders now.

I groan, my face twisting. "I just want to smash her fucking head in."

"You don't really want that," he coos, wrapping one of my loose curls around his finger.

I laugh, but it's the kind of laugh that teeters between adoration and anxiety. "I do."

He stops twirling my curl abruptly, his expression turning dead serious as he glances down at me. "No, you don't," he says, firmly. "That's just your anger talking. Breathe with me."

More like my darkness speaking.

He takes my face between his hands, squeezing my cheeks a little as he smiles, and we begin to breathe in unison. My back is still pressed to the lockers, but now his body is close to mine, almost pressing against it. Our chests inflate and deflate in sync, both our lips puckered to exaggerate the exercise. The more we breathe, the more turned on I get. I can see it in his eyes too, the unforgiving lust. Our breaths turn into pants as we both think of that moment, and my heavy pants become weak moans. I want to kiss him so bad.

The darkness has turned into lust, and I guess it's normal. Lust is dangerous and my darkness has to feed off of something. But it doesn't help that I'm horny in the middle of the fucking hall, a distance away from both the football and cheerleading practices. The only sound echoing around these empty halls is of his breathing and my moans. If someone's out here, they might be thinking we're having sex.

The thing is, I don't really care in this moment.

He hoists me up from the ground, the sudden action making me gasp. A little smirk curves on his lips as he presses me harder against the lockers, and I can't resist the urge to wrap my legs around his hips. Fuck, this place turns me on, and he turns me on, and being with him in this intimate position turns me on. God, how can I tell this guy I want to ride his fucking beautiful face?

"You want me here?" he breathes, coming close to my neck to leave little kisses that trail to my collarbones. I tremble, a soft moan escaping my lips. "Fuck, you're making me so hard."

I don't care if he just wants me for sex right now, if it's the only thing he's looking for. It's so good to feel this alive after everything that's happened, everything that left me feeling numb and dead. My body relinquishes to the feeling of his soft lips against my neck, the nibbling and biting and sucking and kissing. He does it so expertly, knowing very well what I like, what makes me obsess. I want the same thing done to my lips; I want his hands all over my body.

I want him. Here. Now.

He senses my urge, knows my needs, so he positions himself between my thighs with his Lycra tights on. My legs are still wrapped around his hips, a little lower now so I can feel his hard on. We dry hump slowly as he rubs and squeezes everything he can from my body, his face burying in the crook of my neck. His breath is hot against my skin, his tongue sweet on my neck. Our slow dry humping picks up momentum and I can feel myself trembling, my eyes rolling back involuntarily.

If this feels great, I can't imagine how it would be if we were naked and had limitless privilege to what we could do to each other's body. Well, I can. My eyes shift around the empty hall as I go up and down, up and down.

"Nice shorts," I breathe, my voice raspy.

He laughs a breathy laugh and looks at me. "You like the view." I do. "Nice bra. Would sure like to rip it off with my teeth."

My cheeks warm up. He actually complimented something about my body. Indirectly. I don't know how to feel about it, maybe my fluttering stomach can help me. We stop with the humping to catch our breaths, but then I remember where I'm at. At school, dry humping the most beautiful guy I know. The most fun and energetic. As I look at the vulnerability in his blue eyes, and he sees me completely vulnerable, we laugh.

This is crazy, but it's so addicting.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck as he continues to carry me.

"What do you mean? I'm always here for football practice," he says, smiling. "What are you doing here?

"You know what I mean," I say, laughing for no apparent reason. I'm just so drunk on him and can't get enough. "You came just in time. I could've murdered her."

As soon as I realize what came out of my mouth, my heart stops. I flinch, but Christopher seems unaffected.

"Not literally. God, I didn't mean-"

He beams. "I know what you mean. I'm no cop or lawyer, so anything you say stays with me. I won't use it against you."

"Well, don't make it sound so conspiratorial," I whisper, coming close to his lips. "You haven't answered my question."

"I left my water bottle in my locker."

"You have one in the guys' locker room. Plus, your locker isn't even in this hall." I arch an eyebrow, taking his lower lip between my teeth.

I nibble on it for a little bit, loving the amount of confidence I have right now to be teasing him like this. When I release it, it rolls back to its place with a wet sound. "You got me. I was skipping practice. I'm already sweating like a pig and my back hurts."

I hum, wondering why he isn't as bothered to be sweating right now. As always, I hope it's because of me. This is what happens when you really, really, really like a guy: you expect more from him, want more from him after getting kind of freaky with him. My heart tightens. Melody said he only cared about sex. He doesn't do love, and I want love from him. Love and sex and everything that comes with it.

He starts leaving wet kisses along my jawline. "Won't take coach long to-"

Someone clears their throat loudly. "Shaw."

We both look to the side to see coach Pratt standing there, a clipboard on his large hand, his fair skin turning slightly red. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

Fuck. This looks bad. We keep staring at each other for what seems to be minutes, neither one of us willing to talk. It's clear to me that Christopher is dying to laugh but is containing himself so I don't get in trouble. This can mean detention and calling my father. The embarrassment of having to have "the talk" with him again. I can already hear the philosophical phrases he learned in college, the "I only want you to be safe" crap mentality that only a psychologist can pull off.

I pull out of this weird reverie and notice that my legs are still wrapped around Christopher, that he's pressing harder against me so the coach can't see his very prominent hard on, that my breasts look like they're about to pop out of my thin fabric shirt, a strap lowered so you can see the beginning of my bra. It also doesn't help that I have huge breasts. In the eyes of the coach, I probably look guilty.

I wriggle out of Christopher's hold, stand on my feet and bring the strap back up on my shoulder. My heart pumps, pumps, pumps. It doesn't seem like it's going to slow down at any minute. Christopher turns to me, hiding his less noticeable hard on from him. At least it's coming down. The sight of the coach must've discouraged him. God, this is so embarrassing.

Coach Pratt clears his throat again. "I didn't give you a break to fool around. Get your butt on the field. Now."

"I'm coming," Christopher says, winking at me.

"Now, Shaw!"

He rolls his eyes, placing a hand on the crook of my neck and rubbing on the spot he nibbled on. "We'll talk about you-know-what later."

He jogs toward his coach, his member finally flaccid.

"'We'll talk about you-know-what.'" Coach Pratt mimics, hitting him on the back of his head with the clipboard.

As they walk away, I can hear the coach cursing at him, repeating how stupid it is to be doing those things in school. So far, he's not going to give us detention or tell the principal about it. Something about wanting Christopher in the next game and a warning to never do it again.

I let out a loud sigh and press my forehead against the locker's cool metal. My skin is hot, everything about me is burning. I was left with a throbbing and pulsing in between my thighs. There's also the warm liquid that's pooling down my panty, drenching it with its wet and sticky texture. Great.

I take out my phone and look at the hour. 5:04 p.m. Four minutes late to my study section with Micah and Catalina, four minutes that'll turn into twenty. My smile is wide as I open my locker for the last time in search of something missing. Instead, I find the pale beige note. Almost forgot about it. I unfold it and encounter with a short message typed on a computer, a message that makes my body grow cold.

I'm always watching. I'm everywhere. I'm omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient. Be careful. You wouldn't want to end up like Melody, would you?

•Word count: 3,702•

I usually update during the weekends, but today's my birthday!!!! This is a treat from a very excited birthday girl to you ♡ I already have pre written chapters, it's time to update!!!

So, there are several things happening in this chapter and I want to know your opinion on all of them. We have that conversation with Polly and Tara. We have Christopher defending Alexa, then fooling around with her (which has a purpose for being there, like everything else in the book, I promise).

Is it out of character, for them to be fooling around? Or have they been like that before? I'll let you think it through.

AND, my favorite part, THE NOTE. Dun dun dun. Things just got a little more real... and dark. What does it mean? Does it have a meaning? Can you guess who or what sent it? Is it a coincidence that she's receiving this note now or... ?

PS. The picture below the note is of the famous U symbol with a cross on its center. It's important that you have Internet access to see it!!!!

Feel free to correct any grammatical errors, but be kind about it. Tell me what you think of this chapter.

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