Chapter Twenty

Ever

H istory was pretty much what you would expect; it was all about the past. It was probably quite an interesting lesson, I usually enjoy history, but my mind was focused elsewhere, like on the six hot as fuck guys. One of whom I almost cut up, and all of whom are so freakishly familiar to me, but I just can’t place them.

Oh, and two of them happen to be in this damn class with me and have not stopped fucking staring. Assholes. Before long, Rylie’s dragging me toward the changing rooms and shoving a newly packaged gym uniform in my arms from a cupboard inside the girls' changing room. I grimace. I was sort of hoping I could get away with not getting changed just for today. Rylie rushes us to the back of the changing rooms, where a few private cubicles are set up. She winks at me before shoving her way inside, and I enter the one next to her.

I change quickly in the privacy of the cubicle, incredibly grateful that I don’t have to parade my scars in front of everyone. The shorts are so short, they aren't going to hide the six-inch-long scar on the top of my thigh, but that's easy enough to explain away. Especially since there’s only one, the scars on my back and stomach would be a bit harder to explain.

I exit the cubicle and stuff my bag into a locker, ensuring it's locked securely. I managed to secure the smaller of my two knives in my bra. It's not ideal, but I’ve done it before, and the padding should protect me to some degree if the blade moves. I can hear the whispers start as the other girls spot the scar on my thigh. If they only knew.

"Oh my god, it's so ugly. No wonder she wanted to get changed in a cubicle." One of queen bitches’ followers announces loudly as if it should embarrass me. I just roll my eyes; they have no idea.

I would say it's what's on the inside that counts, but honestly, my insides are just as fucked up as my outsides.

"Ignore them," Rylie says as she leads us through the double doors and into the gym.

"Don’t worry, I am. It's quite entertaining listening to the theories they come up with." I chuckle.

Apparently, all we're doing for gym today is running laps, which is more than okay with me. I may not like gym, but I am by no means unfit. I couldn't afford to be. It was a matter of survival for me. If I couldn’t outrun the dangerous men that could potentially be chasing me, then I'd be dead or worse, and trust me, there are definitely worse outcomes than being dead. I notice that the guys who were a part of the incident earlier are in this class, too, and seem to be getting odd looks for some reason.

"Why is everyone looking at the incident guys like that?" I ask Ry as we slowly make our way around the track.

"Incident, guys?" She questions with her eyebrow raised, I just shrug in response, and she chuckles. "Probably because they aren’t usually in this class. I mean, this is their class, but since they are football players, they normally run their drills during gym. They haven't been to one gym class this year," she looks at me, smirks, and raises her eyebrow, "I wonder why they're suddenly interested in coming to class, hmm?"

"What? It hasn't got fuck all to do with me, and even if it did, they're probably just scoping me out, finding out how to exact their revenge." I burst out laughing, unable to keep a straight face and instantly drawing the attention of said jocks, "Fuck, now look what you made me do, Ry."

"What? How the fuck was that my fault?" She says in mock outrage, causing us both to giggle.

We glance back over to them to see them all still watching us. Queen bitch, I really should find out her name, maybe; she spots where the guys are looking and starts toward us, a snarl marring her pretty face.

My focus, however, is divided as I continue to watch the guys.

"They are all staring at you again," Ry says quietly.

I narrow my eyes at them, "No, they are fucking not. They're staring at the scar on my leg."

"Dicks." Rylie growls.

"I got this," I say, and she chuckles.

We stop running, as have several of the other kids, and the coach doesn’t seem to give a shit. I make sure they’re still focused on my leg, and then I slowly run my hand down my leg, watching as they all instantly focus on it. As soon as I have their attention, I bring my hand up, their eyes following, and flip them the bird, adding my deadliest glare for good measure.

The biggest guy, built like a brick shit house and all muscle, with dark brown hair thrown up into a man bun and deep blue eyes, gives me the slightest smirk imaginable. I'm suddenly thrown back into a memory of a much, much smaller boy with messy hair flying in all directions. That's his smile. He had a really bad stutter when we were younger and was bullied for it until we started fighting back for him. That’s probably where my need to protect those who can’t defend themselves comes from. Looking at him now, I can say for sure that he can take care of himself.

He hated his stutter, and it got to a point where, even with speech therapy, he wouldn't talk around anyone else but the guys and me. Even his parents got a limited number of words. That smile was the smile he used to give me when we conspired to pull a trick on the others. His big smile was absolutely beautiful, and even when I was eight years old, it used to make my heart beat a bit faster, but that little smile that was just for me, and that one was my favorite.

That's my Rafe.