The Badboy Delirium

A closet kiss

“I’m breaking up with you.”

Funny how five words can dismantle two years. It happened three days ago. Or was it four days, eleven hours, and—okay, I stopped counting after that. But the humiliation? That part is still fresh, like a phantom limb that won’t stop itching.

Caleb didn’t yell. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look guilty. He just stood there, calm and detached, like he was canceling a dentist appointment instead of ending us. His lips moved slowly—lips still stained with my gloss—and his blue eyes were empty. Like I was already a ghost. Like I was already gone.

My throat tightens at the memory. My chest aches in that dull, persistent way that doesn’t allow for dramatic, cinematic breakdowns. I want to scream. I want to cry until my lungs collapse. But I won’t. I especially won’t do it in the girls’ bathroom.

The doors burst open and a group of girls walk in, laughing loudly. The sound ricochets off the tiled walls, sharp and jarring. Then one of them notices me leaning against the porcelain sink. The laughter dies instantly.

“It’s her,” someone whispers. “Mean Girl May,” another mutters.

Yup, that’s me. I built this reputation myself, brick by brick. They are all idiots; I’ve never actually been mean to anyone at school. But I’ll take the label. If people fear me, they can’t pity me. And in this school, pity is a death sentence. Pity is worse than hate.

I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, keeping my spine perfectly straight. “Excuse me,” I say coolly.

They part immediately, just like the Red Sea. Power still works, even when your heart is in the gutter.

Gosh, I can’t live like this anymore. Maybe I should transfer schools. Start fresh. Spend my last year somewhere no one looks at me like I’m a piece of chewed-up gum. But I can’t leave Tiff. If I’m not here to be the lightning rod, the rumors will shift to her. And as tough as she looks, she’s actually super sensitive. She’d crumble under this kind of heat.

The bathroom door swings shut behind me. I take a breath of the hallway air, bracing for the stares, when suddenly—

A hand grabs my arm.

I barely have time to gasp before I’m pulled into a dark room. The door slams shut with a heavy thud. The sterile, suffocating scent of cleaning detergent and floor wax hits me instantly. Fear crawls up my spine, cold and sharp.

“Relax,” a low voice mutters near my ear. “You’re about to get eaten alive out there.”

The words register half a second too late. A hand presses against the center of my chest, guiding me backward until my spine hits the cold wall. My heart pounds violently against my ribs. The height. The silence. The proximity.

Caleb?

The thought blooms like a hopeful, stupid flower. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he realized he made a mistake and he needed to find me somewhere private, away from his audience. I reach up, my fingers brushing along a sharp, unfamiliar jawline. I don't wait for him to speak. I rise onto the tips of my sneakers and I kiss him.

I pour every unshed tear into it. Every I-still-love-you. Every fragile piece of pride I’ve been holding together with waterproof eyeliner and attitude.

He stiffens for half a second, like he wasn't expecting the assault. Then he responds, his lips moving against mine in a curious, hungry way. But he smells different. He feels different. And he tastes like… watermelon gum?

Caleb hates watermelon. He says it tastes fake. Caleb hates—

Oh God.

I shove him away violently, my hands trembling. A click echoes in the room, and the harsh fluorescent lights flicker on, buzzing like angry hornets. Standing in front of me is my worst nightmare.

Jax Beckham.

He leans against a shelf stacked with industrial bleach, his amber eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like amusement. My lip gloss is smeared on his mouth, a shimmering pink stain on a face that looks like it was carved from granite.

“That,” he says slowly, his English accent curling around the words like smoke, “was my first kiss. At least, the first one today.”

I wipe my mouth in horror, the back of my hand coming away with a smudge of pink. “What you just did is called assault, you asshole.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he studies me. Slowly. Like I’m a puzzle he’s finally decided to solve. He steps closer, invading my personal space until I can smell the faint scent of rain and tobacco on his jacket. He lifts my chin gently, his fingers surprisingly warm.

“So you’re the bad little puta I’ve been hearing about,” he murmurs.

I raise my hand to slap him, but he catches my wrist easily, his grip like iron.

“See?” he says calmly. “Bad little puta.”

I glare at him, my heart still racing from the mistake. “So they don’t teach common courtesy or personal space in jail, huh?”

His jaw tightens. Just for a second. A flicker of something dark passes through his amber eyes before the smirk slides back into place. “I’m not here to argue with you, Princess.”

“Then why drag me into a janitor’s closet?”

“You think he dumped you for no reason?” he asks quietly.

My stomach drops. My chest starts that familiar ache again, and I’m fighting back tears that sting the corners of my eyes. Of course I think there’s a reason. I just don't know if I want to hear it from him.

“I have a business proposal,” he says.

I cross my arms, trying to look unimpressed. “You’ve got five seconds.”

“We have a mutual enemy,” he says. “And I don’t like losing.”

Enemy? Does he mean Caleb? Why would Caleb have enemies? He’s literally the nicest guy in school. My pulse picks up. I hope he isn’t talking about the federal government; I’m not into politics like that.

“Be my girlfriend. Publicly. Let’s give them something better to talk about.”

I stare at him. A fake girlfriend? Public revenge? Caleb watching us together? The idea slithers into my mind, tempting and dangerous, before I crush it. I laugh instead, a jagged, nervous sound.

“You spent too much time reading romance novels in prison.”

His expression doesn’t change. He remains stoic, unmoving. “You want them to keep looking at you like you’re pathetic?” he asks evenly.

The word stings. Pathetic. “I need people to think I’m busy,” he continues. “And you need them to stop thinking you’re broken.” He checks his watch, a heavy silver thing on his wrist. “I have five minutes before someone comes looking for me.”

“Charity?” I snap. I’ve heard the stories—the way he favors her over the swarm of girls following him like lost puppies.

His eyes flicker slightly, and then he smiles. A real smile. His pearl-like teeth are on display, and for a split second, the "convicted felon" image vanishes. He looks… cute. Distractingly so.

“People talk, huh?”

I shake my head, regaining my senses. “No. I'm not doing it.”

He nods once. No pressure. No begging. No "Golden Boy" persuasion.

“Fine,” he says, completely unbothered. He opens the door, and the bright hallway light floods into our tiny, bleached-scented universe. “Think about my offer.... carefully.”

“You should too,” I respond, because who the hell makes offers like that? There’s more to life than "getting your lick back."

I step out into the hallway, feeling the eyes of the school immediately settle on me. I can feel Jax right behind me.

“I hope she gives you mumps!” I mutter over my shoulder.

“I think I already got them from you,” he calls out loudly, his voice carrying down the entire corridor. “Thanks, love!”

Every head turns. Phones rise like a wave. Whispers ignite like gasoline. My face burns with a heat I can’t hide. This couldn’t have gone any better, could it?

I glance back at him. He’s standing in the doorway of the storage room, smirking as if he’s just won a championship game.

Asshole.