Run Bad Boy Run

Chapter 11

Coach Foster is chipper this afternoon and something tells me we'll be suffering because of it.

Hayden and I stand waiting in his claustrophobic office, the gravelly rush of pouring rain against the ceiling echoing over the howl of football players.

The coach claps his hands together. "So."

"So," Hayden repeats with a hint of irritation in his voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the way his fingers twitch by his side. He's tense, like he needs to get out of here, and a little voice in the back of my mind wonders if his anxiousness has anything to do with his extracurricular activities involving vigilante justice. "What are we doing today, Davey?"

Coach Foster folds his arms over his chest and glares at him. "I'm not sure, Cross. I didn't get the chance to think about that today."

He makes a face. "Of course you didn't." His eyes dart from one corner of the room to the other and I feel my own anxiety spiking.

Stop moving so much.

"Do you mind?" I grimace. "You're acting even weirder than usual."

His sharp gray eyes snap to me and narrow. "Why are you such a bitch?"

"Please," I snort. "The only thing missing from this picture is a big red tattoo that says GUILTY right across your forehead."

"And what would I be guilty of, exactly?" he hisses.

"I don't know. Being an ass. Being annoying. Theft. Drugs." I bite my lip, whispering, "Maybe even some other elicit criminal activity..."

Hayden looks surprised and insulted, but not for the reasons I would have expected. The mention of crime-affiliation goes right over his head.

"I'm not some druggie crack head, thank you very much. One, that's disgusting and two," He flexes an arm and points to his biceps. "I don't want to harm this beautiful body."

Cocky shit much?

"Right, because smoking cigarettes doesn't harm your beautiful body," I retort with a look of disbelief. "It warms my heart that you're acknowledging my good looks, Ember." Hayden says in fake modesty. "It really does."

Rolling my eyes, I give him the middle finger. And just as Hayden opens his mouth to reply, Coach Foster noisily gets up from his crouch and peers over at us holding a wrinkled file folder.

"Both of you shut up. What would you like to do for your detention today? Cross?"

Hayden folds his arms over his chest and answers with, "Get the fuck out of here."

For a second, it looks like the coach contemplates whether or not to throw his clipboard at Hayden's head. Instead, Coach Foster's beady black eyes move to me and they roam across the contours of my face as he sizes me up and down for what feels like the millionth time in the last fifteen minutes. The first few times, I didn't care much of it because I myself don't want to look at Hayden. But this time it's different. The air in the tiny cement room has become more humid and suffocating than before.

Get out here. Now.

Speaking in a low, guttural voice, he asks, "What would you like to do for your detention, Ember?" My name slides off of his tongue slowly and an agonizing chill of fear and disgust creeps down my spine. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to rip his eyes out if he keeps looking at me like that.

I only shrug, ignoring the searing heat of Hayden stare.

Oh God. I have to get out of here right now.