Book 11: He's a Dick

Misty

The next morning, I’m summoned by Declan and his cronies. Dressed in my favorite brand of athletic shorts and a tanktop–my school uniform, basically–I walk steadily behind them, in iron chains over my silver manacles, and Declan keeps his distance. 

I’m hungry and tired but curious about what comes next, especially after last night. Georgia seemed okay this morning–quiet, a little dazed–but that’s expected. I’m sure reality hit her as we ate bland oatmeal together in the warm sunlight streaming through the windows that bathed the dust all over our apartment in gold. 

I feel chipper and ready to commit murder, however. Which is my plan. I feel like I’ll give Declan a pass, though, at least for now, since I damn near bit his cheek off yesterday. Still, I size up the two men standing at my sides. Gregory, an art history student, like Georgia, has dark skin and short, black hair. He’s my age–tall, and strong. An athlete of some kind. He