Page 99 of That Pucking New Girl

“Noor,” Emil snorts. “Two weeks, remember? Though, this farce of a mascot situation makes me want to suggest differently.”

“Well, the principal’s thought process is that no one knows it’s Noor in the costume, so she’ll be less likely to be harassed,” Rachelle says, rolling her eyes. “The logic falls apart though because Alastair and his little friends are the reason for all of this.”

I love how Rachelle refuses to use Ciaran’s name. I don’t know what I did to him, but it’s obvious he hates me. One of them has the ability to hack into my digital footprint, and now I’m dealing with the fallout. My money is on it being Ciaran’s fault. I want to ask what will happen with my therapist now, but I bite my tongue instead.

“Can I be excused, please?” I ask, starting to feel sleepy. I’m getting up at my usual time for virtual school, and I’m feeling the early hour since I haven’t been sleeping well.

“Of course,” Rachelle says. “Feeling okay?”

“Sleepy,” I admit, standing. “I may try to draw to unwind and turn in early.”

“Yes. Sleep well,” she says. Everyone else says goodnight as well, and I make sure to give the kids proper attention as well.

They may only be two, but they insist on being acknowledged. Otherwise, I’ve learned there’s hell to pay.

My feet drag as I walk to my room, and I yawn as I make my way inside. My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out with a slight frown. No one should have my number except the people who are in this house now.

It’s an unknown number, but appears to be from a doctor's office. Used to having others deal with my appointments, I shake my head and ignore the call. It’s almost seven, which seems really late for office calls.

Closing my door, I toss my phone on the bedspread and force myself to change, wash my face, and brush my teeth. It’s all I have the energy to do. Crawling into bed, I fall face first into my pillow, fully expecting to be plagued by nightmares.

It seems I can only ignore my problems in real life for so long before my subconscious takes over.

Wonderful.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

TWO WEEKS LATER

NOOR

Emil wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to add to my personal enrichment. This man is the grandfather figure I never had. My parents didn’t have family here in the United States, which is why I went straight into foster care.

I didn’t have a chance to grab any of my personal possessions from my childhood house since it was a crime scene, and since I was so young, I wasn’t allowed to return. My family photos, favorite stuffed animals, clothes, all of it was lost. As a traumatized nine-year-old, that made everything harder, and I’ll never forget the injustice of it.

I’ve lost so much of myself, my life, and my memories. To have them laid bare by the Devils is both infuriating and heartbreaking. My money is on Ciaran having done this. I’m sure he thinks I didn’t see him lurking while I was at school, but I did.

It was really nice to be completely ignored the last week I attended school in person. I should have known there was a reason for it.

Looking down, I grimace at the sight of Alastair, Ciaran, and Draven staring back at me from my drawing. I’m curled up on a huge loveseat in the new art studio, just letting my hand draw, shade, and create without paying much attention as my mind wanders.

Ciaran’s dark curls need some blue in them while Draven’s piercings are on full display. I hate that I remember every nuance of their faces. Alastair’s aristocratic nose is turned up in the air, but it’s the memory of how he could drive me wild with it as he bumped it against my clit that makes my thighs clench.

The first home game in ages is tonight, which means it’s been over two weeks since I’ve seen them. Sighing, I lay my head back on the loveseat as I rub my stomach tentatively. I’m not sure if it’s the anticipation and anxiety of tonight or not, but I’ve been queasy the last few days.

Groaning softly as my stomach pitches, I try to decide if this is just bile or if I’m actually going to puke or not. I don’t want to get sick in my pretty art studio. Dropping my feet to the floor, I take a deep breath and glance around the room wistfully. One of my paintings is drying after my class today, and I have to say I don’t hate it.

“Shit.”

Why am I fighting this? I’ll feel better if I just puke right? Wrong. I’m developing anxiety about throwing up. It’s not something I enjoy to begin with, don’t get me wrong, but I want to avoid doing it at all costs. I don’t know why.

Saying goodbye to my pretty studio means I’ll also have to get ready for the game soon, and I’ve been avoiding it. Tossing my sketch book and charcoal to the side, I clap my hand over my mouth and make a run for the bathroom that thankfully isn’t far from the studio. I barely have a chance to shut the door before I’m praying to the porcelain god on my knees.

Calvin was nice enough to make me a protein smoothie I thought would stay down. Instead, my body is telling me to fuck off very painfully, and I have to say this peanut butter smoothie doesn’t taste very good coming up in the opposite direction.

Gagging, I can feel my throat burn as tears flow down my cheeks. I’m officially a gross mess.