Dating After the End of the World - 8

“Dad, why is Blake Morrison in my bedroom?”

My father furrows his brow, his eyes darting back and forth between Blake and me. “Oh, you two already know each other?”

“Of course I know him. He’s a bully, and he ruined my life.”

Blake swings his legs out from under the covers, showcasing that he’s only wearing a pair of boxer briefs. He sits up and rubs at his eyes, and while I can see the build, face, and stature of a nearly thirty-year-old man, my brain instantly morphs him into a fourteen-year-old creature of terror. A menace on the warpath with one goal in mind: making my life a living hell.

Seven. Thirty-one. Twelve.

I spun the lock on my burnt-orange steel locker and lifted the metal handle, expecting to find my jacket hung up on a hook, my backpack, and a small stack of textbooks—but no. Instead, dozens of canned foods spilled out, crashing to the floor and rolling in all directions. My cheeks immediately flushed, as all eyes were on me. I glanced to the left and then to the right, finding Blake Morrison, with dark hair cut short on the sides and an evil smirk. He was surrounded by his friends, and they were all pointing at me, howling with laughter.

“Hey, Head Case! This is a school, not a bunker to store your doomsday supplies,” Blake teased, still laughing.

Tears built, threatening to spill out, but I sucked them back in as my hand balled up into a fist at my side. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. Instead, I closed my locker and started to stomp off—but my foot rolled over a can of corn and sent me tumbling to the floor.

“You can’t even survive your own feet, Pearson,” Blake hollered.

I groaned, picked myself up, and continued walking, the sound of laughter taunting me until I was out of earshot.

The adult version of my childhood bully reappears before me, sitting smugly in my bedroom.

“Who are you?” Blake smirks.

“Don’t get cute with me. You know exactly who I am.”

He tilts his head. “Oh, you think I’m cute?”

I roll my eyes and look to my father—my father, who should have known better than to let the enemy in. “I’m not sharing a room with him. He should be dead.”

“Casey!” Dad warns. “Don’t say that.”

“What?” I shrug. “That was the plan, remember? In the event of an apocalypse, he”—I point to Blake—“was supposed to be on the other side of the gate, down by the road, begging me to let him in.”

“Jeez, Doomsday. I don’t remember you being so cruel.” He tosses me a teasing grin as he gets to his feet, stretching his arms over his head and letting out a heavy yawn. Every muscle in his chiseled body flexes, from his bulgy biceps to his washboard abs. He’s sure grown up into what I assume . . . is an even bigger asshole. I’d love to throw a punch right at that square jaw of his.

I narrow my eyes at Blake and flick my gaze to my father. “Dad, I don’t want him here.”

“Sweetheart, there’s nowhere else for him to go right now, so you two just have to work it out among yourselves for the time being,” he says, backing out of the room.

Before I can protest further, the door is already closing, putting an end to the conversation. I groan and turn to face Blake.

“So, how have you been?” he asks, lifting his chin in a cocky manner.

“Don’t talk to me, Blake.”

“I’ll take that as not so good .”

My gaze slips to his pecs, then his abs, and whoops, that’s quite the bulge. Damn it. Why is he here? And why does he have to be so muscly and good-looking? It makes me hate him even more. Shaking my head, I toss my backpack on my bed and peel off my jacket, before throwing it in the hamper.

“Well, I’m glad you made it home, Doomsday,” he says. “Your dad was really worried about you.”

I whip my head around, staring at him. “You don’t know anything about my dad.”

“I know a lot actually, since he and I are good friends and all.”

“You are not friends with my dad, Blake.”

“Maybe even best friends,” he adds with a smirk, clearly trying to get under my skin.

He takes a couple of slow steps toward me, his chin raised and his gaze locked on mine. I feel my heart start to race . . . fight or flight, I assume.

“And maybe one day, you and I will be friends too.”

“That’ll never happen,” I scoff.

“Why?”

“I’m not friends with assholes.”

He lifts a brow. “Good, because I’m not an asshole, so it looks like you misdiagnosed me, Dr. Pearson.”

“You creep. How do you know I’m a doctor?”

“Your dad told me . . . ya know, because we’re friends.” He cracks a grin.

“Whatever. Just stay on your side of the room, Blake.” I roll my eyes.

“Gladly.” He takes a step back, pinching his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. “Ya know, just because the world ended doesn’t mean your hygiene routine needed to end too.”

I glance down at my bloodstained, grimy pants and T-shirt and slyly sniff myself, gagging from the stench of decay and sweat.

“There’s a shower down the hall if you wanna . . .”

“Don’t,” I say, snapping my head up to look at him. “I built this place with my dad, so I don’t need you telling me where things are.”

“That may be true, but you’ve been gone a long time and things have changed around here. Shampoo and bodywash are in the shower, and I’ll even let you use my loofah, roomie.” He smiles and walks back to his bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“Gross, I’m not using your loofah.” I unzip my bag and pull out an oversized T-shirt.

“Suit yourself.” Blake lies down and props his hands behind his head, elbows pointed out. “Now, be a doll and kill the lights on your way out,” he adds, staring up at the ceiling with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Ugh, I want to strangle him. Grumbling, I leave the room with the lights on and tiptoe down the hall to the bathroom, where I close the door behind me. I start the shower. It sputters at first, but then comes to life, blasting a steady stream of hot water. I peel off my grimy clothes, dropping them into a pile, and inspect myself in the mirror, taking note of the fresh bruises around my neck and on my chest and shoulders.

Without notice, the bathroom door starts to creak open, and I frantically grab my dirty shirt from the floor, attempting to cover myself, and thrust my foot out to stop the door from opening all the way.

“I’m in here. What the hell!?”

Blake pops his head in through the gap. “Sorry, I knocked but you didn’t answer.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just come in.” I narrow my eyes. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, but I thought you’d want this,” he says with a cocky smile, extending a towel through the partially open door.

I don’t want to accept it, but I need it, so I begrudgingly take it from him, using it to help cover my naked body. “Get out,” I say.

“Most people say thank you.”

“I’m not most people.”

His eyes travel the length of my body like he’s examining me. “You all right?” Blake gestures to the discolored skin on my neck, shoulders, and chest.

I readjust the towel, holding it up a little higher. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Just get out,” I say, pushing the door into him.

He presses his lips together and meets my gaze before giving me a single nod. As he steps back, I slam the door closed, and this time, I lock it. Blake lingers on the other side, silently standing there. It’s another moment or two before I hear his feet pad down the hall.

I let out a heavy sigh and turn to face the mirror again, but this time it’s the gangly fifteen-year-old girl with dull brown hair and a mouth full of metal, dressed in overalls one size too big, staring back at me.

“ Oh my God! What is stuck in my hair!? ”

A chorus of boys laughing was the first answer I received.

“There ya go, Doomsday. I got you something you can snack on when the world ends.” Blake balled up the gum wrapper and threw it at my face.

“Yeah! Easy access,” another boy yelled. Tears poured from my eyes as I raced toward the bathroom, holding my head in my hands to cover up the wad of pink clumped in my hair.

All I wanted to do was fit in. But Blake Morrison wouldn’t allow it. I was the weirdo with the crazy dad, an easy target. Picking on me made him cool, and I wish he would have continued to just be my bully. I was used to that. I could deal with it, tolerate it, live with it. But no, he had to become something far worse. Blake fooled me once, but he won’t ever fool me again.