Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

“Helps to study together,” he says in his drawn-out, twangy Southern monotone. “The twins last year—Mae and Fae—they reported that they found it helpful.”

Bumble frowns at Ezra’s empty seat.

“Mr. Masters,” he says, with his hand half-raised, as if he wants to point at me but doesn’t have the energy. “He left to use the hall pass, but that was some time ago. Perhaps you might follow and see if he’s become lost?”

I take a second hall pass from Bumble’s desk and set off.

I’m not energized by this, or nervous. I feel nothing, I tell myself. It would make no sense if I felt any way about another Ezra encounter. Especially after what went down last night.

As I walk toward the nearest restroom, I wonder where he went—and what I’ll say when I find him. There’s a part of me that hopes I’ll find him snorting cocaine off the sink’s ledge just so I can hate on him. Because I should—hate on him. The guy’s a menace, snooping through my shit and always ribbing me, calling me Millsy. The way he grabbed me last night—that was beyond fucked up.

Something’s wrong with him, I think. I mean…I know.

I’m pretty curious to see what fucker’s up to when I push open the bathroom door, so I’m surprised to find the place is empty. I check the next bathroom down, and then the one at the far end of the science and math wing, but Ezra’s not in any of them.

Maybe he did get lost. More likely, dumb fuck stepped outside to smoke.

If I can’t find him soon, I’m going back to class. I pull open the door of the bathroom stall, where some guy on the toilet mutters, “Fuck.” Then I turn around toward physics.

Let him skip. It’s not my job to go find him.

As I walk, I think about last night. Again. I think about his eyes on mine as his hand closed around me. Always with the sneering attitude, but his eyes—they burned into mine.

I wonder if he’s gay, or bi. I know I shouldn’t care, but how can I not, after what happened? How can I not wonder? It’s okay, as long as I don’t want him. And I don’t. I don’t want anything to do with Ezra.

I stop walking as my eyes latch onto an “EXIT” door on my right. It’s cracked open with a rock wedged in between the door and door jam. As soon as I inhale, catching a whiff of smoke, I know it’s gotta be my wayward stepbro.

A peek outside shows Ezra standing with his back against the brick wall. He’s got a cigarette held to his lips. I watch as his shoulders rise on the inhale.

“That shit stinks.”

He jumps a mile and turns to me with shock on his face. “Jesus, Miller.”

“I don’t look a thing like him.”

I’m surprised when he grins, jutting one eyebrow up. “Millsy with the old-school Mormon pop rock.”

“It’s alternative,” I say of The Killers. They were one of my mom’s favorite bands when I was younger. “Ed Sheeran is pop.”

“Touché.” He blows a stream of smoke and tips his head back against the wall. From where I’m standing, I can see the smudge of blue-purple around his left eye. He looks tired as fuck, the way he’s standing. Like he might slide down the wall.

“Miss out on your beauty sleep, dickface?”

I expect some snap-back—in fact, I want it—but he stares blankly out ahead of him.

I know I’m going to fold before I open my mouth. Always the nice guy, even when it gets me nothing but fucked. I hear myself say, “Karma serve you a shit sandwich?”

His eyes shift to mine, but they’re so vacant, I can’t read them. He looks back at the stadium and takes another long drag without answering.

He shuts his eyes for just a second, holding the smoke in his lungs, then blows another stream out. “You should go back to class.” His jaw tics as he looks down at the cigarette between his fingers.

“Bumble sent me to find you.”

“Tell him you couldn’t.”

I hesitate a second—because that’s me, too. Go the extra, extra mile. I turn away from him so he can’t read that on my face as I go. “Suit yourself.”

Eleven

Josh

Dickface doesn’t show up back in class until a minute before the bell. He tells Bumble something that elicits a nod, and which is probably a lie. Good news: Physics is the last class I share with him.

The angry angel. Such a stupid nickname, and I’m pissed off that he saw it in my sketchbook. I hope he remembers where the “angel” part started. It’s because his name is so weird, like one of those Bible angels that swoops down to give some bad news.

“You’re gonna burn, you sinners.”

My mind hops back to last night, to his face as he said, “You’re good, Millsy. It was like looking in the mirror.”