The gruesome threesome have been doing mental gymnastics to send two-edged daggers at my head. Then, there's the occasional index finger dragging across Sienna's neck to imitate the perfect decapitation. So, considering everything that's happened in the last three hours, it's become problematic.

I haven't been able to rest easy in this place since I got attacked by those vicious, wild animals. I'm starting to wonder what I was thinking about staying in X-Rated. Which, thanks to my incredible luck, is now known as club #TracksOuts.

According to a recent oblivious passersby, I'm the hottest scoop of mindless gossip on The Ravenwood since a recent post from this morning. Curiosity killed the cat, so I had to let it out of the bag. Besides, I knew nothing could go sideways today by letting one curiosity out to play. After suffering utter torment, I deserved to know what miserable fool held the championship spot over me.

Just one laugh.

I just wanted one laugh.

Okay, so I'm still a teensy-bit jacked up over this catastrophe, so sue me, I lied. My humor is the only way I've learned how to cope with all the confusing crap life throws my way. Plus, I would never tell Brandon this, but he's the only ray of sunshine I have in this miserable place. And by that, I mean on Earth.

Besides, I'm positive he would boast about it until he can have it written on my tombstone. Sadly, that day may come a lot sooner than any of us anticipate considering how the Atomic Three Whores have taken their mutual hatred for me to the next level.

It does help being comforted that there's no way I can get my weave snatched out twice in one night. The worst part already happened, so when Brandon asked if I wanted to stay at Club TracksOut. I decided against every ounce in my body to stay and stand my ground because if I left, they would always win. At least, that's what I thought until someone was kind enough to show us the article.

THE ONE MAN MARCH INSIDE
THE RETARDED THRONE.

"So if you're the one man and inside means. . ." I squeeze my lips together, "cc-copulation. Then does that mean I'm the retarded throne?"

"What did you just say?" Brandon asks, aggressively nursing his beer, holding it inches from his mouth.

I take a sip of my Coke, avoiding eye contact. "Am I the retarded throne?"

"No, before that." Brandon raises his eyebrow.

"Oh ha ha," I say, tapping my fingers against my thigh. "Just because the writer said you were a man instead of a boy doesn't mean you're too grown to be humble."

"Now, keep going." Brandon commands, not moving a single centimeter.

I slowly click my tongue on the roof of my mouth three times as I watch Brandon sit on the opposite end of the black, round table. CLICK. He examines my slightest movement, his gaze searching for my answer. CLICK. A genuine amused smirk forms on his fair skin, masked by a faint trail of stubble. CLICK. I take in every detail of the boy sitting across the table because there's no way my imagination can catch up to him.

I prop my head on my right fist. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I know what Brandon's doing, and truthfully, I think he suspects all the abominable thoughts racking inside my brain. Why else would I ask him if I could stay in a place where everyone could care less if I lived or died? It's not like I have anywhere else to go.

My home is gone, and so are the four space-grey walls where all my fairytales and fantasies existed. So, I'm stalling because I don't want to return to reality. After all, my truth is already bruised. I would be lying if I said I wasn't constantly looking over Brandon's shoulder to make sure Naija, Sienna, and Roxane were still sitting two tables down to the left.

"Ebony!" Brandon yells.

"There's nothing wrong with the word co-."

"Don't say it again." Brandon laughs hysterically.

"What's wrong with it?!" I demand.

"You do realize they have the same meaning?" He deadpans.

"I just feel better saying copulation."

Brandon slams the beer on the table, almost falling out of his chair. "Mark my words; I will make you say it."

I pinch my index finger and thumb together, pulling the two digits over my lips to mimic a zipper sealing my lips shut. Then I take the imaginary key and pretend it disappeared in thin air. My mouth stretches open in shock as I glance at an unamused expression.

Brandon stands up from his seat. "C'mon, the party's just getting started."

Before I can utter a rebuttal or whine like a defenseless puppy dog, the Soldier pulls my entire body out of my comfortable chair. I can feel the inner dictionary in my soul rise to the surface as two black frying pans replace my pupils. Each step gets lighter and lighter until I'm floating on clouds with people who have smooth faces absent of any physical characteristics.

Then there's Brandon with his left hand pressing against my waist until I'm on the further right side of him. My breath hitches in my throat, but my heart pounds inside my chest. I resist the urge to touch Brandon's hand on my abdomen as butterflies flutter inside my stomach.

This boy drives my mind into airborne black scribbles and my fantasies into blazon instincts. Suddenly, forming a complete sentence is outside my forehead. No, I mean my thinking space. It's a place that's an actual place but part of myself is there. Ugh, I can't even think straight because of this damn boy!

I blink several times, realizing I'm only a few feet from the Atomic Dumpster table. My lips separate to attempt to protest, but before I can say anything, I notice two girls shoving their faces into get this. . . a mop bucket full of alcohol. No words can describe how these unclean swine are still alive when they drink like Clifford the Big Red Dog takes a sip of water.

I stare at them, mouth agape, frozen in place. Then Brandon casually walks over to the two girls and snatches the bucket from their unhinged jaws. The boys must love them. I wiggle my shoulders as I use the gag reflexes they clearly don't have. My attention flickers to the devilish grin creeping on Brandon's handsome face.

I raise my left eyebrow, flaring my nostrils. "You are not drinking a pissload of alcohol and driving!"

"Who said anything about drinking it," Brandon smirks.

"If you're not going to chug it, then why are you taking souvenirs?!"

"Stop asking so many damn questions." Brandon declares, approaching a group of teenage boys. "hey, you can dump all your trash in here."

"Then stop acting so damn suspicious," I mutter, watching a crew of guys Brandon frequently hangs with give goofy smiles to each other.

Each of the three boys holding a paper plate of bones, old French fries with ketchup still on it, or half-eaten hamburgers drops their plates into the half-empty grey bucket. I frown as one of the guys named Luke makes direct eye contact with Brandon. I notice Luke's short blonde hair gleaming in the golden neon lights, masking a cluster of light brown freckles.

Cameron stands next to Luke, raising his bushy eyebrows and reverting his gaze to me. His body immediately stiffens as his left nostrils flare. He purses his lips together, turning his head to the girl's table. In the process, he reveals a sharp, rock-solid jawline.

Then there's the ass-of-the-hour Donovan Haynes and his infamous jet-black hair. It's carefully combed to the right side of his head and laid down in messy waves. It frames his dark eyebrows and the black stubble forming into a mustache.

I suspect his swoon-worthy locs are the byproduct of bonding glue and several square feet of Peruvian hair extensions. Ergo, the reasoning behind Donovan's nonstop obsession with constantly combing his luxurious hair. He broods on the other side of Cameron, examining Brandon and me with folded arms and an excess amount of attitude.

I turn back to Luke as he grabs the bucket from Brandon, hocking a massive loogie into it. I quickly notice Cameron holding his iPhone, whirling the camera from the bucket to the table Naija, Sienna, and Roxane are sitting at. "And ACTION," he yells.

"Ohh shit." Luke curses, getting closer to the door.

Brandon tiptoes to the girl's table while they're too busy laughing like a pack of hyenas in the wild. He turns around to look at us before his gaze finds mine. For the first ten seconds, I can't look away even as his lips start to mouth something that doesn't even almost register in my thinking place.

First, my attraction to Brandon was initially derived from pure lust that I mistook for affection. Then he turns his coffee-brown leather jacket entirely to us and I discover something about myself. I'm in love with the way he playfully flexes his muscles to make me smile.

I go insane when his kindness always outshines every aspect of his personality. I lose access to the most basic functions when he uses his dark side to protect me. But most importantly, I lose my mind and forget how to breathe because I'm in love with how he's not the popular jerk I thought he was.

Brandon holds the bucket by the handle, gripping the bottom as he thrusts alcohol, mucus, and garbage all over the Atomic Dumpster Three. He drops the bucket and dashes to the club entrance with Luke and Cameron behind him.

"My hair!" Naija shouts.

"What the fuck!" Sienna fumes, "This shit burns!"

"This dress is designer!" Roxane cries, taking a napkin from the dispense and furiously scrubbing the stains.

"Run retard." Donovan yells as I freeze before he catches up with the others. Sienna picks up the mop bucket from the table, grasping it between her long, red stiletto nails. She turns in my direction, seconds from returning the bucket as I bolt for the nearest exit. She missed by about five feet since she aimed at where I stood.

The crowd dives out of my way, whispering how they would be mortified if a mop bucket full of garbage was drenched over their heads. This time, it's trash; next, it's dirty water or diarrhea, but either way, I'd love to see them bounce back from this tomorrow. It's little moments like this that make my life worthwhile.

I'm inches from the door when I turn around and chuck my two signature finger signs at the pissed-off skutbuckets standing at the corner table. I swear it's like I have a death wish at this point. But there's a reason I dedicated flipping a major bird to the second rule of surviving the wrath of the Atomic Five and the damned watchers from the Ravenwood.

RULE #3: ITS BETTER TO DIE WELL THAN TO LIVE BADLY.

"Screw you, Atomic Dumpster!" I chime in, cupping my hands over my mouth.

A swarm of drunken losers jest and cheer 'Atomic Dumpster' to the top of their lungs until the stench of booze penetrates the atmosphere. A couple of drunks take the stage playing a wicked air guitar as they chant along to the hissy fit of the three destroyers from planet Whoredom. Before I can revel in the third rule, Sienna charges toward my position in fury.

But Brandon bursts through the door, wrapping his strong arms around my waist as he rescues me from harm. The only interesting similarity between the times he put his blue cape and tight spandex on is the justified wolf whistle sounding off in my mind. It's only coming out of my head because of the massive imprint his muscles leave in skintight clothing, among other bulky things I can only imagine.

"Like Walter Mitty, I dare to dream."

The closely fitted blue spandex clings to Brandon's body like a second layer of skin. He postures heroically, head facing away, legs separated, and fists resting on his side. I admire every inch of his physique as I attempt to undress his legendary muscles. Just one peek will send me to Saturn.

Brandon hovers over his Mustang and descends on the hood of his car. He rests his left arm over his knee, seductively posing as he uses his telekinesis to pull me towards him. I hover centimeters above him as our bodies align only inches apart. At the last second, I fall into his arms and crash into his lips.

We hold this passionate embrace as our kiss deepens even more. Brandon's mind wanders to higher places as we ascend into the nighttime sky. This kiss is worth sharing with the stars scattered across the galaxy until our love kindles and ignites. Then transforms us into a radiant celestial body.

The first thing I promised not to do has fueled my imagination into another desperate delusion. The difference between the other times Brandon helped me up to now is my amusement. Of course, I'm grinning like a supervillain as I mentally dance along to the screams of Atomic Dumpster. Hell, even my toes are wiggling along to their misery. I feel alive!

"Dude, they're still chanting Atomic Dumpster!" Luke rejoices, bouncing up and down like an overacting chihuahua.

Brandon opens the passenger door, shaking his head furiously in disapproval. "Do you have a death wish?"

I plop down on my seat, glaring at Donovan through the windshield. "I was just giving the masses a worthy hashtag."

"So you do have a death wish," Brandon says firmly, walking around his car.

"Hey, don't lecture her," Luke interjects, "it was your idea to use them as a human dumpster."

Wait, Brandon not only executed this diabolical scheme, but he planned it. It explains why he kept looking at his phone for thirty minutes straight. Thank God he was plotting instead of avoiding eye contact with me out of pity. I swear, the more I learn about this guy, my heart races even more.

"You hit me up, Brandon, and asked us to leave my favorite fast food restaurant for a good time. And now I can't even share it with the world!" Cameron explodes, ballistically pointing at his cell phone.

"Cam, we had an agreement," Brandon glances at me. "It's not time to post the video."

Donovan paces forward, acknowledging my presence with a condescending sneer. "C'mom, Ebony deserves to be berated like a toddler. She has the IQ of one." He declares openly, grinning as he waves at me.

It's like someone repeatedly ramming their fist inside my gut, and it hurts like hell. But what stings the most is anticipating the blow and trying to absorb every single way a person can call me stupid. Then, I shove all my emotions inside an endless portal in my mind.

A space where everyone disappears, and the world stops spinning for one day. My room used to have the same area code, and it was a place where I could dream about my life with Brandon, listen to angry music, and procrastinate about painting. I'm tired of willingly leaving room for people to disappoint me. Donovan had never spoken a word to me before I became the retarded throne.

He doesn't even know me enough to hate me.

"Don't be an asshole," Brandon says in a flat tone.

"Damn." Luke mouths, inching further away from Brandon and Donovan with wide eyes.

"I'm the asshole," Donovan laughs, "dude, you've been leading this fucking retard around all day."

"Careful," Brandon warns, clenching his jaw.

I try to escape the car, but Cameron blocks my path. "Move, I have to get out."

"This is all your fault, so get comfortable." Cameron grits through his teeth.