Brutal Boy by Selena

fourteen

Harper Apple

Royal: u will be at the football game fri

BadApple: that wud b a no

Royal: wasn’t a ?

BadApple: Still has an answer

Royal: u. will. b. there.

BadApple: sry already have plans

Royal: don’t make me laugh

BadApple: not playing hard 2 get. Rly do have plans

Royal: what?

BadApple: u kno wut

Royal: u can skip 1

BadApple: skipped last week.

Royal: there will be no fight. I’ll make sure of it.

My heart stutters in my chest. The Slaughterpen is, obviously, an underground fighting ring, considering that there’s pretty much zero accountability. Yes, there are rules, but basically you fight until someone can’t go on. A quick knockout might be a good thing in other places, but there, it’s a good way to get booed out of the ring. The audience isn’t there to see skill. They’re there to see blood. The longer you fight and the bloodier you get, the more money changes hands. Which, again, isn’t exactly legal gambling.

BadApple: u wouldn’t

Royal: Try me, cherry pie

BadApple: Shouldn’t it b apple pie?

Royal: only if ur referring 2 that scene in American Pie

BadApple: guess I walked into that 1

I shift on the bed, rearranging my two flat pillows to give me more cushioning against the wall where I’m leaning my back. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I don’t want to feel it, the pull of the Dolce boys’ power, but I do. I’m not fucking special. I’m just like every other bitch at Willow Heights, drooling over their dicks and dreaming of being a Dolce girl. Not like I’m going to show it, though.

Royal: I want 2 c u dressed like my whore n cheering 4 me. & I want everyone else 2 c it 2

BadApple: don’t rly care wut every1 wants

Royal: u should care what I want

BadApple: sry I’m not just getting my fix. I need the $

Royal: how much

BadApple: as much as I can get.

Royal: what do u need money for?

BadApple: lol

Royal: srsly

BadApple: bills n shit. N u wont get the slaughterpen shut down. U need it 2.

Royal: u will b at my game or u will never fight again.

BadApple: R u threatening me?

Royal: no.

BadApple: sounds like it. Isnt that wut the mafia does? Break knees n shit?

Royal: I don’t need 2 hurt u. i fucking own that place. u think I can’t get u banned? u obey me or u wont make a dime there Friday night. Or ever again.

I grind my teeth, seething with hatred. There’s no victory to be had here, only acid on my tongue as I type the hateful white flag word.

BadApple: understood

Royal: Ur boring so I’m out. c u Friday. dress like the slut u r

BadApple: How cud I look like anything else?

As annoyed as I am, that part is true. Thanks to his brothers, I’m back to my old clothes, which Royal despises. After school, I had to race home on my bike, grab anything even slightly identifiable as Mabel’s, and fly across town to Lexi Lands It. I hope they fucking appreciate it. For all I know, they won’t even go. But if they did, and they couldn’t find a single item of her clothes and decided I was lying… I don’t really want to think about the drama they’ll cause.

I kept enough clothes to get me through the week at school—khakis and plain white shirts can’t be traced back to her—but I’m not going to go to a football game looking like a preppy little nerd. On Friday afternoon, I ride home on my bike. I think about going next door and asking Blue to go with me, but I decide against it. I don’t want to drag her into this ugly mess, and I’m more than capable of walking into the football game alone.

But then I think about Jolene, about how excited she’d be to go to a game at Willow Heights. She was the one who told me about the Dolce boys when I didn’t know who they were. I haven’t talked to her in months, since I left Faulkner, but she’s the kind of friend I can call out of the blue, and it’s like nothing’s changed. I’m not calling to ask a favor, after all.

I text Jolene, and two seconds later, my phone rings. “Oh my god,” she squeals. “I’m on my way over right now. Be there in five. We’re already in the car. You still live on Mill?”

“Yep,” I say, feeling simultaneously guilty and exhilarated. I should have kept in touch better, even if I’m not the same girl I was growing up with her in the trailer park. Still, hearing her excitement buoys me, as if it’s contagious, or at least makes me feel like the long, dark winter of the Dolce reign might not freeze me in the ground like a corpse.

Five minutes later, I hear a sputtering motor and head outside to see a two-tone brown Ford Lariat in the road, the windows down and the back full of redneck boys.

“Hey, it’s Fight Club,” one of them yells, waving to me.

“How ‘bout them apples!” another yells, whooping and raising a coozy that is most definitely hiding a beer, not a soda.

Skeeter Bite hangs out the driver’s side window and yells, “Who’s dick are you sucking in that video?”

“Not yours, that’s for damn sure,” I call back, flipping him off.

The guys in the back of the truck bust out laughing, but it’s not the same kind of shit I get at Willow Heights. These boys are obnoxious, and I’d get sick of it in the halls, but it’s just teasing. There’s something darker, more insidious, about the way I’m treated at the prep academy.

“Yeah, because mine’s bigger,” Skeeter Bite bellows over the laughter.

“Wait, aren’t you called Skeeter Bite because that’s the size of your dick?” I ask, pretending confusion.

The guys in the back of the truck are rolling with laughter now. Jolene hops out of the cab, then stands on the tailgate flirting with the boys for a minute before jumping down to the cheers of the boys, who I’m assuming are appreciating the lack of support provided by her cheap bra. I grin and shake my head as she skips up the walkway and hugs me.

“I kinda forgot you existed until you texted me out of nowhere,” she admits with a giggle, waving to the boys and managing to look both bashful and preening at once. They drive away hooting and hollering.

“How do you do it?” I ask, shaking my head.

“Do what?” she asks, like she has no idea. “Hey, you got a smoke?”

“No,” I admit. “But Blue lives next door.”

“Oh my god, let’s go visit,” she says, grabbing my arm and dragging me to the neighbor’s before I can answer.

“Y’all are so lucky,” she says. “I wish I lived here. So, what’s it like at Willow Heights? Have you met the Dolce boys?”

Have I ever. I shiver at the memory of how close we came the other day, the silky smoothness of his skin when I wrapped my fingers around his erection. My clit throbs, and I shove the thought away. I was stupid, burning with Dolce fever, and I got carried away. Tonight I’ll have to thank him for saving me from the biggest mistake of my life.

“I’ve met them,” I say with a shrug.

Jolene squeals and grabs my arm. “Tell me everything.”

Olive opens the door, saving me from Jolene’s appetite for gossip. “Hey, y’all,” she drawls, smiling at us through the screen door. “I lost a tooth. Look!” She tilts her head up and pulls up her lip, revealing the gap in her teeth.

“Cool,” I say. “Stick it under the pillow tonight and the Tooth Fairy might bring you a piece of candy.”

“Is Blue here?” Jolene asks. “We need to bum a cigarette.”

“She’s working,” Olive says. “But I know where the cigarettes are. I don’t have to go in her room for that.”

“Thanks,” I say. “We can share one.”

“With me?” Olive asks.

“Not with you, dork,” Jolene says. “You’re a kid.”

“So?” Olive says. “I smoked before once. I wanna look sexy like you.”

I shoot Jolene a look, and she grins. “Aw, come on, kid,” she says. “You can come with us. But don’t run your mouth too much. Us grown folks got some talking to do.” She wiggles her brows at me.

Olive returns a minute later with a crushed back of Pall Malls and a lighter. She tucks a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, her lips rolled in completely, and tries with both hands to get a flame from the lighter. After watching her struggle for a minute, Jolene holds out a hand.

“Okay, kid, my turn,” she says, taking the cigarette and tucking it between her lips. “Gross, you got it all wet.”

She lights up and takes a drag anyway, then passes it to Olive, who inhales and then coughs smoke out of her nose and mouth. I can’t help but crack up with Jolene because we were this kid at her age.

“Don’t laugh,” Olive says, stamping her foot and pouting.

“We’ve all been there,” I say. “That’s all.”

“I’m not just a little kid,” Olive grumbles. “I know about smoking and sex and everything.”

Jolene throws her head back and howls with laughter. I put an arm around Olive. “Come on, we’re going to make a poster for a football game. Wanna help?”

That perks her right the fuck up. “I’ve got markers and glitter,” she says, grinning up at me.

“Well, what you waitin’ for?” I ask. “Go get it, girl!”

Half an hour later, we’re all sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by markers, paint, glitter, and glue. I wonder if other girls do this shit, if this is what it feels like to be a football fan. Do Dixie and Quinn make posters for the game? Do Gloria and the Waltons?

“What’s a royal ho?” Olive asks, standing back and reading the sign, a frown creasing her brow.

Jolene rolls onto her back, giggling hysterically.

“No, it says Royal’s Ho,” I correct the kid. “Royal is a boy at school.”

“And you’re his ho?” she asks.

“He sure thinks I am,” I say, replacing the cap on her glue.

“Does that mean you have sex?” she asks.

“It means you have fun,” Jolene stage whispers.

“Then my sister is a ho, too,” Olive pronounces.

“You go tell her that,” Jolene says, wiping away tears.

I gather up the supplies and drop them back into Olive’s grocery sack. A loud, frantic pounding sounds at the front door. My heart stammers, and I jump up, my hands balling into fists, sure it’s going to be one of those assholes come to make sure I’m obeying their command. When I open the door, though, Blue is standing there, her hair tangled, her eyes wild.

“Have you seen Olive?” she asks before I even get the door open fully.

“She’s right here,” I say. “We were just making a sign.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Blue says, pushing past me and bending to grab her sister into a hug.

“They said you’re a ho,” Olive says.

Blue straightens and glares at me.

“That’s not—”

“You’re an asshole,” she says. “Leave my sister alone.”

I hold up a hand. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

She stands there for a long minute and then nods. “Cool. Sorry, too. If I ever need you to watch Olive, I’ll ask.”

“Happy to,” I say. “Also, she took a drag off a cigarette, just so you know.”

She shakes her head and herds Olive toward the door. “This kid’ll be the death of me.”

“How?” Olive demands as they disappear out the front door.

“Okay, now that she’s gone, are you really Royal’s ho?” Jolene asks. “I mean, I would so be his ho. Not that I don’t love Earnhart, because I do, but I’d totally dump him for a Dolce.”

I laugh and shake my head. “And you’d regret it five minutes later.”

“You totally fucked him!” Jolene shrieks.

A flash of memory hits me—the sensation of Royal’s thick, bare cock sliding through my wetness—and I have to close my eyes and take a breath to get myself under control. But then I’m good. I’m stronger than that shit.

“I didn’t fuck him,” I say. “He’s actually a complete dick, and this is a joke. However, if you could help make me look like the trashiest streetwalker you’ve ever seen, that would be cool.”

An hour later, we’re climbing out of the back of the Lariat. Every head turns our way, and it’s not because I’m in a free porn they’re texting around school. Let them look. I’m obeying Royal like the good little doggie he wants me to be. I hope he likes it.

There are a few football players mingling with parents and cheerleaders and other students outside, not to mention the whole truckload of Jolene’s boys sitting there whistling at us as we walk toward the entrance. I turn and give them a saucy little wave… And run smack into a solid wall of muscle. I turn to find Duke Dolce standing in front of me. My tits are practically touching his abs, and considering the size of my tits, that leaves us really fucking close. He’s in his football pants and a t-shirt, and damn, does he look good. I’ve never been this close to him, and for the first time, I notice his eyes aren’t quite as dark as Royal’s, that little gold flecks are sprinkled through his dark chocolate irises.

“Who the fuck are those guys?” he asks, jerking his chin at them, not stepping back.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” I ask, hooking a finger into the top of his pants. “I’m a whore. Obviously I need clients.”

He groans and pulls my hand away. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“Sure don’t,” I say, batting my lashes at him.

“Baby, I would eat that cherry pie like it’s a fucking pie eating contest if I didn’t think I’d get my balls busted for it,” he says. “But between you and my brother, I don’t know who’s crazier, and I like my balls just the way they are.” He grabs himself as if to demonstrate, and Jolene lets out a squeak like a mouse.

“Sup?” he says, still cupping himself as he jerks his chin at her.

For maybe the first time in her life, Jolene is speechless, her mouth hanging open.

Duke grins and drops her a wink. “Find me at the after party, and I’ll empty these boys between those tits.”

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the line for tickets.

“Did you see the size of that thing?” she asks, halfway hyperventilating as she fans herself with one hand and clutches my arm with the other like she’s about to faint.

“It’s a cup,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“I heard that,” Duke calls as he saunters past.

“It’s still true,” I holler back.

“Lies,” he yells. “All lies!”

Jolene and I burst into laughter as he disappears through the gate. We get tickets and head inside, our posters under my arm. We stand at the railing in front of the front row, even though some parents give us dirty looks. That’s the thing about Willow Heights parents. They’ll grumble and glare, but they’re too polite to tell us to fuck off.

I don’t anticipate lasting too long, anyway.

A little section of girls stand at the railing in the corner, all of them wearing the black-and-gold jerseys of our team, though they’re in tiny sizes that are tight on them. “Who are they?” Jolene asks, nodding to them. No one is giving them dirty looks.

“Those are the team’s fangirls,” I say. “Also known as the Dolce girls. Supposedly they service the team after the games.”

Jolene sighs like it’s the most romantic thing she’s ever heard. “I want to be a Dolce girl.”

“You and me both,” I mutter, though I’m pretty sure my reasons are different from hers. I want in. If I have to be in their beds to do it, that’s a price I’m willing to pay. But my services don’t extend past Royal to the rest of the team, no matter how much they defend me in the halls from their own teammates or how good Duke smells when I’m almost pressed up against him.

I hand Jolene one of the posters, and I take the other, and we hold them on the outside of the railing. The cheerleaders read them with mixed reactions. Some of them give us dirty looks, but others giggle and elbow each other. Gloria never breaks her stride, to her credit, continuing her chants. She gives her head a little shake when our eyes meet, but for a second, her smile turns genuine before going back to the plastic cheerleader one she pastes on.

They cede the field to the majorettes, and Gloria drops her pompoms and runs by our spot. “You’re crazy,” she calls up to me. “Want me to tell him you’re here?”

“I think he’ll notice,” I call back, flashing a grin at her as she dashes away, her blonde ponytail bouncing.

I feel high and free, like I do when I jump in front of a train. That’s what I’m doing now. Playing chicken.

Except instead of a train, it’s Royal, who might be even more dangerous. Still, it gives me the same rush, the same exhilaration. It’s always worth it—until it isn’t.