Bad guy (REWRITTEN)

Chapter 27

BILLIE

The drive home felt longer than ten minutes every red light stretched into eternity, every turn a reminder of the hollow ache that had settled under my ribs like wet cement. I kept the windows up, radio off, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of my own frustrated exhale. The video from yesterday looped in my head on mute: me frozen with red dripping down my face, Billie smirking like she'd won something. No audio, thank god. But the image was enough. Enough to make my fingers tighten on the wheel until the leather creaked.

I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Boxes everywhere. Moving truck idling next door like it was waiting for permission to leave. New neighbors. Great. Exactly what I needed more people to pretend around.

Inside, the house smelled like cumin and roasted vegetables. Mom was at the counter, arranging vegan cookies and cut fruit in that little wicker basket she dragged out for every welcoming committee she'd ever invented. I tried to slip past the kitchen doorway.

"Billie''

I stopped. Sighed loud enough she'd hear the annoyance. "What?"

"Stop with the attitude and come here"

I dragged my feet over. She didn't even look up from the fruit arrangement.

"Hold this" she said, shoving the basket at me. "We're going next door. I told you months even weeks ago new neighbors. Be nice"

"I have homework"

She snorted. "We both know that's a lie. You haven't opened a textbook since sophomore year"

I muttered something under my breath probably "you don't know me that well"—and took the basket anyway. No point fighting. She'd win. She always did.

The walk across the lawn felt performative. Mom knocked three times, cheerful little raps. The door opened slow.

And there she was.

Taller than me by a couple inches, curvy in a way that made the white tank top and dark shorts look dangerous. Long dark hair pulled into a high ponytail that swayed when she moved. Skin a warm brown that caught the late-afternoon sun and turned it golden at the edges. Soft smile, confident eyes. Pretty didn't cover it. She looked like she belonged on billboards or in songs I hadn't written yet.

"Hi, Mrs. O'Connell" she said, voice smooth and young, a faint lilt that wasn't quite American. "Come in"

We followed her through the half-unpacked hallway into a living room that still smelled like cardboard and fresh paint. Her mom greeted us warm, chatty, the usual adult small talk about moving stress and new jobs. I stood off to the side, basket in hand like a prop, nodding when I was supposed to, forcing half-smiles. Exhaustion sat heavy on my shoulders, but I kept my face neutral. Polite. Distant.

I felt her looking at me. Not staring glancing. Quick, curious flicks of her eyes whenever the conversation lulled. Every time our gazes brushed, something tightened low in my stomach. Not the sharp, possessive pull I got with Anna. Something quieter.

"Juana" her mom said eventually, "why don't you take Billie upstairs? Show her your room. Maybe she can help with the last of the boxes"

Juana fuck, even the name sounded good, gave a small nod. "Sure. Come on"

Up the stairs, right turn, down a short hall. Her room was bare-bones: mattress on the floor still in plastic, a few unpacked boxes, a single lamp on the carpet. No posters yet. No personality. Just potential.

"Nice room" I said, mostly to fill the silence.

She laughed under her breath low, knowing. "You're lying"

I raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"

"It's a mess. Nothing's set up. You walked in and your face said basic louder than words" She crossed her arms, hip cocked. "Don't bother lying. It's not even finished. Save the compliments for when it's cute"

Damn. Called out clean.

I chuckled real this time and dropped onto the edge of her mattress like I belonged there. "Fine. Call me when it's midnight and the lights are low. Maybe then I'll compliment it properly"

She shook her head, still smiling, and bent to pull something from a box probably clothes or books. I watched the way her ponytail slid over one shoulder, the curve of her back under the thin tank top. Hot. Unapologetically hot.

"So" I said, leaning back on my hands, "why the move?"

"Mom's job. Better money. I was born in Mexico, lived there most of my life. Dad's American, so papers weren't an issue. Just... new start, I guess" She straightened, met my eyes. "What about you? Born and raised here?"

"Pretty much. Been at Highland Park High since freshman year. Ten years of the same bullshit"

Her brows lifted. "Wait—Highland Park?"

"Yeah"

"No way. That's where I'm starting next week"

I let a slow smirk spread. "Coincidence"

"Or fate" She shrugged, playful. "You could show me around. Save me from getting lost on day one"

"Friends?" I echoed, testing the word.

She tilted her head, studying me. "Yeah. Friends. Unless you've got a problem with that"

I held her gaze a beat longer than necessary. Felt the air shift subtle, electric. Not the chaotic wildfire I had with Anna. This was slower. Warmer. Like kindling catching.

"No problem" I said, voice dropping just enough. "Friends works"

For now.

She smiled small, knowing and went back to unpacking.

I stayed on her bed, legs stretched out, watching her move. The way her shorts rode up when she bent. The flex of her arms when she lifted a box. The soft laugh she let out when she found something embarrassing from her old life.

I didn't help with the boxes. Not yet.

But I didn't leave either.

And when Mom finally called up the stairs that it was time to go, I stood slow, stretched, let my eyes drag over her one last time.

"See you at school, Juana"

She looked up from the box she was taping shut. "Looking forward to it, Billie"

I walked out of that half-empty room with the basket still in my hand and something new flickering under the bruise Anna had left on my chest.

Not replacement.

Not revenge.

Just... possibility.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache felt a little less like drowning.

A little more like breathing.

  ___

Y'all ain't ready for this one....