Chapter 2- Just perfect

Honestly, I’m not the kind of girl who bows her head easily or plays the helpless damsel. That’s never been my style. But standing here, in the middle of an entirely deserted cafeteria that still reeked faintly of overcooked fries and that acidic tang of spilled orange juice, I had to admit defeat—for the moment, at least. Lunch period had ended a good ten minutes ago. The stampede of feet, the endless chatter, the scraping of plastic chairs—they were all gone now, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to press against my skin like a cold hand.

And me? I was the last one standing.

Going to Principal Fitzgerald to tattle like some kindergarten kid, crying about unfairness? Please. That would do exactly nothing except earn me a perfunctory, “Next time, try to be more careful.” If I was lucky, maybe a stiff smile thrown in for free.

I exhaled, long and low, and rubbed my temples, as if that could massage away the pounding pulse of irritation behind my eyes. Evelyn and Melissa—my so-called best friends, my ride-or-die duo—had, of course, abandoned me at the worst possible moment. Late to class, caught in the hall, slapped with detention. And who was left to mop up the mess? Yours truly. I swear, those two owe me at least a week’s worth of caramel lattes for this.

By now, everyone was already streaming down the hallways, grabbing books from their lockers, gossiping about the next period’s quiz, whatever normal high school kids do when the bell rings. And me? I had to stay behind to scrub away the chaos I was “apparently responsible for.” A chaos that, to be painfully clear, had been caused by Antonia and her little pack of followers—those rabid, perfume-drenched wolves who ran the social hierarchy like a cartel.

I could have walked away. I could have left the sticky, juice-slicked floor for the janitor and the rats. But the thing about Antonia’s crew? They never missed a chance to turn the smallest incident into ammunition. One more excuse, and I’d be in detention faster than you could say “Alpha privilege.”

So I sighed again, a bit more dramatically this time, and hauled myself toward the janitor’s closet instead of my next class.

Yes. That janitor’s closet. The infamous one.

The one every sophomore whispered about, the one seniors winked at when they walked by, the one whose dusty shelves and bleach-scented mops had apparently borne witness to half of our school’s so-called “first times.” Legend had it, more virginities had been lost behind that cracked wooden door than in the entirety of Spring Break down at Silver Lake.

So of course, the universe decided that today of all days, I had to go there.

I hadn’t even reached the door when I heard it: the faint, unmistakable rhythm of breathy moans and a low, almost growling purr of pleasure. Muffled, but not nearly muffled enough.

Perfect. Just perfect.

If irony were an element, I’d be radioactive by now.

Honestly, they should fumigate that place twice a week. Maybe set up a sanitizing station or at least a “Do Not Breed Here” sign. Poor Mr. Collins, our janitor, had to fish out cleaning supplies from this biohazard nest every day, pretending he didn’t know he was handling mop handles that had seen more action than the school gymnasium.

But I wasn’t here to moralize, and I definitely wasn’t here to watch anyone’s afternoon mating ritual. I didn’t care if they were conceiving the Antichrist or hatching werewolf pups in there. I just needed a mop, a bucket, and an industrial-strength spray bottle to erase Antonia’s little “accident” from the cafeteria tiles.

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and twisted the knob. The door swung open with the faintest creak, and there it was: my retinas’ second trauma of the semester.

(The first, in case you’re wondering, was last week, when two Alpha seniors decided that the middle of the quad was the perfect place to demonstrate just how loud a “bonding heat” could get. I’m still in therapy about that.)

And who do I find?

None other than Fitch Jones.

Yes. That Fitch Jones.

Six-foot-three of smug, lean muscle wrapped in a letterman jacket he didn’t even earn honestly. Moss-green eyes, soft brown hair that curled just enough to look effortless, and a grin that could probably talk a nun out of her vows. The school’s notorious womanizer. The walking cautionary tale. The boy who broke hearts as casually as he broke rules.

Eighty percent—yes, eighty percent—of the girls at Silver Lake High had already “lost a little piece of themselves” to him, or so the whispers went. He never promised anything, never stayed, never apologized. Just a smirk, a wink, and the next conquest lined up like clockwork.

And oh, how I loathed him.

Not out of principle—though God knows he’s a walking violation of half of them—but out of history. Two years ago, when I was a lowly sophomore and my sister was a senior, he’d charmed her. One night. Just one. And then he ghosted her so hard the whole pack started calling her “Snow White,” because apparently her Prince vanished before dawn.

If I’d had claws back then, I would have carved my initials across that pretty-boy face.

Now, he was here. In the flesh. Not even bothering to lock the door, because why would he? The rules never seemed to apply to Fitch Jones. And clinging to him like a designer scarf was Diana Eliot—our school’s unofficial runner-up for “Most Likely to Date Two People at Once.” Not judging, just stating facts.

They didn’t even flinch when I opened the door. Fitch glanced up, one eyebrow arched, and I swear the look he gave me said: Another audience? Don’t block the spotlight, sweetheart.

God. Kill me now.

“Uh… I just need some cleaning supplies,” I croaked, my voice scraping the edge of politeness.

He didn’t stop. Not even a token pause. Instead, he shifted Diana against him like she was a gym prop, her head lolling back, blissfully unaware that the lunch bell had rung a full ten minutes ago.

“Take whatever you want,” he grunted, as if I were an underpaid stagehand interrupting his rehearsal.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

I slipped inside, eyes fixed firmly on the top shelf where the bleach usually sat, doing my best not to step on any discarded clothing or… fluids. The closet was narrow, the air thick with the sour-sweet tang of too many overlapping perfumes, and I had to brush past them more than once just to reach the mop bucket. Each time, I felt a prickle under my skin, like standing too close to a live wire of hormones.

“Close the door on your way out,” Fitch drawled lazily, his voice low, commanding—almost predatory. The kind of tone that made half the girls here swoon and the other half sharpen their claws.

I bit back the retort that clawed its way to my tongue—You wish, Casanova—and yanked the handle of the mop free. No time, no energy, no point.

With a practiced flick, I slammed the door shut behind me, sealing their little performance back into its humid stage.

From behind the wood, Diana’s voice climbed another octave, echoing down the empty hallway like a distress signal that no one seemed inclined to answer.

And that, perhaps, was the real mystery of Silver Lake High: how could a girl moan like she was summoning the gods themselves, and not a single teacher came to investigate?

If her noises told me anything, it was this: I finally understood why so many girls kept crawling back to Fitch, even after he left them in pieces. There was something about him—dangerous, magnetic, infuriatingly intoxicating—that pulled them in like moths to a bonfire.

I shivered. Out of disgust. Out of irritation. Out of something I didn’t care to name.

Fine. Keep your throne, Fitch Jones. Keep your little empire of sweat and broken hearts.

I had a cafeteria floor to bleach.

Ah, cafeteria—my grim kingdom, my battlefield. I’m coming for you.

Sure, my life wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t enviable. It wasn’t even particularly clean at the moment, thanks to the puddle of orange juice awaiting my return. But at least I still had one thing left: a shred of dignity.

For now, anyway.