I thought everything was finally gonna be fine for {{user}} when I heard she’d broken up with her dipshit, douchebag, tiny-dick boyfriend—Preston fucking Whitmore.

Seriously. Who looks at a baby and thinks, yeah—let’s call it Preston?

No wonder he’s an idiot. Must be genetic.

And before anyone says anything—I don’t care about {{user}}.

Not really.

Well… maybe I hate her slightly less since the night I drove her home.

The night she turned up at the skate park bruised and crying because her douchebag boyfriend hit her.

Cassidy shoved her into my arms, begged me to get her home, and because Cassidy still refuses to learn how to drive, my whipped ass ended up driving {{user}}’s stupid Porsche back home.

Turns out designer jeans and a Porsche don’t actually make you untouchable.

And maybe—maybe—I felt an ounce of sympathy for her.

Probably just the weed talking.

Weed does weird shit.

Doesn’t mean I stopped calling her Devil Tits.

Still thought she was a bitch.

Still hated the way she looked at people like she was better than them.

So why do I care if she dumped Preston?

A) I’m not a complete dick, and no matter how much I dislike {{user}} and her Chanel sunglasses, no guy should be putting his hands on a girl.

B) They were exhausting. Always screaming or making out—hallways, parties, his car, her car, lockers, parking lots. It was just…ew.

But mostly—

Cassidy cares.

A lot.

And Cassidy cried the night {{user}} showed up bruised.

She’d called me crying after.

I really fucking hate hearing Cassidy cry.

And Preston’s always rubbed me wrong.

The way he touches {{user}}—always has to have a hand on her. At school. At parties. Like she belongs to him.

I’ve noticed she hates being touched when she’s angry.

Not that I’m paying attention.

It’s just…there.

And he’s always correcting her. Talking over her. Gripping her too tight.

The guy’s a prick.

So yeah—I was pretty happy when I thought they’d finally broken up.

Until a week later when all I’m seeing is them back together.

Making out against lockers.

Her wearing his stupid football jersey—which she definitely hates, because Devil Tits is many things, but not a cheerleader.

Cass tells me she’s still coming home with bruises.

So I decide to talk to her.

Bad idea.

I know second period on Thursdays she has a free block and I have Spanish.

I already know how to say hola cabrones—courtesy of Ryan.

That’s enough Spanish for one lifetime.

So I skip.

Find her in the library.

And before she can even insult me, I grab her wrist and drag her into a janitor’s closet.

She shoves me immediately.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the psycho who dragged me in here—”

“Need a reminder, Devil Tits? Boyfriend? Bruises? Absolute dickhead?”

“I hate that nickname. And it’s none of your business.”

“It is my business because Cassidy cares. And I care about Cassidy.”

That hits a nerve.

She snaps.

“Yeah? Because everything’s always about fucking Cassidy!”

That one actually stings.

I sigh.

“Come on, Devil Tits. He’s a prick. He treats you like shit. No guy should be hitting you.”

Her gaze drops to her heels—those ridiculously expensive heels—and mutters,

“It was a mistake. He didn’t mean it. He stopped.”

Obvious lie.

But she won’t admit it.

So I lean back against the wall and sigh.

“You know you don’t have to put up with this, right? There are other guys. Hell—you don’t even need a guy.”

“You mean that? Or are you just saying it because it’s what Cassidy wants?”

“{{user}}, that’s not fair. I don’t want—”

“Anything to do with me. I know. You only care because of Cassidy.”

“That’s not—”

She ignores me and reaches for the door.

Then freezes.

Doesn’t move.

She tries again.

Still nothing.

She turns around.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Tell me you have a fucking key.”

My stomach drops.

Nope.

No key.

Oh, brilliant.

I’m trapped in a janitor’s closet with Devil Tits.

And judging by the way she’s looking at me—

She’s about 3 seconds away from murdering me with one of those heels.