My Bullies, My Lovers

2: Tori

Tori

My heart pounds, vibrating in sync with the bass thundering through the frat house. The soft glow of blue LED lights strung along the floor and ceiling offers just enough illumination to make out party goers' faces—just barely. Everyone wears glow-in-the-dark necklaces, casting a faint, otherworldly light over the scene, but it's not enough to etch anyone’s features into memory.

Stepping through the door, I hesitate, mentally kicking myself. We’ve talked about poor decision-making, Tori. So why do you keep doing this?

I knew it was a bad idea to come to a party hosted for my bully by an ex-best friend, but she insisted I come, and that threw up all the red flags. Naturally, I had to come see what she's plotting.

Inner me lectured me the whole, overpriced Uber ride here about the obvious dangers. Yet here I am, dressed in my usual go-to: khaki cargo pants, plaid shirt tied around my waist, and a cropped white top that shows off the red navel piercing, a small blood-red gem dangling like a drop of blood.

I weave through the crowd toward the kitchen counter, where drinks are precariously scattered, as if one wrong move might send the whole mess crashing down. Surprisingly, I manage to mix vodka, lemon-lime soda, and cherry juice in a red Solo cup without having to elbow anyone aside. I take a swig, pivoting on my heel right into a collision.

The end of my cup slams into someone’s chest, jolting my teeth and sending the sticky drink down my neck, soaking my top. Of course. You shouldn’t be too surprised, Tori—you spill your drinks more often than you get them down your throat.

I shuffle back, trying to avoid more splashes landing on my shoes. The cherry syrup clings to my skin, bright red and tacky. Fantastic.

I mutter a swear, swallowing down the alcohol that flooded into my mouth. Grabbing a napkin from the counter, I dab at the mess on my chest before realizing the person I collided with is still standing in front of me. His pristine white sneakers now sport splatters of sticky cherry syrup. Honestly, they look better that way. Unique.

By the way he’s just standing there, saying nothing—let alone offering a napkin—I can tell he’s the type to get pissed over a tiny accident. Great. Just what I need.

I roll my eyes before even looking up, already prepared to verbally spar with whatever narcissistic, ego-inflated guy thinks the world owes him something. High school trained me for this, being tormented by guys just like this for too long. I’m not dealing with it now as an adult.

My eyes lift to find someone I should have known would be here. Blaze Hwan—Iron Triad member number two. His hair, once black and glossy, is now dyed a muted blue, bordering on lilac. Bold choice there, dude. His dark, piercing eyes bore into me, cold and unyielding. The same eyes that, three years ago, had the power to intimidate me. I refuse to let them now.

“You’re f*****g with me, right, Icky?” His voice booms, cutting through the music like a knife. His cheekbones seem even sharper than I remember, adding to his already imposing look.

I’ve admired plenty of Korean men—mostly through my K-drama addiction—but Blaze is in a league of his own, and he’s well aware of it. Which is exactly what annoys me the most.

“It’s Tori,” I correct, fighting back the sting of that stupid nickname. Simple as it was, when the entire senior class used it, it cut deeper than anyone knew. “And it’s not my fault you decided to stand so close when I turned around.”

I steady my breath, locking my expression into the resting b***h face I’ve perfected post-graduation. It’s a great defense against jerks who think they can get the upper hand. Blaze, though, is a different breed, which I should’ve known. The Iron Triad doesn’t play by anyone’s rules.

Even back in high school, they were ahead of the game, making their own money through investments. The three of them had IQs that could put Wall Street brokers to shame, with enough street smarts to impress even the savviest gangsters. And now, three years later, they’ve only become more fearsome.

Yet here I am, arms crossed, face impassive, locked in a staring contest I never signed up for. Meanwhile, my insides are twisting into knots so tight I’m convinced I’ll never untangle them. My stomach feels like it’s fighting a battle between wanting to vomit or s**t—or both.

Not to mention my heart is no longer thudding like a drum. No, it’s a freight train tearing through the night at bullet speed. Sweat pours from my skin like I’ve just spent an hour roasting in a sauna.

“Clean them, Icky.” He drags out every syllable like it's his personal mission to piss me off. It doesn’t matter how many times I insist on Tori. To him, I’ll always be Icky—the girl he bullied, tormented, and humiliated, even forcing me to run out of school naked.

His voice oozes dominance, daring me to submit to him like before. He expects me to flinch, to cower under his authority, his intimidating presence, and those damn good looks. But I’m not that girl anymore. I square my shoulders and lean into his space the same way he’s crowding mine.

“You can clean it yourself,” I say, my voice sharp as my eyes lock onto his. I turn to walk away, intentionally flipping my hair in his face on the way out.

I don’t get far. His hand clamps around my bicep, yanking me back until my spine hits the counter’s edge. s**t. That’s definitely gonna bruise. I brace for more, but it seems the shove was enough to satisfy his need for dominance—for now.

Blaze leans in, obliterating whatever was left of my personal bubble. His breath fans hot against my cheek as he reaches behind me, grabbing a napkin and soaking it under the tap. Then he hands it to me.

“Clean it,” he orders, his voice low and cruel, pushing down on my shoulders until my knees hit the ground. He smirks as I drop to the floor. “I like you better like this.”

Oh, you're going to learn today, Blaze. I’m not the scared girl he used to push around. Not anymore. This isn’t high school—it’s harassment.

I don’t clean his shoes. Instead, I toss the wet napkin straight into his face and punch him square in the balls, hard as I hit the heavy bag at the gym. He doubles over with a groan, but I’m already up, bolting out of the kitchen before he can catch his breath.

I weave through the crowd, blending in as I fake dance my way toward the front door. I’m only ten feet away from freedom when Ryder Hayes steps into view, blocking my exit. Iron Triad member number three. Of course.

His golden hair has darkened just a shade, but his charm is still in full force. He’s schmoozing, dazzling the crowd with that perfectly white smile and pink lips. His baby blue eyes practically glow under the LED lights, reflecting every color they catch. Son of a b***h has grown two more inches since graduation. What does that make him now? 6'3? 6'4?

His gaze lands on me, and I see that familiar glint of mischief spark in his eyes. Just what I needed.

Ryder was always the most terrifying of the group—or at least, I used to think so before that night. He’s got everyone fooled with that golden-boy charm, making people believe he's sweet, with a heart of gold. But his heart’s as rotten as a poisoned apple. He’s a demon wrapped in an angel’s body, and no one’s the wiser. No one but me.

Now, I have Blaze cutting through the dance floor behind me, all menacing glares, while Ryder stands at the front, looking like he’s ready to devour me. I freeze, torn between fight or flight, but before I can figure out my next move, a hand wraps around my wrist and yanks me deeper into the crowd.