“You’re just not that into me. We’re better as friends. Blah blah blah.” I move my hand in a talking motion. It’s not like I’m pining over Georgia. It was just oral, for god’s sake. She’s a great girl, totally stacked, excellent kisser, cute as a fucking button. But her and I would be a recipe for disaster. Sometimes she gets this look in her eyes—something hungry and rabid—and I think that possibly we’re a little too alike. Plus, I have a type.
Sweet, bashful girls like Vandy are great, and cute girls with hidden depths like Georgia are awesome. But at the end of the day, this is what I want: Some pretty little bitchy number sitting in the passenger seat of my Shelby, like some kind of trophy. It’s a painful cliché, terribly shallow, but eh. The heart wants what the heart wants, and the dick’s not much different.
“I know. I agree. It was a one-time deal,” I assure her. “But, back to my problems—”
“You mean your dirtiest, most shameful secret, showing up right here on campus?”
I cut my eyes down the hall, feeling my face darken. “Yes, that one. When did you know?”
“When she told me about the asshole at the garage and how she originally met him. It was after we got back to the dorms.” She pulls out her books, sliding me a knowing look. “This was, of course, following an interesting phone call from the mechanic, who’s apparently offered to work on the car at a very reduced price. Know anything about that, slugger?”
I frown. “Don’t.” If Georgia had felt the weight of the hit, seen her laying there motionless on the ground, heard her screams...
No.
Hitting that girl isn’t a joke.
“Listen, Bass,” she says, slamming the door and spinning the lock with a quick twist. She levels me with a look. “I don’t know what you’re doing with the car, but take my advice here. There’s a vibe going on, and it’s screaming ‘leave her alone.’ Sugar seems like a troubled girl, and if I’m reading things right? The last thing she needs is to deal with you any more than necessary.”
I clench my jaw, knowing that she’s right, but also knowing that I’m going to fix that damn car. I’m already balls deep in the thing. It might be her car, but a part of it, in some way, is already mine, too. “Wait,” I say, doing a double-take, “I’m sorry, did you say her name is Sugar?”
What kind of fucking name is Sugar? More importantly, who names a girl like that Sugar? Do her parents even know her?
Sugar and spice and everything that wants to cut my fucking balls off.
Georgia presses a hand against my stomach and winks. “Good thing you don’t have a sweet tooth, right?”
She’s gone before I have a chance to respond.
The bell rings and there’s no time to worry about it further. I have Dr. Ross next, and the last thing I need is to start the semester off on her bad side. I turn the other direction and stroll into her class with plenty of time to spare. I nod to Reyn, whose long legs are taking up half the aisle. I tap on Afton’s desk as I pass. She blesses me with a half-smile and her shirt is unbuttoned one less than is strictly approved by dress code. Thank you, Miss Cross. She has no use for high school dick, but she’s still a team player.
I lift my head toward my desk—last row, second to last seat—when my step falters.
Unlucky bastard, indeed.
The girl, Sugar, is occupying the seat right in front of mine. She’s dressed like every other girl in this damned place; black and red plaid skirt, crisp white shirt, and regulation white knee socks. It’s the shoes that stop me cold. Black lace-up boots with scuffed toes. My eyes flick up to her face and while her expression is stone, I see the flush of red on her cheeks.
Dr. Ross clears her throat. “Is there a reason you’re standing in the middle of the room with your mouth hanging open, Mr. Wilcox?”
“No ma’am.” I flash her a grin. “Just taking in all my classmates after a long winter break.” I pass Elana, grazing a knuckle over her jaw. “Hey girl, love the new scarf. Aubrey, you’re looking good.” I glance to the back, toward Reyn, who watches me through narrow eyes. “Reynolds, you’re looking extra glowy this morning. I see the holidays treated you well.”
“Wilcox,” he grinds out, “I swear to god—"
I’m doing everything I can to slow the inevitable, but Dr. Ross is not one to be trifled with. One more second and she’ll toss me in detention for the rest of the year.
“Mr. Wilcox…” Her voice conveys her annoyance, yet I still don’t stop.
“And you, Dr. Ross.” I peer at her, hand over my heart. “Is that a new brooch? It really matches your eyes. Mr. Dr. Ross is quite the gift giver, I see.” With that, I slide into my seat, hoping everyone is distracted and annoyed enough that the hostile vibes rolling off Sugar aren’t discernable.
The final bell rings and Dr. Ross jumps right into the lesson. I get out my notebook and pencil, flipping it open to a clean page. The rest of the class settles in, the muscle memory kicking in after a few weeks off. On the best of days, I struggle with staying attentive, but today it’s outright impossible. I lean back, stretching one leg forward, and flip my pencil through my fingers. Sugar makes a sound—this soft, yet somehow hard breath—and jerks to the side to yank her backpack closer to her desk, all protective and tense. What does she think I’m going to do, grab it and run off? No,Sugar, that’s my boy Reyn back there. He’d steal the shirt right off your back, if given half a chance. But thievery isn’t my vice.
I knew the girl, Sugar, was small. That had been entirely too evident when I decked her. But she seems even smaller now that she’s sitting right in front of me, so close. Slim, narrow shoulders that almost curve inward, petite little ears with tiny hoops slipped through them. I stare at the long, dark hair in front of me, wondering when she got rid of the blue tips, wondering why she moved here, trying to figure out how in the hell this little townie from the Briar Cliffs—my biggest sin—showed up at Preston Prep.
I’m not the one who doesn’t belong here. This turf is as close to mine as any other.
She shifts, making the ends of her hair drag along the top of my desk. I slide my pencil forward and cave to the desire—no, compulsion—to run the tip of it through the inky black fringe. Mesmerized, I slowly run the pencil from one end to the other, watching the little strands fall like a silky, dark, sweet-smelling curtain—
Whip!