And the deadly look in his eyes, like I’m the world’s worst person to come and sit next to him, makes me gulp.
I wasn’t planning on going anywhere near him anytime soon, but I guess I have no choice in the matter if I want to attend this class.
Every step I take in his direction seems to make the look on his face worse and worse, almost as if he’s warning me not to get close or he’ll do something to me. Fuck.
Clutching my bag, I sit down and lean as far away from him as I possibly can while being as quiet as possible. The teacher has already started class, so there’s no time to get comfortable in this uncomfortable situation.
“What are you doing here?” he suddenly barks.
It takes me a few seconds to form a good response to that blatant attack. “Attending class like I’m supposed to.” I look his way. “You?”
“Thinking about bailing,” he retorts.
There’s an edge to his voice. Almost as if he’s taken a personal dislike to me.
Is it because I called him an asshole? Maybe. Did he deserve it? Hell yes.
“You want to ruin your education?” I shrug. “Go ahead.”
“Better than spending the next hour in your vicinity.”
I throw him a dirty look. “Wow, that’s a low blow, Travis. Even for you.”
He raises a brow. “Travis? We’re on a last name basis now? Okay, Romero.”
I stick up my middle finger. “I’m not interested in a conversation with you.”
“You sure seem awfully bothered by me, though,” he retorts.
“Not at all.” I flip open my book and try to read, but his constant rage-filled gaze makes it hard. I plant my fist on the table and glare at him. “What do you want?”
“From you? Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he replies with a husky voice that pushes all my buttons. Again.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, trying not to get upset, but he’s making it hard.
He leans on his fist. “It’s hard to look elsewhere when you’re constantly in my face.”
“I’m not,” I scoff.
“Always following me around, landing right in my lap …”
Landing in his lap? God, the fucking nerve of this guy.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” I say, trying not to break the pencil in my hand.
“Right … of course, it isn’t,” he retorts.
I return my attention to the book and tell myself not to look at him.
However, when he starts poking me in the side, it gets really, really hard not to scream.
“Stop it,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Why would I?” he replies, still poking me.
I grab the pen he’s holding and throw it away. “I didn’t do anything to deserve this, and you know it.”
A devious brow rises. “Oh, really? And what about that night at the lake?”
My cheeks turn red, and my pupils dilate. I cannot believe he brought that up in class.
“We had a conversation,” I retort.
“You call that a conversation?” he taunts.
“Shut up,” I growl under my breath.
“Make me,” he retorts.
I wish he didn’t bring it up, I wish I could bury it forever and never think about it again, but he makes it impossible.
“You still think about it, don’t you?” he muses, his hand inching closer and closer like a spider sneaking across the table. “You think about me touching you … kissing you …”
I shudder in my seat, trying to pretend it all played out in my head instead of reality, but it’s damn hard when he confronts me like this.
He pulls at his shirt. “I can’t blame you.”
“Oh my God …” I roll my eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“What? You think I don’t know what I do?” He cocks his head.
“No, enlighten me,” I reply.
“I could tell you about how much I enjoy bringing girls to their knees …” he says, his voice so husky it reminds me of him whispering dirty things into my ear in the water, and it makes the goose bumps appear on my arms. “Or I could just torture you by not giving a shit.”
I slam my pencil onto the desk. “You like this, don’t you? You like to see me squirm. You’re just a fucking bully.”
“A bully? That’s the first time I’ve heard that,” he replies in an aloof way that shows how little he takes me seriously.
“Maybe it’s the first time a girl actually fights back,” I bark. I can’t stay here. I tried, I really fucking tried, but he’s so obnoxious I can’t finish this class. I simply can’t.
“Fuck you, Cole Travis. You wanted me to hate you? You have your fucking wish,” I say through gritted teeth, and I grab my bag, stuff my books and pens inside, and march off, with literally everyone’s eyes pointing lasers at my back.
But I don’t care. Let them look. Let them know Cole Travis isn’t the idol they think he is.