The Bad Boy Kissed Me *ON HOLD*

Fight

This whole week sucks.

Sighing, I shift to the right to avoid being trampled by some of the football team. Surprisingly, one of the biggest—and I mean over six feet and stacked with muscle—players, Graham Scott, locks eyes with me before we get close. He nods and turns to the side to give me room to walk by.

"Thanks," I mutter, hurrying forward. I don't need to know that the others are whispering about me—they talk like I can't hear.

"Damn, Graham, you're afraid of Christos, too?"

I don't know who said it, but the group laughs and carries on walking.

"You could take him, bro," another says.

"Nah," Graham's baritone voice carries down the hall. "Gabe fights dirty, and I just got my wrist fixed."

My face heats, and I duck my head down when more students pass—all staring. This has been my life all week! Stares, mentions of Gabe beating up anyone who does anything unpleasant toward me, and more stares. If only they knew the broody bad boy wants nothing to do with me now.

I haven't spoken to him, haven't made eye contact with him—I haven't even heard him speak. Nothing. We have one class together—Mrs. Anderson's English class—but he never looks my way. I don't know why I said what I did to him that night. Well, I do. I've had time to think about and accept I made things awkward. I lied to myself that he was just a bad boy and a fun daydream. My heart had latched on to his presence, and the moment someone too close to my ugly past got close, I lashed out like a jealous weirdo.

He can fuck Heather. He can fuck Becca. He can smirk if I accidentally look into his room, and there's nothing wrong with it. He took up for me while I did nothing for him. He owed me nothing that night.

I want to apologize, but I don't know if it's worth it. He hasn't had Heather over again. The only time I saw someone entering his house was two evenings ago when he brought some guy over. His friend spotted me bringing in the mail and waved. Gabe didn't even look. He just kept walking even though his friend was greeting me.

A roar of noise has me looking up, and my knees lock at the stairwell entrance.

"Fight, fight, fight!"

Gabe shoves Clayton with both hands to the chest, knocking him into two older guys who don't look like they go to our school. One of the men stumbles with Clayton and falls to the floor, but the bigger guy takes a swing at Gabe.

Shouts of encouragement are yelled for both sides, and Gabe ducks the punch before slamming his fist into the guy's stomach. The other older guy, who looks like an older Clayton with his muddy brown hair and beady eyes, retaliates, rushing Gabe and smashing him into the wall.

I yelp, moving to the side as people cheer because Gabe still manages to hold his own against three. Granted, Clayton stays out of Gabe's reach.

I'm not one to condone fighting, but I won't lie and say watching Gabe's taunting smile as he delivers devastating punches to the two other men as they try to rush him again makes a tingle of excitement race down my spine. There's a strange beauty to his movements. He's confident, and every swing has so much power that the crowd winces at the sound of his fists smashing against their faces.

It's unhealthy to be giddy about seeing him with some emotion again, even taunting anger, but who cares? I'd rather have a Gabe with feelings who ignores me than one who seems empty and still ignores me.

"Teachers," yells someone in the crowd.

Everyone scatters in a mad scramble to get up the stairs or into the main hall. I'm smashed against the wall, but I catch Clayton running up the stairs, and the two men slip out the doors to the parking lot.