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“Oh that sucks,” I say with a chuckle, pulling up her number. “I’ll show you how to make a disposable number so you can still message her.”
Me
Don’t tell anyone, Nope. I bet everyone would love to see how pretty you look when you come. Your foster dad is in the parking lot looking for you. Should I send this to him?
It takes about two minutes before she replies, and the first message is her middle finger and angry face. She appears to be dressed too, which helps me relax.
“She’s fine,” I sigh.
“Were you worried?” Draven asks.
“I was,” Alastair mutters. “Isn’t POTS something to do with her heart? What if we stopped it somehow?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I grunt.
Nope
Fuck you. I think you deserve the full wrath of my foster family.
Me
Aren’t you just a paycheck and a sympathy notch on their tax return? Don’t get comfortable, Nope. You’re too broken for a real family.
When she doesn’t respond, I ignore the feeling that I went too far. No one needs to know what I said, right?
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
NOOR
Those fucking fuckers!
My socks are wet from the shower, so I have to wrestle them off in the shower while cursing the guys out loudly. I feel so dirty. There’s body wash propped in the open showers, and I make sure to scrub my body. I still don’t feel clean, though.
I’m an emotional mess by the time I text Elijah that I'm on my way out before hurrying to get dressed and leave. My skates are in a corner, probably placed there by the coach for safe keeping, and I make sure to snag them as I race out.
I can’t believe they had sex with me, or that I passed the fuck out. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I rush through the empty hallways with my giant duffle bag and skates.
My phone buzzes as I push out of the side door, and I trade insults with Ciaran, my anger fueling every word before I block him too.
Elijah is standing next to Ignacio’s truck as I cross the parking lot, looking stressed out.
“Sorry I took so long,” I say breathlessly. I feel as if I can’t get enough oxygen, but that is typical after a lot of activity.
“Are you alright?” he asks, walking over to take my bag and skates from me to place in the back seat. His gaze looks over me assessingly, as if searching for weak spots in my armor.
“As good as I can be after skating and dancing around like a crazy person for the last two hours,” I say, shrugging.
Hoisting myself into the passenger seat, I pull on my seatbelt and allow Elijah to shut the door as he comes around the truck.
“What do you usually do to help when you’re exerting yourself more?” he asks, putting the vehicle into drive. He never turned it off while he waited, and I feel even worse.
Not that I could have helped it.
“IV infusions help but—”
“No buts,” he says. “I’ll get someone to come out tomorrow. Cost isn’t a factor, Noor. You’re in a shit situation, so if an IV is going to help, then that’s what we’ll do.”
