Chapter VII: Bloody Fists

Sleep did come to me that night, though it was unfashionably late. And it was hardly satisfying, for my dreams were all tainted by a strange yet familiar boy.

He would leave one dream and then enter another as if dreamland were his parading ground. By the time the sun was shining through my window, I half-expected to awake to Ashton's face. When my eyes popped open, they found no such beast. All I found was just a blue sheet and a pale hand that looked strangely like mine.

Blinking again, I gathered that I was safe enough from Ashton, since he wasn't in sight. Sitting up in a bit of a disoriented jumble, I reached for my glasses on the night stand. Upon rediscovering clear vision, I made out the red digits of the digital clock that read an alarming '10:15.' How had I managed to sleep in so late?

Wondering if Ashton had done something awful while I'd been lying there, wasting daylight, I quickly got out of bed and made my way for the door. Cautiously, I opened it.

No one was waiting with a stink bomb in the hallway, so I took that as a good sign. When I glanced back at my own door, I saw a bright sticky note attached to it. In a messy scrawl were the following words: Heading home. Thanks for helping Ash. – Daphne

I smiled, although I doubted I'd been any help to Ashton yesterday evening—all I'd done was given him a head injury. Not that he didn't deserve it.

Pulling the note from my door, I stuffed it in my pocket and turned my focus to work instead of Ashton for once.

Since the day was already a third wasted, I set straight to work. Ashton's bed was scheduled to be washed today, so I reluctantly forced myself to enter his room and strip his bed of its coverings.

Thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen, so I was able to execute the first step of my task easily. Even the second was acceptable, though the walk to the laundry room with a mountain of bedding resting on my back like the hump of a camel was less than ideal.

Of course, mindless labor allowed my mind to wander, and I inevitably found myself wondering what Ashton was up to. In fact, what had he been up to this whole weekend?

I had a few of the pieces, but the rest of it didn't make much sense. Friday night he had walked home, waited for his parents to leave, and then thrown a party. Saturday he had helped me clean the house, and then gone off to do something, not getting home until midnight. Now it was Sunday, and I had yet to see him at all. I kept telling myself that his whereabouts were none of my business, but that didn't stop me from wondering.

It wasn't until that night that it started to make sense. Not long after supper—I was still planning to wait until Pam and Jacob got home before I left—I was on my way out the front door with the garbage bag.

When I was in within probably twenty feet of the garage, I noticed that the light was on. Is that where he's been this whole time? He couldn't have just gotten home—I would have heard something. Hardly believing it, I approached the door and peered inside through the window.

Sure enough, Ashton was in the garage, crouched down next to a motorcycle—not his BSA Lightning. No, this one was more modish and far rougher in condition. The front tire was missing, and the frame looked as if it had lost a fight with a gorilla.

A rush of cold wind reminded me that I was still standing outside, so I cautiously placed my hand on the doorknob, turned it, and stepped inside. At the sound of the door, Ashton instantly looked up, and his eyes landed on mine. Unsure whether I should smile or frown, I looked away instead and walked over to the garbage bin, tossing today's bag in.

When I sneaked a glance in Ashton's direction, I found that he was no longer looking at me, so I pretended that I didn't care what he was up to. Grabbing hold of the garbage can handle, I tipped it at an angle and began pulling, when his voice met my ears. "Are you finished with stuff in the house?"

Pausing, I turned my head to look at the boy who was now twisting a wrench around some motorcycle part I didn't know the name of. "Yeah…why?"

He just shrugged casually in reply, still looking at the inner workings of his bike. When I kept on waiting, he went on. "I dunno; I just thought if you're bored…you could help me with something."

I wasn't sure whether I should be happy or worried about that broad question. Did he mean with the motorcycle—or something that would ultimately humiliate me? Then again, working on the bike could ultimately humiliate me as well as anything else. I knew he was waiting for an answer, though, so I decided to take a risk and said, "Sure—once I bring the garbage down."

His only response was a nod, so I hastily dragged the trash can out the door and made my way down the driveway. Stopping the bin next to the road, I turned back to the garage and jogged back to it. Daphne can't say I haven't been hanging out with Ashton now.

Beep! Beep! Beep! My alarm clock was a rude awakening on Monday morning. I hadn't gotten home last night until 8:30, since Pam and Jacob hadn't returned until 8. That had been fine, since I'd spent those last few hours helping Ashton restore his Triumph Bonneville.

I had been worried for no reason about it—he had honestly just wanted help being handed tools and such. And in the process, I'd even learned some things about motorcycles—and about Ashton for that matter. He'd told me all about the Bonneville, how it was a classic, and how it had been passed down to him after his grandfather's passing last spring.

There was nothing upsetting in our conversation, so I once again did not go home angry. The worst was waiting for me at home. I had completely spaced and forgotten to tell my parents I'd be home late, so they had been quite troubled when I rolled up the driveway four hours past when I ordinarily would have.

Consequently, I had endured an hour long discourse about communication and safety before my parents were finally satisfied and let me go take a shower. By the time I went to bed, it was past 11 PM.

Exhausted from the weekend, I felt that seven hours of sleep wasn't enough, but I reluctantly got out of bed on Monday morning anyway. After shoving down some breakfast, I set out for the park. As usual, I found Britt there waiting for me.

Under normal circumstances, I'd be happy to see her, but this particular Monday morning, only a feeling of dread came over me when I spotted her—her and her eager expression. That eager expression was probably what laid the guilt on most heavily. I knew she was excited, waiting to hear of my findings.

Those findings were non-existent. Now that the weekend had passed, I was faced with the fact that I had once again failed to collect any blackmail material. I hadn't even looked this time. Guiltily, I approached my best friend. She threw an arm over my shoulder the second I reached her and pulled me along down the sidewalk.

"Good morning!" she began in a highly energetic tone. All I could do was cringe as she asked, "How was your weekend?"

"Uh. Fine."

She caught on right away. "Maine, what's wrong?"

With regret, I admitted, "I failed again."

"How so?"

"I didn't get any blackmail material." I could have told her about finding Ashton hungover on Saturday morning, but something held me back.

Britt's smile didn't fade, much to my surprise. Is she not upset? Apparently she wasn't, as her next words emphasized. "Let me guess. You like him, don't you?"

I furrowed my brow in confusion. Then, realizing just what she meant, I stopped in my tracks and ducked out from underneath her arm. "No! Britt, I feel no different about him now than I did last weekend!"

She looked back at me, raising her eyebrows suggestively. "But he does have one pretty smile, you've got to admit it."

"You're sick."

She just let out a boisterous laugh and once again tossed her arm around my shoulders. Disgruntled, I allowed her to drag me down the sidewalk.

Giving my discomfort no heed, Britt went on, "Well, you can't blame me for asking! I mean, you can't deny that he is fine."

Whipping my head in her direction, I protested, "Yes, I can deny it! As a matter of fact, I'll say it now: Ashton Savvonski is not fine!"

Britt just rolled her eyes and retorted, "You can say that all you want, but we both know you don't mean anything by it. Face it, Maine; you've been fantasizing about him all weekend."

"I have not!"

"Please," my best friend drawled. "You've probably been dreaming about him waltzing around shirtless."

I couldn't stop the blush from enflaming my cheeks after she said that. Thanks a lot, Britt. "N—no!" I unsuccessfully jumped to my own defense.

"You're blushing!" Britt practically screamed into my ear. "So you were dreaming of him shirtless."

Squirming uncomfortably, I hissed, "I wasn't dreaming about him shirtless."

That was all it took for her to lose it. "What? You mean you actually were dreaming about him?"

I groaned in dismay. "Maybe a little—but it's not my fault I dreamt about him! You dream weird stuff too."

"Ahaha!" Britt laughed evilly. "So you weren't just dreaming about him. You were dreaming weird stuff about him?"

"What—no!" Feeling my cheeks grow hotter, I tried to change the subject. "Speaking of hot guys, how's your Joshua Presley admiring going?"

Now it was her turn to blush. "You say that as though I'm his secret admirer or something!"

Spitting out a laugh, I returned, "That's because you are! Have you not seen yourself?"

"I am not," Britt said half-heartedly.

I just rolled my eyes in response. There was no use trying to get her to admit what she already knew. At least my diversion served its purpose of getting her to stop teasing me about Ashton for the rest of our trek to school.

It was after lunch when the trouble started. I was walking down the hallway toward my locker, nodding along to a random song in my head, when chaos broke out. One second it was just the usual chatter of a bunch of teenagers; in the next second, it was pandemonium.

Shouts were the first sign that alerted me of the ordeal. Following the shouts was the sound of something—or someone—slamming into a row of lockers. If I had been paying attention, I would have caught how it all started and who was involved, but by the time I looked up, a throng of students had already blocked my view.

Ordinarily, I would not have even bothered to investigate the situation, but there was something about that enraged shout that drew me in. Thus, as the steady sound of fists knocking fists mingled with a scattered string of curses, I pushed myself uncharacteristically forward into the masses.

It was quite the journey to the inner workings of the circle, especially being that every now and then, someone would fly into the front lines, making the whole setup feel like a mosh pit at a rock concert. The only difference was that, instead of music, all I could hear was grunting and punching.

Just as one of the brawlers roared, "You piece of—!" I pushed past my last obstruction of view and witnessed something I never ever wished to. Some punk—Brad Penton to be specific—was just about to send his bloody fist directly into the cheek bone of—

"Ash!" His name flew from my lips without hesitation.

The idiot did not even dodge the punch. No, he just stood poised there, nose bleeding, lips swollen, and eyes holding such an uncharacteristic anger. I felt my stomach turn the second Brad's fist crashed into Ashton's face, but all I could do was internally scream. What is he doing?

Ashton seemed to have a plan all his own. Instead of crying out in pain and collapsing, he simply took the punch by reeling back, which caused Brad to overextend his arm and upper abdomen. Then, with only a slight wince, Ashton ducked, spun, grabbed his opponent's arm, and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

My eyes widening, I stood there frozen in place as my moral responsibility (as of two weeks ago) punched Brad Penton senseless. It wasn't until blood literally squirted across the floor that I broke out of my shocked trance.

Breaking past the front line, I threw myself head-on into the turmoil.

The first thing I did was ram my body straight into Ashton's. He was not exactly the most unbalanced person around, so I more or less bruised myself in the process. My cause did at least catch the boys off guard.

Miraculously, I managed to divert Ashton's arm from its original course, and he missed Brad's face by a hair's width. Fear flooded me a second later, though, when the boy turned on me with a vengeful glare. As soon as his eyes landed on me, a chill shot through my veins.

I had half-expected Ashton to punch me then, but instead he just stared, his bloody fist raised mid-air. Apparently Brad was just as much of a pathetic coward as I thought, for I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he took that moment to regain some composure and line up his wired arm for another punch at Ashton.

Ashton was still staring at me in either anger or surprise when the pathetic boy's clenched fist went flying straight at him. Unable to restrain myself, I tried to leap in the way, but apparently Ashton was not as clueless as I assumed.

Instead of a blow, I felt an arm wrap around my waist and in the final split second pull me to the ground. "What is wrong with you?" I heard his furious voice in my ear as we crashed to the hall floor. Too shocked to respond, I looked up only to see Brad stumbling over our legs.

I would have laughed at how ridiculous he looked, but I was partially distracted by the fact that I was lying in someone else's blood. Is this real? I briefly considered screaming, when I realized that I was the one who had gotten myself into this situation in the first place.

I had jumped in with the intention of saving Brad, or maybe it was Ashton, but now I didn't even know what I had done. Maybe I had only worsened the situation. No, I must have done at least some good, for no one was getting punched at the moment, even though I was lying in blood.

Glancing up, I noted with regret that countless eyes were currently trained on me—not just human eyes, but the eyes of cell phone cameras as well. It was moments like these that made me loathe modern technology.

With a grimace, I began to sit up, when the wall of students parted to allow Principal Hardy through. The first emotion that passed through me upon spotting him was one of relief. A second later, it was shock.

That was because Mr. Hardy trained his look of utter disapproval not only on Ashton and Brad, but also on me. Feeling my heartrate increase, I quickly glanced down at myself to collect why I was in trouble as well. I found no answer except maybe that I was still half-lying in Ashton's embrace. If that were the case, then Mr. Hardy must be jumping to all sorts of absurd conclusions.

Cringing, I waited in horror as the principal suddenly erupted and railed out a tumult of unfavorable words upon my companions and me. Even more unfavorable was the spit that came out with those words. I could hardly make sense of the majority of what Mr. Hardy was trying to relay. But I did catch his last words. "Detention for all three of you! This instant!"

"But—" I started to say, but when the older man fixed his hateful scowl on me, all I could do was try not to cry. What am I going to tell my parents this time? They're already upset about last night! Biting my tongue in mortification, I prayed for this nightmare to end. But it didn't.

Soon enough, an arm was pulling me up by the shoulders and dragging me along in the direction of the principal's office. I subconsciously noted that it was Ashton who was gripping me, so I allowed myself to relax somewhat. If nothing were going right at the moment, at least Ashton's touch felt right. However wrong it really was did not seem to matter.

And despite the fact that I was being hauled exactly where I did not want to go, I somehow managed to not let the threatening tears fall from my eyes. I expected Ashton to let go of my shoulders as soon as I stopped resisting, but he did not drop his bloody arm until we reached the principal's office.

By then, I was growing confused, for Ashton's face was still set in a grim scowl. His arm that had just been touching me had not been rough at all. My confusion only mounted when he came to an abrupt halt in front of the principal's office. Brad and Mr. Hardy had already gone in, so I blindly began to follow.

Ashton had other plans. Before I could cross the threshold of the door, he abruptly closed a hand around my arm and yanked me back. Letting out a surprised squeak, I protested, "Ashton, what are you—"

"Just don't say anything," he pronounced through gritted teeth, and I easily complied, too shocked to continue.

That was when Mr. Hardy took notice of our stalling. "Get in here now!" he roared, his face red with anger. I was sure that if I watched carefully enough, I would be able to see the smoke coming from his ears.

Once again, I tried to follow his instructions, but Ashton held me back still. With a glower on his face, he snapped at the principal, "I'll be there in a moment. But she will not."

My eyes widened in disbelief. And here I thought he was happy I was going to detention for interrupting his fight.

"What?" Mr. Hardy all but lost it. "And why is that, Your Royal Highness?"

"Because," he hissed angrily, "she did nothing wrong." I didn't? Well, I know I didn't. But Ashton knows that too?

"I'll be the judge of that, young man!" the principal retorted.

Laughing humorlessly, Ashton questioned, "Oh, really? Where's your proof?"

"What more proof is needed?" Mr. Hardy snapped, "She was right in the middle of the fight with you two losers."

When Ashton's grip on my arm tightened, I realized just how delicate the atmosphere was. In a slight panic, I turned to him and murmured quietly, "It's fine. I'll just go."

"No!" he exclaimed, his head whipping my way. "It's not fine. You can't just let him accuse you of something you didn't do!" I opened my mouth to respond, but he had already returned his gaze to Mr. Hardy. Taking a deep breath, Ashton said with a surprisingly composed tone, "She wasn't in on the fight, sir. She was trying to stop it."

Peering timidly up at the principal, I was surprised to see that he appeared as though he hadn't even considered that. In fact, he almost seemed embarrassed for half a second. But he wasn't about to give up without a fight. "And what's your proof?" he snapped.

Gritting his teeth, Ashton muttered, "And you say I'm immature." Then, in a louder voice, he challenged, "Just take a look at the video. I'm sure it has circulated throughout the whole school by now."

I knew that his words were a hidden threat, for they implied that the whole school would know if Mr. Hardy treated me unjustly. That was probably why the man took a while to respond. And when he did, it was in favor of Ashton's cause. "Wait here!" he snapped before taking off at a fast walk down the hall.

As soon as he was out of sight, Ashton turned to me, and his expression instantly became sour. Frowning, I took a step back. I waited for him to yell at me, but when all he did was glare, I burst out, "If you're mad, just say something!"

"I think this is the wiser alternative," he responded coldly.

My heart stopped momentarily at that. Ouch. I had wanted to lighten the atmosphere somehow, but I could not after he had delivered such words. Instead, I dropped my head and angled my body away from him further. Hoping to avoid his glower, I kept my gaze trained on the floor as a cruel silence settled in between us.

Meanwhile, I was scolding myself inwardly for interfering in Ashton's affairs. It was clear that he did not appreciate my "help," so why had I even bothered? With a scowl, I clenched my fists in frustration.

The tense silence simply stretched on as we both waited there—him boiling in anger, me overcome with anxiety. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I could faintly hear the consistent second hand of the clock in Mr. Hardy's office dancing from second to second. The time did not seem to be passing nearly fast enough.

I had begun to take our agreed silence so seriously that I literally jumped when Ashton broke his own rules by finally saying, "Here's a piece of advice, Eilerts—don't ever involve yourself in my fights."

Since his voice was still antagonistic, I kept my eyes down and muttered, "I was just trying to help."

I presumed that he would contradict me, but he surprised me by asking one simple question. "Why?"

Swallowing only a fraction of my panic, I barely managed to respond with a weak, "Why not?"

Apparently Ashton didn't like my answer. Instead of giving a reasonable reply, he grabbed my shoulder and swung me around so that I was forced to look him in the eye. Then, in as hard a tone as ever, he declared, "I can solve my own problems. What makes you think you can just butt in any time you want? It's my business, so leave it to me."

My lips parting, I stared up at him and debated how to respond. He was clearly looking for only one answer, but that was the answer I did not want to give him. As the seconds passed with my continuous absence of words, his glare hardened. It hardened until my heart was racing too fast for me to think clearly.

With the unyielding pressure of his eyes trained on me, I finally gave up. "Fine."

I tried to look away as soon as possible, but it was too late. I caught Ashton's smug sneer either way. He had won, and he knew it.

Thankfully, I did not have to stand there suffocating in my own mortification for long, though, since Mr. Hardy soon came marching up the hall toward us, his face revealing nothing. Sucking in my breath, I anxiously waited for the verdict. According to the principal's conclusion, I would either make a narrow escape or become an easy kill. I had a bad feeling that it would be the latter.

When Mr. Hardy reached us, I learned that my fears were not well-founded. "This time," the grouchy old man admitted with a loud sigh, "Miss Eilerts doesn't have to serve time in the pen."

"That's what I thought." Ashton surprised me by speaking up then. "Maybe next time you should do a little more research before jumping to hasty conclusions, Your Royal Principal-ship."

Despite the way Ashton had just been talking to me, I could not help but cringe when Mr. Hardy exploded in his face and shoved him into his office. When the door had almost closed, the principal's head popped out, and he gave me a warning glare before barking, "Get to class before you get a tardy slip!"

I stood outside the door for a few more seconds, my eyes wide. I would have been all too happy to do as he said if it weren't for my concern at what I could hear of the lecture that Ashton was receiving. That was when it dawned on me.

Ashton Savvonski had just gotten me out of detention.