The Bad Boy and the Other Bad Boy

The world was still a blurry mess of pale blue walls and scattered polaroids, the aftermath of a night I couldn't recall. My head throbbed in time with the frantic pounding of my heart as I stared at the orange-haired girl sprawled across the bed. Mallory Taylor. Rocco Denver's girlfriend.
“What the actual fuck,” I muttered, the words thick with disgust and a growing sense of dread. I snatched my jacket from the floor, tugging it on like a shield, and slipped out of the room. The house was a warzone of empty beer bottles and sleeping bodies, a stark testament to the chaos of last night. Rocco was nowhere in sight.
My bike roared to life, a temporary reprieve from the throbbing in my skull. I hit the nearest 7/11, wolfing down a sandwich and chugging Gatorade. Painkillers chased it down, followed by the bite of peppermint gum. Maybe I'd go to school today. Just to watch the drama unfold. Maybe I'd even stir it up a little.
Prisington High was deserted when I arrived, the silence amplifying my footsteps on the linoleum. In the boys' bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the steamed-up mirror. A wolf stared back, a smirk playing on its lips. “Did I really sleep with fucking Mallory?” The thought sent a jolt of perverse satisfaction through me. This was going to make Rocco mad. And I couldn’t help but grin.
