Fourteen

M:

Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a freight train.

The serene, late-night girl's night Heather and I had shared felt like a distant dream as we scrambled through the Dubois mansion in a panicked haze.

We had both been so exhausted from our deep-dive into each other's secrets—and my own silent spiraling—that we'd neglected to set a single alarm.

Now, here we were, weaving through the morning traffic and sprinting through the halls of Red Lodge High, a full twenty minutes late for our first period.

I reached the heavy oak door of the classroom and tried the knob, but as I expected, it was locked tight.

A frustrated huff escaped my lips as I smoothed down my skirt and adjusted my bag. I knocked, the sound echoing through the eerily quiet hallway, and waited for the inevitable scrutiny.

When the door finally creaked open, our teacher met us with a very tight-lipped, weary smile.

She didn't say a word about our tardiness; she simply stepped aside, her eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second before she gestured for us to enter.

That's what I thought.

I shouldn't have been allowed to get off the hook for being late, but as the teacher returned to her lecture without a reprimand, I leaned into the privilege.

My family's influence was a double-edged sword, but in moments like this, I was more than happy to put the blade to use.

As I walked toward my usual seat, the room fell into a suffocating silence. Not a single student whispered; not a single pen scratched against paper.

I thrived on the power I held over them—the way they watched me like I was a storm front rolling in.

I hadn't even sat down before my eyes were magnetically drawn to the center of the room. Remington was there, her dark curls messy and her gaze fixed on me.

Unlike the other students who looked away the moment I made eye contact, she didn't blink. She just stared, her expression a confusing mix of wariness and something I couldn't quite name.

I rolled my eyes at her, a silent dismissal, and plopped down into my seat with Heather beside me.

The morning blurred into a series of monotonous lectures, but I found it impossible to focus. The hairs at the back of my neck were permanently prickled, a constant reminder that I was being watched.

Every time I turned my head, I caught her. Remington was always there, her eyes anchored to me.

During our last class before practice, I'd had enough. I turned my head slowly, catching her in the act once more. I didn't just look at her this time; I crafted a glare so intense, so cold, that it finally broke her.

I watched as she snapped out of her daze, a crooked smile on her face as she turned away nervously.

When the final bell finally screamed through the school, a surge of adrenaline hit my system.

I had a mission now. I stood up, ignoring Heather's chatter, and walked toward where Remington was sitting. I noticed she was packing her bag with agonizing slowness, her movements jerky and deliberate.

She was stalling. She knew I was coming.

I moved with the predatory grace I'd been perfecting all my life, coming to a halt directly behind her. I didn't say a word, allowing my presence to loom over her like a shadow.

I could see the slight tremor in her hands.

"C-can I help you?"

I raised a brow at the stutter. That was a new development. The confident, stoic girl from the basketball court was somehow nowhere to be found.

"Why were you looking at me like that earlier today?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest.

I watched her face, seeing the flicker of an emotion I couldn't quite understand behind her eyes.

"Like what?" she asked, obviously playing dumb.

"Don't play coy with me, Alvarez. I'm not in the mood for games." My left brow rose instinctively, a silent challenge.

"I was just wondering where you got your shirt," she lied, though her voice was steady enough to almost be convincing. She looked at my chest, her eyes lingering on the brand logo. "I liked the design."

"Oh?" I tilted my head, studying the serious set of her jaw. Was she actually trying to play this off as a fashion inquiry?

"Hot," she muttered.

My eyes widened slightly, the air in my lungs momentarily hitching. "Excuse me?"

A look of unadulterated panic washed over her face. "S-sorry! I...meant the design on your chest—shirt! God, it's so hot in here. Sheesh." She started fanning her face with her hands, her movements frantic.

Before I could respond, she swung her bag over her shoulder and bolted out of the classroom like her life depended on it.

I stood there for a moment, stunned. She had called me hot. By the sheer terror on her face afterward, it was clear she hadn't intended to let the it out.

What was even more surprising was the fact that I didn't feel the usual surge of revulsion.

Normally, when people—especially guys—complimented me, a voice in my head warned me they were just looking for a way to use me. But with Remington, the words felt different. Genuine.

My thoughts were abruptly shattered by a light tap on my shoulder. I turned, my expression shifting back to one of icy disinterest. "Yes?"

"Hi, Margaux...uhm, my friends and I were playing a game of truth or dare, and I was dared to give you a kiss." A girl I didn't recognize stood there, her face adorned with shy adoration. She was pale, her skin almost translucent, and she was shaking visibly. Poor girl.

I tilted my head, feeling a strange sense of generosity. I wanted to see if I felt anything—if a compliment or a touch from anyone else would elicit the same spark I'd felt when Remington looked at me.

"A kiss, huh? Where exactly?"

"Oh! Uhm...anywhere. I'll just do the cheek, to be respectful," she said, her eyes widening as she realized I wasn't going to snap at her.

"Well, get to it. I have practice to get to."

She leaned in, her movements tentative. I turned my head slightly, giving her access, and felt the brief, soft pressure of her lips against my skin.

It lasted for a single second, a dry, fleeting sensation that left absolutely no impression on me.

"Good?" I asked with a smirk.

"Y-yes," she whispered, her blush deepening until her entire face was a bright, vivid crimson.

I walked away without a second glance, the ego boost fueling my stride. I had allowed a total stranger to kiss me simply because she was dared to.

It was unlike me, yet it felt like a necessary distraction from the chaotic thoughts regarding the girl who had just sprinted away from me.

The hallway led me toward the girl's locker room. I reached the door and paused, my hand hovering over the handle. I could hear voices inside, muffled, but recognizable. One of them was definitely Remington's.

A dark idea began to take root in my mind. I didn't want to just talk to her; I wanted to break her.

I turned back toward the main hallway and spotted two of the football players, Hobie and Kyle, lingering near the trophies.

With a few practiced, flirtatious words and a command that brooked no argument, I convinced them to do my dirty work.

I told them there was a 'problem' in the locker room and that I needed them to hold a certain student for me. I made it very clear that no one else was to enter without my express permission.

They complied instantly, driven by the desire to impress me. I waited by the door, listening. A moment later, I heard the heavy, metallic thud of a body being slammed against a locker.

A jolt of panic hit me—I hadn't intended for them to be that rough—and I pushed the door open discreetly.

"What are you doing?" I heard Remington hiss. Her voice was laced with pain, and I felt a twinge of guilt that I quickly suppressed.

"Shut your mouth, dyke," Hobie barked, his voice echoing off the tiled walls.

"Why would I do that?" Remington snapped back. Even pinned, she was not backing down from an altercation.

I leaned against a row of lockers in the shadows, watching the silhouette of the three of them.

"Because we told you to," Kyle answered, his voice dripping with unearned superiority.

"I personally don't think I'll be following your orders." I could practically hear the defiant smirk in her voice, but it was quickly cut short by a muffled grunt of pain. They had punched her.

"Next time, think before you speak," Kyle growled.

"Alright, that's enough, boys. Let her go. I'll take it from here."

The moment I stepped into the light, Remington's eyes found mine. I felt a surge of victorious satisfaction at the sight of her pinned and powerless.

The boys released their hold on her and walked toward me. Remington immediately began rubbing her arms, her eyebrows furrowed in a pained scowl.

"We'll see you at the bleachers," Hobie said with a nod. Kyle lingered for a second longer, his eyes roaming over me with that hungry look he'd been giving me for months.

I ignored him entirely until they were gone, the heavy door clicking shut behind them.

It was just the two of us. Alone.

I couldn't help but let my eyes roam over her. She was disheveled, a muscle tee pulled tight over her frame, her breathing heavy.

She looked exactly as she did the first day she arrived, but there was something more now—a raw, exposed vulnerability.

My eyes drifted down to her lower half, and Kevin's words from the previous week began to scream in my mind.

She noticed my gaze and immediately tried to shuffle toward her gym bag, clearly intending to get dressed and escape. I didn't let her.

I stepped into her space, pinning her back against the same locker the boys had used.

"What are you trying to do?" I asked, my voice low and demanding.

"Preparing for practice? Aren't you supposed to be with the cheer team by now?" she retorted, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

"Why do you need compression boxers for playing on a court, Alvarez?" I was past the point of subtlety. I wanted the truth, and I wanted it now.

"Okay, uhm, is this some kind of police investigation? I have to leave, or Coach will have my head." She tried to pry my hands off her shoulders, but I didn't let go.

Instead, I slid them down, my palms landing flat against her lower abdomen. I felt her flinch, a sharp, ragged breath escaping her.

"Why are you answering my questions with questions?" I shot back.

"You're doing it too," she whispered.

"Because you started it." I raised my brow, our faces so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

"Did not."

"Did too."

"I have to leave, Margaux. What do you want from me?" She was growing impatient, the fear being replaced by frustration.

I didn't answer. I let my gaze trail down from her eyes to her chest, then down to where my hands were resting on her stomach.

My heart was pounding against my ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm. I moved my eyes lower, staring at the area below her pelvis. The mystery was right there, inches away.

My hands seemed to move on their own, guided by a compulsion I couldn't control. I slid them down from her stomach, the fabric of her boxers sliding beneath my palms. I could hear her breathing turning into short, panicked gasps.

"What are you—oh fuck!" she hissed.

The world seemed to stop as my hand finally made contact. I grabbed her through her boxers, and my breath left me in a single, sharp gasp. My fingers curled around the unmistakable shape of her member. Holy shit.

I was frozen in wonder and astonishment. It felt...okay. I had never seen or touched a penis in my life, but here I was, touching one that belonged to a girl.

The reality of it crashed over me. I let my hand drag along the length of her through the boxers, and a visible shiver wracked through her body.

I felt the heat flood my cheeks.

"Oh my god," I whispered, finally looking up at her.

Remington refused to meet my eyes. She turned her head away, her shoulders slumped in a posture of profound shame.

The silence in the locker room was deafening, broken only by the sound of our unsynchronized, heavy breathing.

"A-are you trans?" I finally asked, the word feeling clumsy on my tongue.

Her head shook violently. "No. I'm...intersex. Please, Margaux. Don't tell anyone. I'm begging you." She held her hands together in a pleading gesture, her head hanging low between us.

"Intersex? What's that?" I asked, the term unfamiliar and clinical.

"I can't explain that right now—maybe later. Or look it up. But please, keep this between us. I don't know what would happen if people found out, but I know it won't be good." She rushed through the words, her voice trembling.

She didn't wait for a response; she pulled on her basketball shorts with shaking hands, not sparing me a single glance as she bolted from me for the second time that day.

I stood there in the empty locker room, my head foggy and my hand still tingling from the contact. I knew what I had done was wrong—violating, even. I had let my predatory curiosity override every sense of decency I possessed.

As I walked toward the gym, my mind spiraled through the possibilities. If this got out, the backlash would be unpredictable.

Half the girls in school already worshipped her; they might not even care. But the rest? The conservative parents, the school board, the boys who were already looking for a reason to destroy her?

They would tear her apart. And my father...if he found out, he would be the first to lead the charge for her removal. He had most shares to this school, and he didn't tolerate anything he deemed 'abnormal.'

I felt a wave of nausea. I was a bad person—I knew that—but I wasn't sure if I was that bad. I didn't want to be the reason her life, as she knew it, was destroyed.

I ducked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, trying to scrub the memory of the locker room from my skin.

By the time I made it to the gym, the sound of loud chatter and mild cheering was already echoing through the double doors. The basketball team were gathered at center of the court.

I stepped inside and saw the scene. People were clapping, and a few were giving Remington hesitant pats on the back.

A small, genuine smile touched my lips at the way their coach had praised her. She deserved it. After the way she'd dominated the court last week, any other choice would have been a travesty. But the cheering didn't last.

A moment later, a much more intense, rowdy round of applause broke out for one of the guys who had played alongside her. The disparity was disgusting.

I saw the pained, stoic expression on Remington's face. It had to suck, knowing that no matter how hard you worked, you were still an outsider. I scanned the bleachers and finally found Heather.

"Still busy eye-fucking the new basketball captain?" I teased as I sat down beside her.

Heather rolled her eyes, but she had a dreamy, glazed look. "No, not yet. But god, her ass looks so good in those shorts. What I'd give to just..." She trailed off, biting her lip. I resisted the urge to smack her.

We watched as the crowd dispersed, but a few people remained on the court.

Trevor, the sore loser from the friendly match, approached Remington. He shoved her aside, his face contorted in a sneer.

A lot of things were being said and I couldn't hear anything due to how noisy the bleachers started getting overtime.

"What are you going to grow up, Trevor?" Remington's voice suddenly changed. It was calm, but it had a searing edge to it. "The insults are getting old. I am your captain. Treat me with respect, or kiss your spot on the team goodbye."

She had absolutely dismantled him. I felt a surge of pride, quickly smoothing my expression before Heather could notice.

"She looked so hot being in control like that," Heather whispered, squeezing her thighs together. I gave her a look of pure disgust.

"You'll be heartbroken when you find out she has a girlfriend," I said, standing up to leave.

Unfortunately, I forgot I was wearing shorts, and Heather grabbed the fabric to pull me back down, nearly exposing me to the entire gym.

"She has a what?" Heather hissed.

"A girlfriend. I saw her on her social media," I lied quickly, hoping she wouldn't ask how often I'd been 'visiting' said page.

"I guess that's why she refuses when people ask her out," Heather mused, rubbing her chin. "I heard a few people already tried."

"Well, tell your friends she's off the market," I suggested with a smirk.

"You do know taken people are more sought after, right? It's like candy you aren't allowed to have."

She was right. If the school found out she was in a relationship, they'd only want to tear it down.

Suddenly, laughs were being heard from the court, dragging everyone's attention. Remington was running after her friends—Michael and the others—who were currently causing absolute chaos.

"I've not even been gone for a minute!" The Coach's voice thundered through the gym, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.

"That's our cue," I said to Heather, and we slipped out of the gym before the explosion could catch us.