My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 28

Chapter 28 Late Night Messages and Mixed Signals

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I leaned my back against the chipped paint of the front door, my chest heaving as if I had just sprinted three miles instead of walking ten feet up my own driveway. The air inside our small house was thick, smelling strongly of the stale fryer oil clinging to my mother’s diner uniform and the sharp tang of lemon dish soap from the kitchen sink.

My mother stood at the end of the narrow hallway, her arms crossed tightly over her faded pink cardigan. The harsh overhead light cast

deep, exhausted shadows under her eyes.

“Raisa Tyla,’ she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but the disappointment in her tone carried a heavy, crushing weight. “Who was that?”

I dropped my heavy canvas backpack onto the scuffed hardwood floor. It landed with a dull thud. I kept my eyes fixed on the frayed strap,

unable to look at her.

“Just a guy from school,” I mumbled, unwinding the navy ribbon at my throat. My fingers felt numb and clumsy.

“Just a guy from school,” my mother repeated flatly. The squeak of her non-slip shoes echoed against the walls as she took a step closer. “Guys from Crestview Prep drive BMWs, Raisa. They don’t ride motorcycles that shake the windows of our neighbors’ houses. And they certainly don’t look like they just crawled out of a bar fight.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second. She had seen the dark, mottled bruise on his cheekbone.

“It’s not what it looks like, Mom.”

“Then what is it?” she pressed, her voice rising, the exhaustion giving way to a sharp, panicked edge. “You are months away from applying to college. You have a full academic scholarship. We cannot afford for you to get distracted. We certainly cannot afford for you to get mixed up with a boy who looks like trouble.”

A hot, ugly spike of guilt twisted deep in my stomach. She was terrified of me losing my scholarship because of a distraction. She had absolutely no idea that I was already on the verge of losing it, and that the boy on the motorcycle was the only thing keeping the alumni

board from expelling me.

I couldn’t tell her the truth. If I told her about Harper Vance, the cheating rumor, or what Mr. Harrison had done in the parking lot today, she would march straight into the Dean’s office tomorrow morning. She would demand justice. And in a school like Crestview, justice belonged entirely to the families who wrote the largest donation checks. We would lose everything.

“We got assigned a project together,” I lied, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. I forced myself to look up, meeting her worried eyes. ‘In history. He gave me a ride home so we could go over the syllabus. That’s it. It’s strictly academic.”

My mother studied my face. She searched for the telltale signs of a lie, looking for the nervous twitch in my jaw or the way I avoided eye contact. I gave her nothing. I had spent the last six hours performing for the most vicious audience in the state. Lying to my mother felt terrible, but the mechanics of it were entirely seamless.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction. She uncrossed her arms, rubbing the back of her neck with a heavy sigh.

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Chapter 28 Late Night Messages and Mixed Signals

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“Just… be careful, Raisa,” she murmured, the fight draining out of her. “You have worked too hard to let anyone drag you down. Especially

boys like that.”

“I know, I whispered. “I’m careful.”

I picked up my backpack and hurried past her, retreating to the small, cramped sanctuary of my bedroom.

I shut door and locked it. The radiator in the corner hissed, spitting out a meager stream of heat that did nothing to warm the

air. I dropped my bag onto the floor and collapsed back onto my narrow twin bed, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling.

ne silence of the room settled over me, heavy and suffocating.

Without the adrenaline of the school day to keep me numb, the physical reality of the last eight hours caught up with me all at once. My right arm throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. I sat up slowly, peeling off my blazer and unbuttoning the cuff of my starched white

blouse.

I rolled the sleeve up past my bicep.

The skin pale, but right in the center, four distinct, dark purple fingerprints were blooming against the muscle.

Harrison.

My breath hitched, the smell of his stale coffee and cheap cologne suddenly invading my memory. The terrifying, trapped sensation of being shoved against the brick wall washed over me, making my chest tight and my hands shake. He was a teacher. He was supposed to be

safe.

But he wasn’t. And if Ryder hadn’t stepped out of the shadows, I had no idea what Harrison would have done to me.

I traced the edge of the bruise with my left index finger. The skin was tender and hot.

I dropped my hand, my mind flashing instantly to the parking lot. I remembered the heavy, devastating impact of Ryder throwing a grown man against a car door. The absolute, lethal darkness in his hazel eyes. The rough, gravelly sound of his voice telling Harrison that I belonged to him.

Nobody touches what’s mine.

The words echoed in the quiet room, sending a completely different kind of heat rushing through my veins. A shiver racked my body that had absolutely nothing to do with the draft coming from my window.

I crawled under my thin comforter, burying myself in the blankets. I didn’t turn on the overhead light. The room remained dark, lit only by the faint, orange glow of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds.

I reached into the front pocket of my backpack, my fingers brushing against the cold, smooth metal of my phone. I pulled it out and brought it under the blankets with me.

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