The secrets we bury

Control or be Controlled

St. Augustine’s first football game of the season was all anyone at school could talk about. You knew me and the girls had to show up and show out—this wasn’t just about school spirit, it was about making an entrance. Besides, I had a little surprise in store for our dear friend Jason Larson.

We got ready at Emma’s this time. Her house gave old money—antique paintings, creaky floorboards, furniture that looked like it had stories to tell. Unlike my parents, who ran hotel chains and were always away, or Averie’s parents who owned some flashy real estate empire, Emma’s family actually had presence. Bryce and Corrine Astor had struck gold—literally. An oil investment that made them richer than God.

Out of all of us, Emma’s parents were the most present, yet somehow, she always seemed the most alone and maybe that’s why her bruises stung more than the ones we couldn’t see.

Emma had been quieter than usual, unsettled. She tried to hide it, but I noticed the way her hands shook slightly as she curled her lashes, the way she smiled a second too late.

Averie brushed it off, too focused on choosing between heels and sneakers, but I paid attention. Something was off—and no one messes with my puppets except me.

I decided on a short white tennis skirt, flirty and fun, with a matching cropped top that cinched around my waist and tied just under my chest. My hair was curled, my Air Forces crisp. I was serving captain of the cheer squad meets angel with a devil’s grin.

The girls were giving, too. Averie wore a red pleated skirt with a cropped leather jacket. Emma, despite her unease, managed a soft pink mini dress with her signature vintage pearls.

We arrived just before kickoff. The bleachers were buzzing with noise, boys flexing, girls giggling, and parents pretending not to notice the underage drinking tucked into soda cups.

As the game started, I told the girls I needed a moment. I slipped away, down the side of the field and into the back corridor that led toward the locker rooms. I had a destination.

Jason.

He was alone when I found him, in the dim glow of the boys’ locker room. Shirtless. Doping up. Some little booster for the game, no doubt. Still the same pathetic addict.

“Still drugging up, Jasy?” I teased, toying with the ends of my hair as I stepped inside and locked the door behind me.

He spun around, startled. “What the hell are you doing in here, Ava?”

His voice was rough, gravel scraping pavement. I walked toward him slowly, calmly.

“Oh nothing,” I said, tone sharp. “Just thought we could have a little chat.”

He rolled his eyes, tossing the empty syringe in the bin. “Don’t have time for your bullshit.”

I smiled. The kind of smile that made people nervous.

“I’ve seen the bruises on Emma,” I said. “The ones you think no one notices.”

He froze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Don’t lie to me,” I replied, stepping closer. My hand reached for his crotch, grabbed, and pushed him back against the lockers. He groaned in pain, eyes wide.

“Mind your f*****g business,” he growled through gritted teeth.

“I was,” I said, tightening my grip. “Until you made Emma mine. And when something’s mine, I don’t share.”

He shoved me off, fury flashing in his eyes. I laughed. “What are you going to do, Jason? Hit me too?”

That’s when he grabbed me—by the hair, slamming me against the locker with a force that echoed through the metal. His hand wrapped around my throat, not tight enough to choke, but tight enough to threaten.

“You think you’re untouchable,” he hissed. “Little queen of f*****g chaos.”

I didn’t flinch.

“I am,” I whispered, smirking.

We stared at each other. Two predators. Then—

The heat snapped.

We crashed into each other like lightning splitting the sky—violent, raw, and vengeful. The kiss was war, not love. His hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. My nails scraped down his back. I bit his shoulder to muffle my sounds. Clothes tore. My skirt rode high. The cold lockers bit into my back.

He didn’t worship me—he dominated. Controlled. Every movement was meant to overpower, and I gave in. Let him. Used it.

He ripped my panties, breath hot against my ear as he lifted me up, shoving into me with such force it rattled the row of lockers. I arched into him, pain blurring into pleasure, our rhythm messy and manic. This wasn’t about lust—it was about leverage.

He grunted, I hissed. We didn’t kiss again.

I scratched down his spine like I wanted to mark him, wanted him to remember who was really in charge even if I played the submissive. He whispered something cruel, and I laughed in his face as he finished, every ounce of venom emptied into me.

When it was over, we didn’t speak.

I adjusted my clothes while he stared, stunned, like he didn’t know whether to hit me or worship me.

I turned to the mirror, fixing my hair, wiping the smudges from my lips.

“I believe we’re on the same page now, Larson,” I said coolly. “Don’t let me see another bruise on Emma. Or next time, I’ll leave more than a scar on your ego.”

I turned and walked out without waiting for a response.

Because queens don’t explain.

We execute.

And that night, under the Friday night lights, I returned to the field untouched. Unbothered. And more dangerous than ever.

The game went off like fireworks. St. Augustine took the win—of course they did—Jason was their star quarterback and the golden boy of the field. The crowd erupted, chants roaring through the air like we were at some damn college playoff game.

When it ended, Emma ran out onto the field like a scene straight out of a movie. She jumped into Jason’s arms, wrapping herself around him like he was some savior. He spun her around and kissed her, camera flashes catching the moment like they were America’s sweetheart couple.

Cute.

We locked eyes. Jason and I.

An unspoken agreement passed between us—our little contract, signed in lust and sealed with a threat. If he ever left another bruise on Emma again, he’d wake up with nothing. And he knew it. We understood each other now.

Afterward, the crowd began to scatter and regroup, whispering about the afterparty at Jason’s place. Naturally, we planned to show up.

But no Melanie.

No call, no text, just a convenient little excuse.

“Sorry, I have a ton of homework.”

Homework? Right.

More like she was busy riding my leftovers—bouncing on Thornton’s d**k like the little virgin-turned-princess she swore she wasn’t. God, the nerve.

I didn’t even have time to stew in my rage before my phone buzzed.

Ethan.

I miss you. Come see me.

Shit, he didn’t even need to ask twice.

I told the girls I was heading out early, kissed Emma on the cheek, whispered something vague about needing rest, and dipped before Jason even pulled into his driveway.

When I got to Ethan’s apartment, he was ready—waiting, standing in the doorway like he already knew I was coming. Dinner was on the table, candles low, his eyes hungry.

Such a f*****g gentleman.

We sat down. Ate. Talked. Laughed. He told me about the time he and Thornton accidentally got locked in a frat basement during a party and had to bribe their way out with half a bottle of vodka and three pizza slices. I told him about my “summer plans” —with the perfect smile and none of the truth.

He made me feel like I could pretend. Like none of this mess existed.

Then we showered.

Hot water steamed around us, fogging the glass, his hands mapping my body like I was something holy. He kissed me like it was the last time. He took me like he’d been starving, pouring every bit of himself into me like he couldn’t get enough.

Over and over again.

I lost count of how many times he came—how many times I begged for more. It was passionate, greedy, slow in some parts and furious in others. Like we were burning the world down just to stay warm.

And then, still slick and bare, he pulled me into his chest and held me until I fell asleep.

I should’ve stayed in that moment.

But I couldn’t.

Because even wrapped in Ethan’s arms, my mind was somewhere else—plotting.

Already whispering the next steps in my ear.

Already thinking about Melanie.

Already planning how to ruin the b***h I created.