I wait until she walks off before opening my locker door. The envelope is taped to the inside. But there’s something else sitting on top of my books.
A fucking clear plastic baggie filled with ice. Propped against it is a handwritten note: Next time I hope you remember rule number 1.
So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?
I look around to see if anyone is watching—if she’s watching—but I don’t see Sugar in the hallway. I grab both the envelope and the bag of ice, slamming the door. On the way to class, I think of all the things I can do to retaliate. My instinct is to dump the ice on her head, but that one would land me in a shit-ton of trouble. She obviously wants me to react. Probably hoping I’ll lose it, just to affirm that she’s been right all along about me being an impulsive, violent d-bag. What Sugar doesn’t realize is that I’ve spent every second of my life on this pale blue dot alongside the most abusive, bullying, asshole brother she could probably imagine.
Oh, yeah. I can play the long game, sweetie.
She’s already in her seat when I walk into class, eyes focused forward and ignoring me. This is how it’s been since the day she blew up that first day and stormed out of class. Full avoidance. But it’s bullshit. I know she’s aware of me. She’s too stiff all the time. Too measured in her movement. I’m living in this girl’s head, no doubt about it.
I slide into my seat and rest the bag of ice on my desk, opening the zipper and taking out a piece. I lean forward, forearms propped on my desk, and get right up close to her ear, giving it a loud crunch. Her shoulders rise in response.
“Mr. Wilcox,” Dr. Ross says, frowning at the bag of ice. “What are you doing? You know there’s no food or drink in this classroom.”
“I apologize,” I say grinning sheepishly. “This isn’t food or drink. I suffered a painful injury last night and I’ve been icing it ever since.”
Dr. Ross narrows her eyes. “Keep the bag closed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s Friday, which means Dr. Ross spends at least half the class reviewing notes on the Promethean board. Once she turns off the lights and settles into her rhythm, I lean up on my elbow and whisper, “Are you sure you don’t want some of this ice? Because you seemed pretty hot last night when your tongue was in my mouth.”
Her shoulders tense, pen freezing in her hand.
“You can pretend like you don’t want me to touch you, Sugar Voss, but I think you’re fooling yourself.” I lean forward and run my finger along her neck. “If you think my tongue in your mouth felt good, wait until I use it somewhere else.”
Her reaction is swift, in a heartbeat she’s out of her desk and has the bag of ice in her hands.
“Ms. Voss!” Dr. Ross shouts, but it’s too late. She’s opened the zipper and dumps the melting, ice cold water on my head.
“Holy sh—” I yell, the freezing water running down my face and neck. I lurch up, hands out, catching some of the ice. Sugar’s got her top two buttons undone, and it only feels natural to take a handful of ice, pluck the shirt away from her collar and drop it down in there.
She gasps and stumbles back.
“Oh, shit!” someone laughs. “He didn’t!” It’s followed by an eruption of gasps, laughter, and rising pandemonium.
Dr. Ross yells, “Sebastian!” and I gesture to where Sugar is fanning out her shirt, face pinched.
“She started it! You saw her! She dumped that on my head!”
Sugar whips around to the teacher, hotly arguing, “He touched my neck and—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Dr. Ross looks like she’s about to have a coronary. “Out! Both of you, get out of my room!” I don’t even need to look at her face to see how pissed off she is—or how much trouble I’m in. “Now!”
Whatever the fallout, I’m thinking it was worth it. Because if Sugar Voss thinks this is going to work—that striking back is going to put me off her scent—then hot damn.
This girl really doesn’t know me at all.
10
Sugar
The thing about going so long without touch is that it gets easy. It’s just the lack of something. It didn’t take long for me to forget what was even so great about it. I almost stopped feeling like I was missing out on anything at all. It was a good place to be in. Real nice.
And then Sebastian Wilcox fucking kissed me.
Red-faced and furious, I storm out of Dr. Ross’s room. Cold ice is trapped in my bra and pooling at my waist. I yank my shirt out of my skirt and let the ice cubes fall to the floor with a clatter. Two pieces land at the toes of a pair of black boots.