I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked faster, ignoring the way people stepped aside like I was contagious, staring at me.
I knew this would happen.
Still.
It didn't make it easier.
I counted steps to my locker just to keep my brain from spiraling.
But the second I turned the corner…
The time I got to my locker, the first thing I saw… was my own face.
Dozens of copies of that one photo from the night I got arrested, blood on my shirt, my eyes wide and dazed, surrounded by flashing police lights , my cuffed arms, taped all over the locker door.
Above it, someone had scrawled in bold red marker:
MURDERER.
Below it, in black permanent ink:
ASHLICKER.
And it wasn't just my locker.
It was the walls too. All down the hallway. That same damn picture. That same damn word.
Like someone had printed them overnight and made it their personal mission to plaster them everywhere.
I just stood there, frozen.
Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
I felt every pair of eyes on me, waiting for me to scream or cry or punch a wall.
But I didn't give them the satisfaction.
I peeled one of the posters off the locker slowly. My hands were shaking. My throat felt like it was closing.
My fingers hovered over the word MURDERER, tracing it like it might disappear if I stared long enough.
Then I heard it.
A laugh echoed behind me.
I turned slowly.
It was Ian.
Of course it was Ian.
Leaning against a locker, arms crossed, like he just won a game no one else knew was happening. His cronies were already snickering, trying to hide their phones as they took pictures of me staring at the mess.
"You look better in print," Ian smirked. "That whole mugshot vibe suits you."
My fists clenched.
Just breathe.
I didn't say anything. I turned back to the locker, started peeling the pictures off one by one. My fingers trembled, but I kept going.
Rip. Rip. Rip.
One by one, like it didn't hurt.
Like every tear wasn't tearing something in me too.
"Aw, c'mon," Ian called out mockingly. "You're no fun, Rivera. At least smile for the camera. Where's that famous rage they said you had?"
People were watching. From behind lockers. Around corners. No one said anything. Just watched.
I folded the posters. Neatly. Carefully. Slipped it into my bag.
Then I reached out and opened my locker.
Inside?
Even more posters. Stuffed into it. Falling out like a sick confetti.
And a dead rat.
Wrapped in a plastic bag.
The smell hit me.
I slammed the door shut.
My breath caught. The bile rose in my throat.
I could feel the hallway watching, waiting for my next move.
But I was getting good at ignoring those.
Ian sneered, holding up one of the printed-out photos of me getting shoved into the police car. "Autograph it for me, Rivera?"
Laughter followed.
But Ian wasn't done. He moved closer.
"What? Murderer? You did that to my friend."
And that was when I heard it.
"Back off, Ian," a voice said.
My chest tightened before I even turned.
Dominic Vale.
Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets. Two shadows trailing behind him…two other guys from the circle people called the 'Twins,' Jasper and Casper. They were lanky with brown hair and hazel eyes.
He looked at me. Then at Ian.
Then back at me.
"Ash," Dominic said, "We need to talk."
I didn't move.
I just stared ahead, gripping the strap of my backpack tighter.
"Ash." His voice followed me as I started walking away.
But I didn't stop.
"What the hell, I'm talking to you," he growled.
I turned, my throat burning from everything I'd held in.
"For once," I snapped, "just leave me the fuck alone."
The hallway fell quiet. Eyes widened. Ian whistled under his breath like this was the best episode of reality TV he'd seen all week.
And then…
Dominic moved.
Fast.
One second I was standing.
The next…
SLAM.
My back hit the locker. Hard. The cold metal clanged behind me.
Dominic's face was inches from mine, his breath hot against my skin, his hands caging me in. His eyes were wild, locked with mine, burning with something I couldn't name.
I gasped, fists clenched, but I couldn't push him away.
I didn't even know if I wanted to.
His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, and god….his cologne.
He smells so good…like heaven.
He wasn't saying anything. Just breathing hard. Too close. Too intense. Too….
"Let. Me. Go," I whispered.
But my voice cracked halfway through.
He didn't.
He just stared at me like I'd just punched him in the gut.
This was supposed to be another humiliation.
But the way his fingers twitched…
The way his eyes flicked from my mouth back up again…
The way my whole body betrayed me by not stepping away….
It didn't feel like bullying.
It felt like something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
And just like that, I hated him all over again….For making my heart race.
For making me forget…just for a second, why I was supposed to hate him.