Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

I take a long drag on the cigarette and hope it doesn't get out that I'm smoking. High schools draw up all these little contracts, acting like it's punishable—by what, detention?—or like they'll really bench us if we violate the rules. Mine says I won't smoke or drink or use illegal drugs. Wouldn't want to hurt the coaches' trust in me or "disadvantage teammates."

I blow some smoke into his window, draw my knees up while I wait for sleeping beau to appear.

If I look down at the roof’s dark shingles, I can zone out for a little while. I've got all kinds of shit in my room. Took some of Dr. Katz’s cocktail before I came out here. That shit stops your dreaming—especially if you take all three of the meds—which is the only reason I haven't flushed them, along with the rest of my stockpile. That and the fish. I heard flushing that shit can send it to the ocean, where it poisons fish. Doesn't seem good.

Just a few more drags and puffs, and I can hear his footsteps.

I hear his "What the fuck" like it's a mile away, which is how I know the Lamictal is starting to hit. Haven't used it in a while, but tonight—

"I know you heard me. What the fuck?" he says, now closer. "Are you blowing this shit into my room?"

For some reason, it's super funny. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, which sort of blink and wink down at me. I inhale the smoke and let it do its thing. And then I lift my heavy head and blow it toward jackass here.

"DG," I murmur, correcting myself. I turn my head to see him climbing out the window. "What the fuck yourself?" I ask.

He's too close, too fast. He looks massive standing over me. His eyebrows draw together, and he sniffs the air. "Are you drunk, Masters?"

"No." I blow more smoke toward him, and he coughs.

"That shit is toxic, man,” he bitches. “You can feel the chemicals draining your life force."

I get a good laugh from that. "Ahh, a pity."

"Not a lover of life, Masters?"

"Please don't call me that."

I feel his eyes on me as I sit up and rest an arm on my raised knee. "Nothing special, DG. Just don't like it."

"What do you like?"

"I have a name," I point out.

"Yeah, but I'm not calling you that. All the football guys say Masters," he starts.

"Poor Mills. You wanna be a football guy?" I mock him.

"I can't play." He says it simply.

The words trickle through my extra slow brain. "Why?" I ask. But he's already speaking at the same time. "Ezra's just...it's unapproachable and...I don't know. Like, cold."

This guy is all about the laughs. I end up grinning at him, sort of high and really digging how damn cute he is—the slightly curly, dark brown hair with his blue eyes. He's got little dimples, and those freckles I noticed the first day we met.

"Unapproachable and cold," I say, giving a shake of my head.

"I mean, it does suit you,” he says, “but Masters is better. Maybe I'll go with NF."

"NF. What the shit does that mean?"

"New fucker."

I smile. "The new fucker. I'll take it."

"It's down to that or Ezzie. Bet your mom calls you Ezzie."

I inhale deeply, trying to keep my face neutral as I blow it quietly out. "Nah. She uses my middle name."

"What is it?" He asks.

"Who's asking?"

Mills laughs. "I am."

"I'm not telling you."

"What's wrong with me?"

My gaze moves to his face, where a soft smile tells me he's teasing. "What's not," I toss back.

"Owww." He grabs his chest like I just stabbed him. "Ezra it is."

I chuckle at that.

“I’ve seen your school papers on the counter. So I know your mom calls you Christopher."

"She does.”

“Why that over your actual first name?”

I shrug, which makes the roof tilt. "Who the fuck knows."

"Sounds more like a kid name,” he says.

I take a drag of the cigarette. "Maybe that’s why."

"You get along?" DG asks.

"Did someone tell you we don't?" My heart pounds a little offbeat.

"No, I was just wondering. Since you moved and stuff."

"Just normal shit." It's all I can come up with.

"So that's a...sort of?" he asks.

"You always so fucking nosey?"

"Is this nosey?" Mills asks. He's got both of his knees pulled up like my right one is. He's looking off into the night, over the lawn that rolls out, dark, behind two big trees.

"You look like a fucking sentry right now,” I say.

"What?" He smiles, looking puzzled. Then he stretches his long legs out. "No I don't."

I check out his sleep pants. "Fan of plaid, huh?"

“My mom likes plaid. She thinks it's masculine or something. I remember she told me that one time. She got me all these plaid night pants from Old Navy or somewhere. Wait, you have some, too. Did you see them?"