I raised a hand and showed him my middle finger before spinning back to the front of the room. We had a love-hate relationship, Leon and I, in that I loved to hate him. We’d been at each other’s throats so long I couldn’t remember what kicked it all off. Not that it mattered. He’d done zilch to change my opinion over the course of the past seventeen years.
The guy was a basic high school stereotype. A hot jock riding the cresting waves of popularity off the back of his ability to throw a ball and the fact he looked like the love child of Chris Hemsworth and Brad Pitt. With his chiselled jawline, streaked dark-blonde hair, and panty-melting smile, he wasn’t hurting for admirers, and he knew it.
Lucky for me, I wore Teflon infused underwear and valued brains over brawn or good looks. I wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, and even if I were, the guy would need to have at least a hint of substance. Which meant, he sure as shit wasn’t a senior at Claremont High.
“What the fuck, Bradshaw?” My eyes swayed back reluctantly to dumb and dumber when Jackson’s hushed whisper travelled between the two tables.
“You owe me for this, Bateman.”
“Fuck that shit,” Jackson muttered in response. “I didn’t ask you to do it. Last time I owed you, my ass nearly landed in jail.”
Leon snorted. “Don’t be so fucking dramatic. You got pulled over with a bag of weed on you. How long you gonna bitch about that?”
“It was fucking yours.” Jackson’s gaze darted to the front of the room briefly, before swinging back to Leon. He tapped his knuckles against the desk and shrugged. “I’ll go tell Prickman it was me.” Prickman being Mr Pickman, otherwise referred to as Prickman the Douche. For obvious reasons.
“No, you fucking don’t,” Leon shot back. “Too late for that now. Besides, you’re on a last warning and you know it. I got this one, dickhead. I’ll let you know what I want in exchange. Already got something in mind.”
“Yeah, I’ll fucking bet you do. Skunk?”
Leon leaned sideways. “I want the good shit.”
And there it was—Pretty Boy wanted some free weed. The boy had goals.
Jackson rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath as he turned away.
“Mr. Bradshaw, remain seated. The rest of you, collect your belongings and leave my classroom.”
Groans of relief mixed with the sounds of scraping chairs and squeaking footsteps as students stampeded to the door in a mass exodus. Not particularly feeling like getting my ass trampled this morning, I held back.
Jackson was still muttering as he passed by my desk, and I shook my head, wondering how the hell he’d avoided being held back a grade, or five.
Bending down, I tugged the sides of my bag open and tossed my belongings inside with little thought to organization.
“Snow Queen?”
My chair jerked under me as Leon’s foot connected with the back leg.
Pulling the bag onto my lap without looking at him, I yanked the zipper closed and muttered, “What?”
“I’m still waiting.”
I kept my expression neutral as I angled my head back. “For?”
His forearms slid over the table as he shifted forward in his seat. “An apology for Friday night. Or a fucking thank you. I’ll take either.”
I scoffed.
“Hey, I came running when you called and instead of thanking me for it, you chewed me out and insulted my masculinity.”
“Your masculinity?” I repeated with a disparaging smirk.
“Close that fucking trap before you start!” he shot out before I could plunge his manliness into further disrepute. My teeth caught the inside of my lip.
Riley drank too much and took off with some players from a rival football team that weekend. When I’d figured out where she was, I’d called Leon and asked for his help to get her home. It was a last resort. I’d instantly regretted it, and likely would for a while.
Leon was acting like he’d taken out ten burly footballers single handedly.
While I could admit to myself that the guy knew how to handle himself and he’d actually put on quite an impressive display on the old battlefield, I wasn’t about to tell him that. Fuck no.