Best Friends With The Badboy #wattys2018

7

The moment the game ends, I bolt—I don't wait another second. If Mason sees me, he'll convince me to go to that party I have zero interest in attending.

Not just that... I like him too much.

And I don't know what's happening anymore.

Does he like me too?

Am I reading too much into all of this?

Is it mixed signals, or just some elaborate act to get rid of Miss Flirty?

I weave through the crowd, dodging the wave of cheering fans. Yeah, our school won—and I should probably stick around to congratulate Mason—but he already has plenty of adoring girls doing that for me. Charlotte's smack in the center, as usual, practically glued to his side.

So really, me not being there won't make a difference. He probably won't even notice I'm gone. Besides, I'm still grounded—Mom only gave me a pass because it was Mason.

The parking lot is a chaotic mess. The rival school is vandalizing ours, students are yelling, fighting back, and others are too busy making out to notice the school's flag literally on fire.

I jump into my car, double-check the locks, and start the engine.

The moment I hit the road, I relax a little. I crank the volume on my playlist and bob my head to the beat as I cruise through the usually busy street—eerily quiet tonight, thanks to the Friday night game.

And still, my thoughts are anything but calm.

I slow down the moment I see a second car in the driveway—one I don't recognize.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. A strange chill runs through me, and suddenly, I'm shaking, my mind racing with every horrible possibility.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I get out of the car and walk up to the front door. The moment I push it open, my heart drops.

My eyes go wide, and yet... I'm not surprised.

He's here.

My father.

"Bella," he says with a smile, arms outstretched like I'm supposed to run into them. Like nothing ever happened. Like four years didn't just vanish into scars and silence.

But I don't move towards him. I take a step back, my head shaking before I even realize it. I can't believe her—my mother, of all people—let him back into our lives.

This man isn't even the father I remember. He looks... wrong. Unrecognizable. His hair is wild, greasy, and tangled. A thick, unkempt beard covers the lower half of his face. His eyes are darker—wilder. There's a look in them I've never seen before. His skin is leathery, sun-darkened. He's bulkier now too—like someone who's been fighting instead of living. He looks dangerous. Mean.

And he's in my house.

I bolt past him without a word, heart hammering in my chest, legs moving on pure panic. I take the stairs two at a time, slam my bedroom door shut, and twist the lock until I hear it click.

Then I collapse.

Everything from four years ago comes flooding back like a tidal wave, drowning me in the past. The shouting. The fists. The fear. The blood. The man with the gun. The smell of whiskey.

I crawl into my closet, my old hiding spot. My shield. My escape.

I curl up on the floor, clutching myself tight, shaking so hard I can barely breathe. The dress clings to me, but I don't care if I ruin it. I can't even bring myself to take it off.