He slaps John on the back of the head and leaves

Jamal’s slap cracked against the back of John’s skull like a textbook slamming shut. Pain exploded in white-hot bursts behind his eyes as his knees buckled, palms scraping against the asphalt. Sarah’s grip on his shoulder vanished—she’d jumped back like he was contagious.

"Fuckin’ loser," Jamal sneered, tossing John’s phone into the dirt. The screen cracked further, Lacey’s neon bikini pic glitching under a spiderweb of fractures. His Jordans kicked up dust as he turned away, gold chain swinging against his collarbones. "Ain’t nobody got time for that weak shit."

Megan was already glued to Jamal’s side, her manicured fingers tracing the outline of his bicep through his jacket. "You seein’ this?" she giggled, pressing her tits against his arm. "Dude’s got a boner for Lacey Ross. Pathetic."

John’s ears burned. His dick was still half-hard, trapped in the damp denim. He could smell his own sweat—sour and sharp—mixing with the vanilla vape cloud Megan exhaled over Jamal’s shoulder.

Sarah scooped up John’s phone, her nails clicking against the shattered screen. "Here," she muttered, shoving it into his hoodie pocket.