Foreigner

Chapter 32: Shameless

The first thing I notice is the hum.

Low and muffled, like distant bees vibrating behind the wall. I blink blearily at the wall, then down at the arm slung across my chest. Christian's. His entire body curves behind mine in his bunk, breath steady against the back of my neck, warm and almost calm.

Almost.

His grip is too tight to be unconscious. His fingertips slither between my ribs and the mattress, his bicep flexing to pull me closer.

"Christian," I murmur, glancing at him over my shoulder.

He doesn't respond. Just exhales, then mutters, "What time is it?"

"Almost eight," I say, opening my phone and listening to the buzz outside. It's no normal morning shuffle. It's a swarm.

Christian lifts his head. "They've found him."

I twist around, and he lets me. His blonde hair's a mess, eyes still half-shut, but that undercurrent of tension is already flickering back to life under his skin.

Looking at him like this lights a fire in my abdomen.

"I guess we should go see the damage," I say, swallowing and trying to get my head back on straight.

He watches me, his face just a few inches away. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did."

He lets his eyes slide over my lips for a moment, thinking whether to lean in... But then he sighs and climbs out of bed, leaving me a little disappointed. Eventually, I follow, grabbing my sweatshirt from the chair. Neither of us says much while we dress. We don't need to. Our silence is comfortable, but loaded with unsaid feelings.

By the time we open the door, the hallway's nearly empty—everyone has already moved.

The gym.

The buzz sharpens the closer we get. A couple of first-years scurry past us like we might set them on fire. Someone mutters something about "sick" and "no way." We step through the gym doors just as the whispering fractures into full, breathless awe.

There he is.

Elliot Hale. Zip-tied to the basketball pole.

Still in his jersey, his mouth duct-taped. His legs are bare, boxers and pants both yanked down to his ankles, exposing everything. The sign on his chest flaps slightly with the breeze of the gym's ancient fan.

ELLIOT HALE – THE PERVERT

For a moment, no one sees us. They're too busy gaping, frozen in that uncomfortable space between horror and glee. Half the school is here. Phones are out. A few kids are laughing. Most are too stunned.

Then a ripple goes through them.

Someone turns. Eyes widen.

And like that, they start to part for us.

I take a step forward. The squeak of my shoe on the floor echoes louder than it should. Every head turns. Some look away immediately. Some stare.

Julian, the former ginger bully, is among them—dead-eyed and silent. He sees me and looks down, almost like he approves.

Max stands near the bleachers, arms crossed. No expression. No words.

A kid near the back whispers, "You think it was him?"

Another replies, "Who else would have the balls?"

Christian leans in and growls angrily, low enough only I hear, "I would've ripped him in half for touching you. He got off easy."