not taking that shit back. It’s the truth.
Leaving her behind on the lawn, I turn and stomp towards the front of the dorm, swiping my card along the reader as I yank the door open and move towards the stairs. I drop my shit off in the room, kicking it under the bed as I grab my wallet, keys, and cell phone, depositing them all into my pockets and bra as I catch the door before it even fully closes, and pull it shut behind me on my way back out.
My feet hit the pavement, and I head for Ms. Bairns's office. Across campus, of course. It would be the furthest building. The walk, though, is long enough to calm the itch that still lingers in me. I really need to hit someone or go cliff diving—something to keep me from being too dangerous. It was easy enough to get rid of this feeling back in Plexton. Sex sometimes worked. So did getting into a fight with a random stranger. So did stealing my neighbor’s dirt bike and driving it down through the mud of the local creek bed, getting as close to the edge of the ravine as possible without truly falling over.
Where some people avoid danger, I find that I don’t just enjoy it, I need it. It’s the rush of survival, plain and simple. Everyone’s an addict—my mother, the students here at Eastpoint, and even me. Where they like drugs and money, I crave chaos. And if I don't take care of this hunger soon, it won't be good for anyone—least of all me.
I cut through the campus green where several groups of students sprawl out under the sun. Some are studying, some are just enjoying the nice weather. Almost all of them look up when I pass. Their stares burn into my skin. In response, I break into a light jog and pick up the pace.
Just as I reach the front doors of the building that houses Ms. Bairns's office, the door is shoved open from the inside, and I swerve to the right, narrowly avoiding being hit. A dark figure emerges—tall enough that I have to crane my head back to meet his eyes.
I wait. Expectant. But instead of an apology, his lips curve into a facsimile of a smirk—not quite one and yet … at the same time, it feels like he’s laughing at me and I don’t fucking like it. He meets my eyes with a stare of his own. Eyes the color of dark molten honey, like burnished gold if it’d been mixed with chocolate—or they would've been had it not been for the hint of copper there. I glare up at him.
"Well?" I snap.
He arches a strong dark brow. "Well, what?" he inquires.
My hackles rise and try as I might to shove them back down, they remain up. The need to fuck something up pounds against the inside of my skull and I shove it down, but only barely. "You gonna apologize so I can be on my way?" I ask.
"You can be on your way whenever you fucking want. I'm not stopping you."
I roll my eyes, turn, and grab the door, yanking it open. "Asshole," I mutter as I slip inside. As the glass swings shut behind me, a deep chuckle from the man filters back to me and makes something unfurl in my stomach. I grit my teeth and continue walking.
Thankfully, this building—unlike the dorm—is equipped with an elevator. I ignore the girl who practically leaps out of the small space the second I enter and jam my finger at the button to take me to the correct floor. Seconds later, the elevator dings and the doors slide open to reveal a long tiled hallway.
Turning my head side to side, I take the first step off the elevator and scan my surroundings. With a low whistle, I march forward. I'm no expert in expensive shit—the most expensive thing I've ever owned is probably my cell phone—and it's a few years old, bought off the market with an already cracked screen. This hallway, though, I can tell is expensive. It's brightly lit—illuminating the marble white tiles underfoot. One side of the area is covered in a row of windows that stretch up to the ceiling and the other boasts large portraits of old white men in various forms of antiquated clothing, all of it formal.
It’s kind of interesting seeing generations of rich assholes lined up one by one. I’m sure