Lollipops and Vodka Shots

[i.] #broken noses

this story contains strong language, mild sexual content (and references to sexual things), drug use, underage drinking, and tackles sensitive topics that i'll warn you as they appear (if i told you now, it'd kind of blow everything). if you already don't like the sound of that, this isn't the story for you.                                                        

                                                   CHAPTER ONE

IT DOESN'T COME as a surprise that when I storm into the school building on Wednesday morning, there's no Lane Rousseau in sight. People aren't running in fear or gossiping among themselves in either adoration or worry. He must not be here yet or, hell, probably not showing up at all. It isn't the first time and it sure as hell won't be the last.

          Did he predict me going on a rapid search to find his wandering ass? If so, then the jokes on him—I've got sources. Bitch better watch out.

        An arm drapes over my shoulder.  “Hey, pretty face,” a husky voice with a cute accented twist whispers beside my ear.  I am already on the edge and this abrupt meeting doesn't help. So, on instinct, my fingers curl into a fist and jerk upwards to the source of the voice, and then halt inches away from the familiar face once the voice registers in my ears.  Riley Marchetti stares down at me with a baffled smile.  “Why so serious?”

          I flash him an apologetic look and lower my fist. “Sorry, Riley. I'm just a little on edge is all.”

          “Tell Daddy about it, won't you?” he coaxes with his infamous flirtatious smile.

         I roll my eyes. Oh Riley.  “I'm going to refrain from seriously punching you in the face and talk to you, cause I need to get this off my chest,” I rant, half-serious. By now, I'm used to Riley and his typical flirting nature. It's just how he is. Still, he needs to stop sneaking up on me like that—his voice sounds way too akin to that of Lane's and they kind of look alike. I think they're actually related, but I'm not too sure on that. I don't exactly like knowing anything about Lane Rousseau; that way, if the cops come to get me, I can honestly say I don't know anything about the suspect and why the poor victim is in a dumpster.

          “Talk to me,” Riley demands, guiding me to his locker.

          “Lane fuckin' Rousseau,” I growl out.

          “Ouch. Someone's mad,” Riley teases the obvious. “What about him?”

        “The son of a dick asked Sophia out a date that's supposedly not really a date a couple weeks back,” I explain, wrath lining my voice at the mere memory of my best friend recalling their freakish little hangout. Riley's hazel eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. I nod and he gestures for me to go on. “He's probably thinking about the positions he wants to try out on her or the drugs he wants to smuggle with her. Maybe even—”

          “That math homework he wants to work on with her?” Riley offers with a joking smile. I send him an icy glare. “. . . Or the drugs he wants to smuggle with her.”

         “Get real, Marchetti,” I say in a flat tone. “He doesn't know the first thing about math or work or even home. His home is the house of whatever girl he's tricked into sleeping with his STD invested coc—”

        “Damn, pretty face,” Riley swiftly cuts in, giving me a once-over. I take a deep breath in a futile effort to calm myself down. “I sense extreme hostility.”

        “Well, your senses are correct,” I grumble. “When I find him, I'm going to sweetly waltz over to him, smile, wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze until he turns blue. Then I'll tell him to kindly fuck off. It's the perfect plan.” Hearing it outloud makes it sound even better. I'm one hundred percent serious on my plans. I wanted to avoid him for the rest of my high school life, but it's a little too late for that, isn't it? He chose to breathe Sophia's frail air, so the end is near.