The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(14)

Heat flares in my cheeks. I’m used to all the major high school players of Raleigh High spreading the lies and hurtful gossip about me, laughing at my story of woe, disbelieving me, calling me every name under the sun, but not one of them has actually come and asked me what really happened.

The truth will set you free. I’m not a churchy person; I don’t believe in God. I've read sections of the Bible in religious studies, however, and I’ve experienced enough of life in Grays Harbor County’s tiny little backwater towns to know that this piece of scripture should come with a caveat: the truth will not always set you free. Sometimes, the truth will ruin your damn life. Sometimes, the truth will make your life a living hell, and you’ll wish you kept your goddamn mouth shut.

New Boy’s asking me for the truth now though, just as I asked him a second ago, and I’m torn between giving it to him and making something up. Something fantastical and unbelievable. Something outrageous. At this point, what the fuck does it matter anyway? When it did matter, no one listened. No one cared.

I blow a frustrated breath down my nose, digging my fingernails into the top of my thigh, feel the bite of pain there and reveling in it. Needing it to calm my nerves. “I’m sure half of whatever you’ve heard is true. I’m sure the other half is bullshit.”

“Which half is which?”

“Take your pick. It doesn’t even matter anymore.”

His eyes are on me. I feel his scrutiny like I might feel a hand on my shoulder—a very physical, very real thing. “Do you sell coke out of your locker?” he asks.

I bite back laughter. “Look at me. Do I look like some kind of drug kingpin to you?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking me over. His gaze diverts from my face, down to my band tee and my plain blue jeans. He pauses on my scruffy, worn high tops and smirks. “Tough call. Some drug dealers are tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerates. Some are librarian grandmothers with RSI and a weed card.”

God, he’s infuriating.

“No, I do not sell coke out of my locker. If that’s the real reason you came over here to harass me, then I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”

“I don’t want to buy drugs from you, Silver. Remember, I’m a tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerate. I can find my own coke.”

“Awesome. Why am I not surprised that you’re a drug user?”

“D’you turn tricks for cash?” Alessandro doesn’t even blink. From his expression, it looks as though he just asked me what fucking day of the week it is.

An uneasiness begins to creep into my bones. Surely, he didn’t come here for that. “No. I don’t. I’m not a whore.”

He nods. “And what about the rape thing? Did you wrongly accuse a bunch of students of raping you last year?”

Ashen, my heart beating faster than it has in a long time, I force myself into making eye contact with him as I slowly shake my head. “No. I didn’t,” I whisper. Alessandro doesn’t move a muscle. A water droplet, beaded on the end of his dark hair, falls and lands on the leather upholstery of his seat. Outside somewhere, on the other side of the parking lot, a girl shrieks, laughing, presumably running from the school building to her car in the rain. I steady myself, laying myself bare as I rebelliously stare down the abrasive boy with the slightest, softest lilt of an Italian accent to his rough, resounding voice.

Lightning flashes overhead, and three long, unbearable seconds draw out before an explosion of thunder crashes overhead. Alessandro takes a deep breath. “Not wrongly accused, then,” he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. No recrimination, or disbelief. He’s just stating a fact. That makes it easier to admit, somehow.

“No. They weren’t wrongly accused.”

Alessandro turns away. He sinks back into his seat, his body relaxing—I hadn’t realized he was holding himself so tensely until the moment he let himself go. The flat, even look on his face is confusing as fuck. During our very first conversation, I’ve essentially just told him—the guy I planned on avoiding the entire school year, on pain of death, no matter what—that I was sexually assaulted by a group of people, and…he doesn’t look like the information has impacted him in any way whatsoever.

“The rain’s stopping,” he says after a while.

I can practically taste my own stupidity. I shake my head, reaching for the key in the ignition. I start the Nova’s engine, gunning the gas. “Great. You don’t believe me,” I say.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Just get out of the car please, Alessandro.”

“Alex. You didn’t answer my question.”

I slam my fist into the steering wheel—it feels like my chest is cracking open, and a river of molten anger is pouring out like lava. “Get out of the fucking car!”

“Pretty Princess Silver. Too good for all of us. Too fucking special. Don’t bite. Don’t kick. Don’t scream. Spread your legs and keep your mouth shut, bitch, and we’ll see if we can make this quick.”

Alex opens the car door, but he doesn’t get out. His expression is tough to read, but none of this has unsettled him. He breathes out, slow, steady, even; it’s as though the world could be ending, and he would take the whole thing in stride, without the faintest flicker of emotion.