Glass Heart Hero: A Dark High School Romance by Lindsey Iler (read with me .TXT) 📗

So, what makes me think I can change?

The answer is simple.

I can’t.

I sure as fuck won’t.

Not even for the vixen beside me who hasn’t stopped staring at the side of my face since we got this assignment.

I scribble one single sentence on my notebook and hold it up for her to read.

I HATE YOU.

Indifference greets me in her eyes. She grabs her pencil and writes something on her notebook.

THAT’S OKAY BECAUSE I HATE YOU, TOO.

******

We park beside an old, rundown building. The doors slide open, exposing the dark interior. The lights overhead dangle with the natural sway of the roof. A brisk wind could take this place down.

“This is quite the set-up!” I yell over the loud crowd. Marek escorts me to the center of the room, shoving through the throng of spectators.

“Unlike Hollow Hill, we knew we couldn’t get away with this on campus. Since we’re officially under surveillance, we went with the next best thing,” Dixon says, throwing a white towel over his shoulder.

“Who owns this place?” I ask.

“Honestly, we have no idea, but we’re guessing they won’t mind if we use it, considering it’s been abandoned for as long as I’ve lived here.” Marek thrusts me into a corner hidden away in the dark. “Now, listen, there’s no out from this. Final blow wins. There are no rules. Your moral compass goes out the window right now. Go out there and destroy him.”

I stretch my arms, feeling the ping of pain in my shoulder from our game this week. I took a good hit to my right, my strong side, and that’s going to work against me.

“Make him wish he never called this gauntlet. Make him believe a body bag is the only option for you,” Dixon adds to the pep talk.

I glance up and see Byron, lost in the shadows above everyone. As an academy staff member, he can’t be seen here, but there’s no way he’d miss this fight. He has his own history with the DuPont family, and he’d love nothing more than to watch me bury the youngest one. His chin drops in greeting, and I drag my eyes to the mob that is growing by the minute.

“They’re betting?” I question, seeing money exchanged from hand to hand. “Who do they have winning?”

“Not your problem. Go.” Marek shoves me forward, following close behind me.

The crowd parts, anticipation circulating through the air like fireflies, lighting up the place. A circle forms, and on the opposite side, Tripp stands with Richards and Washington, each of them in street clothes as opposed to their usual pressed shirts and slacks.

“There’s one rule.” I grin, knowing Tripp has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. Pent-up anger comes out in weird ways with me. “Don’t tap out. If you do, the gauntlet is finished, proving what most of us know already.”

“Is that it?” Tripp scoffs. “You clearly have no idea who I am. I don’t tap out, asshole.”

“We’ll see.”

Marek walks into the middle of the makeshift ring. “Okay, listen up, fuckers. You will stay back. Anyone who dares to come beyond this line”—he points to the red, spray-painted circle on the cement floor—“officially becomes a member of the fight, and trust me, these two have enough anger towards each other to bury your ass on the spot. Oh, and there are no rounds. There are no time limits. There are no officials.” He approaches a group of girls wearing polished sweaters and moves them behind the line. “You may want to move to the rear unless you want blood on your Ralph Lauren.” They listen to him, disappearing into the mob. “Let’s do this.”

Music starts to play through the speakers. Everyone cheers, excited for this fight to start.

“Kill him,” Marek instructs, shoving me into the center.

Tripp and I stare at each other. This bare-knuckle brawl is nothing new to me. Freshman year, Byron convinced us to start a fight club, of sorts. It was short lived because I destroyed everyone, and no one dared enter the ring against me.

I wiggle my fingers, inviting Tripp closer. He bounces on the balls of his feet, proving he’s not a complete idiot when fighting. My guess is he has several years of mixed martial arts and boxing experience, paid in full by his stuck-up parents who saw sports as a way to help their precious son through sudden bouts of anger.

Tripp charges forward and makes a direct punch to my jaw. As planned, I plant my feet and take it. The best thing to do is give my opponent a false sense of security by allowing them the first hit.

“Is that all you have, pretty boy?” I grin, rubbing my fist over the tender spot.

“Just getting started.” He lunges again, thinking he’ll land the same punch twice.

I move to the side and plant my knee in his stomach. As he barrels over, I crush his ribs, knocking him to the ground.

“It would be too easy to take you out now, but these people came for a fight, so let’s fight.” I raise my hands up and down at the crowd, inciting excitement for this blood bath.

“You see our girl is here,” Tripp says.

Falling into his trap, I search the room, and through a break in the bodies, my eyes land on hers. She’s beside Palmer, their faces blank of emotions. With my concern elsewhere, Tripp strikes an uppercut to my stomach. I stay on my feet, wincing through the pain.

Underestimating my opponent is the biggest mistake I can make in a fight. I may have discredited this fool because he’s holding his own. I envisioned him curling into a ball in the corner and relenting after the first punch. I’m glad he’s not an easy win for me.

I am filled with anger, and I have plenty of reason to direct most of it at Tripp.

“Come on, pussy. Let’s fight!” Tripp yells, exciting the crowd on his side of the ring who are here to support him.

I close my