Angry God (All Saints High 3)

How fantastic.

To my surprise, his face was devoid of any emotion—the usual cold, unreadable air I couldn’t crack. A blank canvas.

I guess he wasn’t so mocking when we were alone. Just quietly cruel.

“You skipped a grade,” he said.

What?

I scowled, hoping my cheeks and ears weren’t as red as they felt.

“When?” he pressed.

“Ninth to tenth.”

“Why?”

I’d lost my mother and shut the world down. I focused on studying and making art and staring at my bedroom ceiling, perched in my bed, listening to “Last Night I Dreamt” by The Smiths on loop, smoking nasty clove cigarette butts I’d found behind the rosebushes of Carlisle Prep.

I’d decided falling in love was pointless. We all die in the end. I’d even told Papa so—that I wanted to marry my art, like he did after Mum. Art never leaves. It never dies. It never ceases to wake up one morning.

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis.

Art is long, life is short. I tattooed it on my inner thigh the moment I turned seventeen—somewhere private and intimate, to remind myself all I wanted to give birth to was more beautiful, lifeless things.

“Some of us have goals that don’t include catching STDs and getting high. I work hard for what I want.”

“You stayed in England when your dad and sister moved here. Why?”

Because of you.

But that was only partly true. Going away felt like leaving Mum behind.

I said nothing.

“What made you come here? Why now?”

Papa had twisted my arm. Besides, loneliness had nibbled at my insides, like cancer. I’d put on war paint, hoping it’d be enough to keep Vaughn away. As it turned out, he took this as an invitation to battle and geared up for combat.

“What about boyfriends? Girlfriends? Social life?” His fingers around my wrist tightened into a bruising grip.

I wanted to cry. Not because he was hurting me, but because I liked it. I liked that he wasn’t treating me with kid gloves because I’d lost my mother. I liked that he was experienced and unfazed by sex. I liked that he was stunning, cold and promising like Christmas morning, and I had his undivided attention, even if it was the wrong kind of attention. And I was absolutely horrified to find out a part of me wanted him to bend my wrist harder until the dull pain became a sharp one.

I shook my head. My personal life was none of his business.

“No social life.” He tsked. “Fine. How’s the internship project going? What are you handing over?”

Why did he care? He’d just invited me to see someone sucking his cock. I looked the opposite way, at the wall, ignoring him. The less I responded, the more he’d grow tired and bored of me.

“I started working on mine yesterday,” he informed me. “The composition was a bitch to figure out.”

Was he making small talk?

“There’s no way you’ll be able to turn it in on time,” I said.

We had to hand in our submissions for the internship fairly soon. My project was done. I just had some fine-tuning to do.

He shrugged.

My heart began to race. This was good. This meant he was behind, and I had more of a chance to snag the spot.

I swallowed, trying to hide my glee.

“Don’t worry. Even quarter-finished, your father will choose my project over yours any day.”

I said nothing to that, so he continued.

“You know…” His cocky smirk reappeared just when I thought I was saved from it, and my blood boiled in my veins again, my eyes hooding with lust and irritation. “What I told you behind that fountain when we were kids still applies.”

He leaned against the desk, jerking me into his long, hard body. I was flush against him now, and he felt like granite against my soft limbs.

“I could kiss you, and you’d still let me. Because you’re still good, and I’m still bad. Nothing has changed. We’re still the same kids. Our game is just more dangerous now.”

And my mother is no longer alive to warn me off sugar or boys like you, I thought bitterly.

“I thought you weren’t dealing our cards just yet.” I arched an eyebrow.

“I changed my mind. One little game won’t hurt. Me, anyway.”

“Test it then,” I hissed. I wanted to make my first chip in him, so when he came to break me, I’d know where to aim.

He stared at me for a moment, his gaze dipping from mine to my lip ring. He leaned down, almost in slow motion, going in for the kiss. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. What he was doing. The boy who hated me brought his lips to mine. But there was nothing romantic about it.

It was a dare. A bet. Another challenge.

A power play.

When our lips touched, a shiver skated down my spine like a lit match. He traced his lips along the seam of mine patiently, his hot breath fanning my mouth. My heart accelerated to a dangerous speed, fireflies bursting forth as though escaping a Mason jar. Kissing him was like standing on the edge of a cliff. Nice view, but you knew it was deadly. Still, a stupid, irrational, dangerously alive part of you still wanted to hurl yourself down to meet your own demise.