I pat down my auburn hair, which my mom says I’ve been blessed with. If you want my opinion, auburn is just a fancy name for “almost red”. It’s long, glossy, and hangs just past my shoulderblades, and when I’m lucky, it has a natural wave. Today I’m wearing it down, but normally I keep it pulled back in a ponytail because I’m lucky enough to have parents who bought me a Jeep Wrangler (thanks, Mom and Dad) on my sixteenth birthday, and let’s face it—it’s easier to drive that thing without hair whipping in my face. So yeah, my hair is almost always in a ponytail.
I have clear green eyes, a pert nose, and of course, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose.
Beautiful? No.
Pretty? Debatable.
Cute? Yes.
At least, that’s my opinion of myself.
Once again, I hear the tap, tap, tapping from Ericka’s phone. Seriously? Ugh. I want to lean over, smack the phone out of her hand, and send it sailing across the library. Normally I don’t have such intense thoughts about people, but this chick is pushing all my buttons and doesn’t even realize it—which is super annoying. Shaking my head in disgust, I lean back and put my hands behind my head, lacing my fingers together for support. My tan—and yeah, sweaty—legs are crossed under the table, and as I point my toes to stretch, I can feel my already short skirt hiking up my thighs.
Eventually, I lean down to unbuckle the adorable espadrille wedges on my feet, and as I do, the hair on the back of my neck prickles. I get the distinct feeling that I’m being watched.
How cliché, right?
Slowly I raise my eyes, covertly looking around without sitting up completely (kind of wishing I had a baseball cap on to conceal my own scrutiny) and sure enough, within seconds I’ve identified the source of my discomfort: there, sitting across the library with his eyes locked on my legs, is wicked Weston McGrath.
I swallow a lump in my throat as he slowly does what has been described in my smutty teen novels as ‘raking his gaze’ up my seated torso. Even though he is lucky enough himself to be donning a ball cap, which means I can’t see much of his face, I can see that he is chewing on his lower lip.
It’s excruciating.
Infuriating.
And so exciting.
What the heck is he looking at me like that for?
Watching him watch me is like…like a train wreck I can’t peel my eyes from, and holy shit, I would never admit it to anyone, but he’s giving me goose bumps—major goose bumps, all over my legs and arms.
Panic: I wonder if he notices.
Here’s the thing: I’ve never actually met or talked to Weston, but he has a terrible reputation—and by terrible, I basically just mean he’s a real asshole, totally full of himself, has no respect for anyone. He is the quintessential player.
God do I hate that term.
Player.
How dumb.
I mean, seriously, without getting all Urban Dictionary here, what does it even mean? The guy is what, eighteen years old? Let’s be real—how many relationships could he have had, and how many people could he have even realistically slept with to be called that? Hey, be my guest and label a college-aged guy a player—at least he has the age to back it up.
So while he’s been given the label of player, I’m not sure if I actually believe it’s true, skeptic that I am. I myself tend to be the complete opposite, and will be lucky if I get a date to prom this year, let alone to the movies, unless it’s with some creep.
Still, that thrill is there as he sits in his seat, checking me out.
Calling him a bad boy is rather predictable, and it also makes me want to gag, but I guess it’s a fair assessment. Sure, it’s a tad harsh calling him an asshole, because in actuality, he’s a very popular guy, but Weston gets into more trouble—so I’ve heard—and dates more girls—again, this is hearsay—than anyone I’ve ever heard gossiped about, not to mention, apparently he’s a hardcore badass.
Here’s what I know:
1. Last year his parents bought him a crotch rocket and he raced it down a dead-end road on the weekends. (Well, I don’t know this to be a fact exactly…)
2. Last month when he turned eighteen, he got a tattoo covering his entire arm—a sleeve, as they call it. I haven’t seen it up close (obviously), but I’ve heard about it from plenty of people. How many kids in high school even have regular tattoos, let alone a whole armful of them?
3. Weston once got punched square between the eyes during a hockey game and never fell to the ice. His nose and eyes were black and blue for weeks.