Two sets of eyes swung to me when the case collided with the hardwood floor. My mom’s cries abated, her pale blue eyes widening. I shifted my attention to the man formerly known as my father. A light crease emerged on his forehead as he looked first at the bulging suitcase, then at me. I met his gaze.
Do you see me now, Dad? Good.
I held his stare without flinching and said, “Get out. And don’t ever come back.”
Without sparing him another second of my time, I turned on my heel, walked through the door, and slammed it closed behind me.
My mom would be better off without him, I knew that, but my entire body felt cold, suddenly encased in a thin layer of ice that had me shivering.
If that was love, count me out.
I wanted no part of it.
TWO
LISS
Seventeen Years Old
&nb
sp; A well-aimed spit bomb sailed past my head and splattered against the cherry-stained surface of the desk at the front of the room. The head of the man occupying it snapped up, dislodging the tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Who did that?” Mr. Pickman asked, lurching to his feet, and adjusting his spectacles.
My head fell back with a muted groan. Great. Just fucking great. Now he’d hold us hostage through lunch.
“Stand up right now.”
The piercing, nasal quality to Pickman’s voice grated over every nerve ending in my ears, and I winced before bringing my head back down and swiping my thumb across the screen on my cell. After quickly tapping out a message to my best friend, Riley Mason, I slid the phone into my pocket and eased back in my seat.
Drumming my fingernails distractedly against the scratched desktop, I watched the hue of Pickman’s sour face transform from a corpse-like grey to a bright, splotchy crimson. With his pointed ears and his sharp features twisted in agitation, he looked like a deranged little elf about to go on a rampage.
“Ah, we’re all suddenly mute? Well, isn’t that convenient?” Pickman said, folding his tweed jacket-clad arms over his narrow chest and glowering through what had to be three-inch-thick lenses. When the lunch bell blared from the crackly speaker system above his head, a few students started shuffling, readying to leave. Something like glee sparked in his eyes, and mine narrowed. He got off on this shit. Tiny man was on a power trip lording over a bunch of teenagers.
Hello, Napoleon Complex.
“Stay seated.” The tone of his voice was nothing short of gloating. “You can all remain here until the culprit identifies themselves, or someone else feels compelled to do it for them. Thank the individual who felt it prudent to disrupt my lesson with their juvenile behaviour. I won’t tolerate this level of disrespect in my classroom…” His voice rose swiftly up the decibel scale as he continued ranting, and I zoned out.
My gaze wandered idly over the array of disgruntled faces scattered around the room, eventually landing on the jackass responsible for this extended stay in purgatory. I glared at the side of Jackson Bateman’s head until it swung my way.
“Are you kidding me with this shit?” I muttered, my voice laced with disdain. “Spit bombs? Are you eight?”
When his lips formed a goofy grin, I had to resist the urge to jump up and throat punch him.
“It was me,” a deep voice rumbled from the desk behind me.
My eyes rolled backward in my head, a familiar chagrin working its way up my windpipe.
Leon Bradshaw.
Idiot extraordinaire, who gave the term moron a whole new meaning. Case in point: claiming responsibility for something I knew for a fact he didn’t do. No doubt he had his reasons; no doubt they were dumb AF. Twisting my upper body round, I turned to face him.
Leon sat with his arm draped over the back of his chair, the fabric of his black tee stretched taut over his wide chest. His smoldering blue gaze—the same one that magically relieved cheerleaders of their underwear in the guy’s locker room most lunchtimes—met mine with a playful wink.
“Don’t fucking wink at me, Bradshaw.”
A short chuckle passed through his lips before he tipped his chin up and blew me a kiss. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Snow Queen.”