LUSTS OF THE FLESH

Reckoning

Cheerleading practice is grueling.

Kayla has us going all out for the upcoming interstate championship like it's tomorrow instead of next year.

We're supposed to be sharp and synchronized, but I'm none of those things.

I can't nail the last three steps to save my life.

Prisci replays the music, and we get back into the choreo, but then, for the fourth move, I'm half a beat behind again.

The girls groan in annoyance.

Kayla throws me another one of her death glares. If I hadn't saved her ass from failing biology last semester, I'm pretty sure she'd have me benched by now.

I'm in the middle of another stunt when the side door creaks open, and Zayn enters the gym, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

His hair is damp from a shower after football practice, and he's wearing that black compression shirt that highlights every line of his pecs.

I try not to drool.

He climbs the bleachers, drawing the attention of the females his way.

They giggle and whisper among themselves, but he ignores them.

After dropping his bag in front of him, he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and scans the room for me.

When his eyes find mine across the gym, my stomach flips so violently it could qualify as part of the choreography.

He came here for me.

He knows I have cheer practice every Tuesday by this time. He knows everything.

A mocking voice interrupts the moment.

From Dean. Of course.

He and Baron—assholes who play basketball—always share the gym with us on Tuesdays.

"Yo, Ashleigh, are you drunk or just naturally this off today?" he calls out.

I ignore him.

"How'd she even make the team if she's that bad?" Baron adds, directing the question at Kayla. "I mean… What's the point of cheerleaders if you suck this hard and can't even cheer right?"

Heat travels up my face, and I glance up at Zayn, but he's talking to someone, so he didn't see any of it.

"We can't be on the court and look to you for motivation when you're flailing like that." Dean continues yapping. The i***t never knows when to stop talking.

Kayla snaps at them to shut up and shoos them off, but they laugh in my direction anyway, humiliating me.

As if the universe wants to prove their point, I completely botch the next step after the music restarts.

Dean and Baron burst out laughing triumphantly, nudging each other in the ribs and pointing at me.

Kayla slaps a hand to her forehead. "Ashleigh Grace Richardson, seriously, get your head in the game or get off my floor!" she yells in frustration.

"Just saying, Captain." Baron drawls, moving to stand beside her. "Maybe bench the dead weight."

My cheeks redden in shame, and my eyes burn with tears.

I mumble an excuse about needing water and bolt before the tears spill in front of everyone.

By the time I reach the girls' bathroom, which is fortunately empty, I'm already sobbing so hard my chest aches.

Everything crashes into me at once… Dean and Baron's voices, the laughter and humiliation, the way I kept missing steps because all I could think about was Zayn. I'm bawling like a child as I stumble into the farthest stall and collapse onto the closed toilet lid, burying my face in my hands.

Five minutes later, the outer door creaks open.

"Ash?"

It's Zayn.

Hearing his voice only makes me silently bawl my eyes out harder.

I press both hands over my mouth to muffle the next sob. "Go away," I choke out.

"Open the door."

I shake my head even though he can't see me. "I'm fine. J-just leave."

"I'm coming in."

The stall door pushes open, and Zayn steps inside the tiny space, shutting the door behind him.

He drops into a crouch so we're eye level, placing a hand gently on my knee.

"What happened?" he asks. His voice is frighteningly quiet.

I try to laugh it off. "It's nothing. Happens to cheerleaders all the time. Snide comments, you know."

Zayn's hair is still damp, some strands sticking to his forehead. And damn, he looks so good; for a second, I almost forget I'm sad.

"Baby," he says softly, and it breaks me all over again. A frown forms between his brows as he reaches out to wipe a tear from my cheek. "I want names. So, give them to me."

I stare at him through blurry eyes and see how completely serious he is.

Deadly serious.

He won't stop pushing until I give him what he wants, so I tell him.

"Dean and Baron," I whisper.

He nods, his thumb brushing another tear away. "Stop crying," he says. "I'll deal with them later."

Panic rushes through me. I know exactly what he's capable of. I grab his wrist before he can stand.

"Please don't…" I beg. "Zayn, they're not worth it. I don't want you getting in trouble because of me. Remember your scholarship."

He goes very still. Then he leans in, staring into my eyes. "No one," he says, in a lethal tone, "but me gets to make you cry and live to walk away."

His gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, then back to my eyes.

"I mean it, Ashleigh. Stop the tears."

I swallow and let go of his hand.

Zayn straightens slowly, towering over me in the tiny stall. The look he gives me makes me feel a sense of protection.

"Finish practice," he says. "I'll see you at home."

He leaves as quietly as he came in.

After a while, I get up to wash and wipe my face, feeling better.

I know what's coming 'later.'

Those bullies are going to get it.

And unlike before, I now gladly look forward to it.

Later that night, I'm in my room trying to sleep when the low rumble of Zayn's car engine distracts me.

Glancing at the clock, I slide off my bed and move to the window.

It's past 8 p.m.

I lift the curtains to watch his taillights disappear through the gate and vanish into the dark.

I know where he's going, and sleep becomes impossible after that.

I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound of his return.

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††

ZAYN.

On my way out, I catch a glimpse of Ashleigh standing at her window.

She thinks I didn't notice her watching, but I did. I always see her.

Don't worry, baby.

Big brother's going to take care of this.

My eyes drop to the baseball bat resting on the passenger seat, and my fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I drive into the night.

Dean and Baron.

Two loud-mouthed, limp-dicked basketball rejects who thought it was funny to make my girl cry in front of half the gym.

I've watched them for months, always running their mouths to cover up the fact that they can't win a game without fouling out. I know where they hole up off-campus. I've dropped Ashleigh off for cheer practice around that neighborhood enough times to have the address tattooed on the inside of my skull.

Twenty minutes later, I'm parked two blocks away and on my way to the house, my hoodie pulled low over my head and baseball bat in my hand.

The house is blasting with music when I get to the front steps.

A few seconds after I knock, the door swings open and Dean answers, beer in hand.

I glance past him into the house. There's no party going on. The drunk f***s are just having fun.

Good.

"Yo, look who it is!" He drawls. "The man who won us the state championship last year. Zayn Rich…"

I shove the door so hard that it slams into his face. Dean stumbles back in shock, blood already pouring from his nose.

Stepping inside, I kick the door shut behind me.

Baron's on the couch, scrolling through his phone with headphones on, and laughing at something, unaware of what just happened.

Dean moans in pain. "Dude? What the fu…"

I swing the bat at his forearm, landing a bone-cracking blow.

He screams in pain, dropping the beer bottle, which shatters across the floor.

The sound drags Baron's attention away from his phone, and he looks back.

I watch his eyes widen in horror when he sees Dean on the ground, groaning, holding his arm at a sick angle.

"What the hell, man?!" Baron shouts, shooting to his feet.

I don't answer, but start to go towards him.

He holds up two balled fists like he can take me and rushes in my direction, throwing a sloppy punch, which I catch easily.

I send a heavy blow to his stomach, knocking the breath out of him so hard he wheezes and falls forward.

Before he can crash to the ground, I grab a fistful of his hair and throw him straight through the coffee table.

It shatters under his weight.

"You two motherfuckers felt real brave making my sister cry today, didn't you?"

I swing the bat again, at a lamp. Then, at two glass frames.

Thanks to the music blasting from their speakers, which swallows the destruction, nobody outside this room will hear a damn thing.