Page 4

So becoming a priest was the next best dream they could have had for me.

Not that I was doing this for them. I was doing it for me. Because this was what I wanted. To devote myself to helping people. To sharing the faith of a religion that, while more accepting now than ever, would still just as soon shun me as accept me.

I suppose I did owe a debt of gratitude to Trevor for that at least. For showing me, with his hatred and his physical assaults on me, that I was better off sequestered away. To spend my life alone, buried beneath books instead of out in the wild, chasing pain that shouldn’t feel so fucking good.

I finally pushed away from the building and took the long way back to the parking lot, telling myself I wanted the fresh air and that I was not avoiding running into Trevor.

There was no way I was going to burst into class late. But I did need to go to the library, so I’d just spend the afternoon there before heading to the off-campus apartment I was sharing with Caitlyn.

Where I was going to find some way to get back at her for keeping secrets from me.

Or not…because that’s not very priest-like.

Chapter Two

~Trevor~

Why can’t you be more like that sweet boy, Andy?

Why can’t you get better grades like that nice Andy boy?

Do you think you could ask that darling Andy boy to help you?

Jesus Christ. Why was everyone so fucking blind when it came to Andy Simpson? My parents. My teachers. Girls. The whole fucking town we’d grown up in had a hard-on for that asshole.

But I knew the truth. I knew what kind of man he really was. He could play the angel card all he wanted, but he couldn’t fool me.

He was an asshole. A girlfriend-stealing, poser, nightmare of a human being and I wasn’t going to fall into that trap.

I’d hoped to get as far away from him as possible. And I thought that by taking a football scholarship to St. Catherine’s I’d succeeded. I was a damned good quarterback, but my high school coach convinced me that I’d do better at a small school, because I’d have a better chance of making starter right away. And he’d been right.

His advice had the added bonus of ensuring that I’d be free from Andy Simpson. As much as I couldn’t stand Andy, I also couldn’t deny that the guy was smart as hell. So I’d assumed he’d end up at a Big Ten school and I could move on with my life and my football career in northern Michigan.

But all of that planning and arranging had been for nothing, apparently. Because, as usual, he’d shown up and ruined fucking everything.

Yes, I’d bullied him in high school. But he’d started all of it. And honestly, when it began, I’d expected him to fight back. I figured if we could just have one big, blow-out brawl, I could put the past behind me and move on.

But he never raised a hand to me. Never even raised his fucking voice to me. He just brushed it all off. The name calling. The shoving. The hitting. All of it. Like it meant nothing to him. Like I meant nothing.

And I hated him for that, too.

His picture-perfect persona, carefully curated to fool everybody around us into thinking he was better than me. Better than everyone.

Now he was here. At my school. Thinking he could just walk in a year late and destroy everything I’d built for myself.

No way.

Not this time.

Andy fucking Simpson was going to regret showing up here. He was going to regret starting rumors about me in high school. He was going to regret taking Delia. And he was going to regret the fucking day he was born.

The last time we’d seen each other he’d told me high school was over and it was time to grow up.

And he was right. We were adults now.

Which meant the gloves were coming off.

“Who pissed in your oatmeal?” Mark Tafta asked, dropping to the ground next to me and reaching out to shove a hand into my shoulder.