Rowdy Boy

“Hey.”

The sound of Ariane’s shrill voice is like the strings on a guitar snapping in two.

“What are you doing here?” I bark over my shoulder.

“Wow. I’m allowed to be in the cafeteria, asshole,” she says, folding her arms. “Is that the way you greet people nowadays?”

“Not people,” I say, putting my tray away, “but definitely you.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Ha-ha, always the funny one.”

“I don’t joke around,” I reply stoically, and I turn around, but she keeps tagging along behind me.

“Look, I just wanted to tell you that I think you did great.”

“What, my show?” I mutter. “I don’t care about your opinion, Ariane. Not anymore.”

“I meant with the situation in the hallways. You know, with Monica.”

I come to a full stop, and she bumps into my back. She wasn’t there, I’m positive, as I looked everywhere to see if she was watching. “Who told you about that?”

“Dude, everyone saw …”

I turn around and corner her. “I don’t appreciate your girlfriends keeping tabs on me, Ariane.”

She raises a brow. “And I don’t like not knowing what’s going on when it’s the talk of the day.”

My eyes twitch. “You never stopped being a gossip girl …”

“And you never stopped being a manipulative bastard,” she retorts. But then she puts her arm around my neck, and says, “But I’m proud of you.”

I throw her arm off my neck. “Don’t.”

“What? You managed to stay away from her and actually chased her off. Well done.”

Chased her off? Fuck no.

I shove her against the wall and point at her. “I don’t need your fucking approval, and I sure as hell didn’t do it for you,” I growl. “Now back the fuck off.”

She holds up her hands. “It’s cool. I don’t care that you don’t do it for me. I just need you to stay away from her. That’s all.”

“Why do you care so much?” I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s so special about her?”

Her pupils dilate, and her body stance grows rigid. “Nothing. Absolute nothing, that’s exactly my point.” She steps forward and throws her hands around my neck again, twirling my hair. “Not as interesting as I am anyway …”

I frown. Now my interest is piqued. But I don’t want Ariane’s arms anywhere near me, so I shake her off, and growl, “I don’t need you or your bullshit. Just leave.”

She shrugs and licks her lips. “Suit yourself. I gave you a choice.”

“Bullshit,” I spit. “And you know it.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though,” she adds.

“What did you say?” I growl, cocking my head.

She looks away. “You heard me.”

“Or what? Are you threatening me?” I put a hand up against the wall to block her exit. “You’re gonna spread more rumors?”

“If you don’t want me …” She lifts her eyes to meet mine in an infuriatingly seductive manner. “Then you can go fuck yourself.”

She pushes me off her and walks off with bouncy hips, flaunting her middle finger as though it’s her single most powerful weapon.

Well, fuck her.

I don’t like being threatened, especially not by the likes of her and especially not with more reputation-destroying gossip.

She’s already gotten to me one too many times.

Maybe it’s about time I stopped listening to anything she says and started listening to the devil in my heart. I thought I was doing the right thing by protecting Monica from the boys and me by steering clear to focus on the band.

But fuck that noise.

Because if Ariane wants me to stay away from her …

I’m going to do my very fucking best to get closer than close.

So close, the whole school will be talking about us.

Just out of spite.

Monica

Music class would normally be something fun and enjoyable, but not when you’ve got dozens of girls stacked up against the door to peek through the window at the two band members of TRIGGER sharing this class.

“This isn’t even the biggest group I’ve seen,” Mel whispers in my ear. “One time, there were about triple this number waiting at the door. It’s normal insanity.”

I snigger. “Do they follow them everywhere?”

“Yup, whenever fans have a free hour, they start stalking TRIGGER.” She rolls her eyes. “And every year, it gets worse and worse.”

“And the teachers and school are all okay with it?” I ask.

“No, of course not, but there’s not a lot they can do against teenage hormones,” she says, and we both laugh. “They’re probably hoping the boys finish school quickly and don’t come back.”

“Same,” I add, and we laugh again.

“Did you know, the lead singer even has his own pass to the teacher’s bathroom?”

I almost choke on my own words. “Wha …? I … no, that’s weird.”

“Yeah, apparently Cole can’t even pee without hordes of girls waiting to catch a glimpse.”

“Yikes,” I respond.

So he was telling the truth when I almost bumped into him a second time right in the teacher’s bathroom doorway.