Page 7 of Unleashed By Eden

“‘Grunty?’ That’s hilarious.” Jase throws his head back in a loud, fake guffaw.

“Yeah, I know. I just made it up.” Cindy smirks, inspecting her fingernails to make sure I didn’t damage them.

Yeah, hilarious. I’m dying of laughter over here.

“What are you even wearing?” Cindy’s eyes rake over my leather jacket, a too-big hand-me-down that Jeanine gave me for my last birthday. My foster mom humors my dark style and lets me dress however I want.

“Did you steal it off a dead guy? Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I wipe the rain from my face, giving a slight shrug. “At least it’s better than that pink marshmallow you’re wrapped in.”

Her face flushes, and Jase sniggers. “At least my mom cares what I wear. You don’t even have a real mom.” Cindy crosses her arms.

Her words sink in, hitting harder than any shove. I know I’m small and nothing but skin and bones. My legs are too long for my body, and my eyes bulge out of my head. And she’s right: I don’t have the perfect family—or a real mom. But just once, I wish I didn’t have to hear it from her.

A flicker of movement behind them catches my eye. A tall figure, framed against the dark rain clouds, approaches with quick strides. He storms toward us, guitar case strapped to his back, and in a swift movement, he throws the case to the ground. The loud thud breaks the tension. Cindy and Jase both flinch as they turn to face him.

“What did I tell you little shits about coming near her?” Carter’s fury rolls through them like thunder, his eyes trained on Jase.

“Get lost, Ashford,” Jase taunts, trying to hold his ground, but Carter doesn’t give him the chance to finish. His fist connects with Jase’s nose, sending him staggering backward, blood spurting down his face.

“Oh my god, you psycho!” Cindy shrieks. “Are you okay, Jase?!” She puts her arm around Jase, who’s now crying hysterically, holding his nose, and they scramble away, scattering like cockroaches down the street.

Carter lets out a low sigh, watching them run off, before turning to me. “You good, Vi?”

I nod, swallowing hard, trying to hold back the tears of relief, pain, and embarrassment all at once. “I’m fine,” I manage, peeling off the wet leaves sticking to my torn jeans. A sharp pain throbs through my ankle, making me hiss. He extends a hand, and when I take it, his grip is firm but careful as he helps me to my feet. The warmth of his hand in mine feels nice, and I hold on to it a moment longer than I need.

“You sure?” he asks, his eyes moving slowly over my wet boots, ragged jeans, and oversized hoodie, lingering on my jacket before focusing on the fresh cut on my lip.

I bite the inside of my cheek, willing away the blush creeping up my neck. Carter’s only three years older than me but lately he seems so much wiser. Cooler. I feel like such a little kid around him. “Yeah. Just . . . just drenched from the puddle, that’s all.”

A flicker of a smile crosses his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re tougher than them, you know.” He drags a hand through his wet, dark blond hair. “Let’s get you home, kiddo.” He grabs his guitar from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder with barely a glance to check if it’s okay.

“Is it damaged?” I ask, feeling a pang of guilt.

He just shrugs. “Eh, wouldn’t matter. Totally worth it.” He winks, flashing a smile that makes me feel ten feet tall.

He offers his arm, letting me lean on him, as I balance on my good foot. Together, we start down the empty street, rain-soaked and stumbling in step. The soft patter of drizzle fills the silence, broken only by the splash of our feet when we hit puddles, water flicking up around our legs.

I can’t stand Cindy. She’s always there, lurking after school, ready to pounce. It doesn’t matter what I do—sitting in her lunch spot, talking to the wrong person, even glancing in her direction is apparently enough to set her off. She’ll take any excuse to hurl insults or throw a punch. It’s just one of the joys of small-town life, I guess. There’s no avoiding your bullies in Riverstone.

As we walk, my water-logged boots squish with every step, and Carter looks over, smirking. “Alright, Vi. Let’s see what you’ve got. Who was the original drummer for Nirvana?”

I blink at him, caught off guard by the question. “Easy,” I say after a beat. “Chad Channing.”

His brows lift. “Smarty pants.” He tucks his hair behind his ear, giving me that lopsided grin. “Most people say Dave Grohl.”

“Most people aren’t me,” I reply, careful not to stretch my split lip into a smile.

He chuckles under his breath, nodding. “Fair.” He pauses a moment, then tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Okay, tougher one. How many songs did Aerosmith play during their set at Woodstock ’94.”

I frown, racking my brain. “Uh . . . fourteen?”

He laughs softly and shakes his head. “Nope. Twenty-four.”

I groan. “Damn it, I knew that.”

“Sure you did,” he teases, bumping my shoulder gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you next round.” For a second, the pain shooting up from my ankle fades to a dull throb. Despite everything, his words ease the ache, and soon, I’m again resisting the urge to smile wider than my lip will allow. With each squishy step, my worries slip further away.