A Gorgeous Villain (St. Mary's Rebels 2)

The guy I’m supposed to stay away from.

And I have.

I have stayed away from him.

I have been extremely careful never to be in the same place as him.

If he’s in the courtyard with his friends, I’m in the library. If he’s in the cafeteria, sitting in his usual spot, I know to stay on the opposite side of the room.

If I see him sitting inside his Mustang in the parking lot after practice, listening to music with his eyes closed, I turn around and walk through the soccer field to get to the bus stop.

Basically, I have done everything in my power to stay away from him.

So I don’t really know what I’m doing here.

I don’t even know how it happened. How I got pulled into going. By his sister, no less. Who I met only a little while ago.

But one minute we were watching the game and I was explaining to her about the rivalry, which I’m so glad to say that she doesn’t really understand either. And the next, the game is over and Tempest is pulling me away from the field, telling me that we shouldn’t be controlled by our brothers’ stupidity.

That I should ignore all the rivalry stuff and go to a party with a friend — her — if I want to. And besides, if I don’t like it, I’m free to leave.

So here I am.

Going to a party with a friend who has promised me that I can leave if I want to.

And I want to, I think.

Because as soon as I see the crowd, I realize that this is even stupider and more dangerous than I originally thought.

This party, which is happening in the middle of the woods that border Bardstown, is full of people from the Mustang camp.

The soccer players who worship him, the students from Bardstown High who are in awe of him and girls from all over town who want to be with him.

All of them are either laughing or talking or swaying with the music with red cups in their hands. I even hear people chanting his name off to the side.

Of course, Callie. This is his party.

This is his territory.

Everything here is his.

Except me.

I’m the trespasser. I’m the one who doesn’t belong. I’m the anomaly here.

And what if someone recognizes me, the sister of his rival?

What if they tell Ledger about it?

Oh Jesus Christ, I haven’t thought this through, have I?

I have not thought this through at all.

What if he uses this, me being here, as something to rile Ledger up in the next game?

He’s done it before.

I mean, he hasn’t used me to rile my brother up. But he has used things against Ledger. And well, Ledger has done the same, but yeah.

I need to get out.

I need to leave.

I grab Tempest’s hand and try to stop her from getting into the thick of the crowd. “I think I’m…”

Going to leave.

That’s what I was going to say before I left my words hanging.

Because just then the crowd parts, the horde of swaying bodies falls apart, and there opens a direct line of vision.

To him.

The guy who owns everything around me.

Reed Roman Jackson.

He’s sitting on a log, his powerful thighs spread, his demeanor casual, his body leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

And as usual, he’s not alone.

There’s a girl draped over him — I think she’s from school — and she’s talking to him, whispering something in his ear.

It’s not the fact that a girl is hanging off his arm that makes me pause, no. I’ve seen this before at school, multiple times. I mean, it would be more of a shock to see him without a girl.

It’s not the girl. It’s him.

It’s the fact that despite very meager lighting in the space — the moon and headlights from parked cars — every single thing about him is so clear, so vivid.

So alive.

Like his hair, for example.

His spiky, dark hair. The strands of which have little droplets sitting on the tips, making me think that he just had a shower, right after the game.

And maybe he was in a rush to get to his party.

Because he didn’t bother with a shave and his jaw is stubbled with a five o’clock shadow.

I don’t think he likes it though.

Because I always catch him touching it, rubbing and scratching it as if irritated.

A gesture that’s more like a habit to him. That he’s performing right now even, as he talks to the girl, his face turned toward her, a smirk lurking on his ruby-red lips.

A gesture that makes me think that maybe he likes smooth things. Soft things.

Things like his hoodie.

His white hoodie, to be precise.

So his hoodies are famous around school and in town. They’re always white or cream colored and they always seem thick and cozy.

And of course soft.