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

Or is about to, when something happens and it’s Ledger.

Just as Reed is about to turn away, Ledger taunts, “Hey, Jackson! Can’t wait to beat you tomorrow. Once and for all. You’re going to regret not taking your dad’s advice and quitting the team. You pollute everything you touch anyway.”

Oh crap. Ledger!

He was leaving, leaving and my brother had to go and ruin it.

Reed’s dad is a touchy subject.

I know that.

So apparently, his dad, the famous builder who owns everything in this town, hates the fact that Reed plays soccer. According to him, it’s a huge waste of Reed’s time because he wants his son to take over the business.

“My dad is an asshole,” Tempest told me one day. “Like, a complete asshole. A negligent father. Bad, cheater of a husband. I’m glad I live far away from him. Though I miss my brother. I hate that he has to deal with our dad alone. And mom’s no help. She lives in her own la-la land. But honestly though, Reed wouldn’t let me deal with him anyway. He likes to protect me from stuff.”

So I know there’s tension between Reed and his dad.

I don’t know the extent of it because Tempest was right, Reed doesn’t like to talk about it, and I’ve tried to get him to only for him to shut down and grow angry.

Even right now, after Ledger’s unnecessary taunt, he’s done the same.

He’s turned angry and rigid. Like stone.

Which only lasts for maybe two to three seconds before he fists his hands at his sides.

And then I already know what’s going to happen.

I already know that Reed is going to hit my brother, and when he lands a mean punch on Ledger’s face, I flinch.

I flinch even more when Ledger goes in for a payback punch.

Suddenly the crowd that had calmed down grows heated once again and somehow everyone is on everyone. There are shouts and curses and thumps and grunts.

And in the middle of it all are Ledger and Reed.

They’re grappling, beating each other up. There’s so much malice between them. So much pent-up aggression, years of trying to best each other, to come out on top, to bring each other down.

Years of hatred that are just pouring out on their last day of practice together.

Suddenly I realize that it doesn’t matter what I tell them, my brothers, or what I tell him even. They’re never ever going to get along.

Not if they can help it.

He’s sitting on the hood of his car, facing away from me, staring at something in the near darkness.

He doesn’t have his hoodie on – it’s May now so he shouldn’t feel all that cold, but still – and through the thin material of his light-colored t-shirt, I can see the slabs of his muscled back shifting with each breath he takes.

I knew he’d be here.

At this spot, in the woods.

Located at the edge of town, where his party was that night. This is also where we usually end up when he takes me out on rides.

He looks so still, so deep in his thoughts, that I feel like I’m intruding. That I feel like I should leave him alone.

But I can’t.

He hasn’t said it but I know he needs me.

I know he needs someone by his side.

So here I am.

As it turns out, it’s too late to leave anyway. Because I already have his attention.

He already knows that I’m here and he turns abruptly, his eyes zeroing in on me.

I suck in a breath then.

The moment I get to see his face.

All bruised and battered, covered with cuts. So much so that he’s using his half-bunched up hoodie to put pressure on his jaw.

Back at the field, when their fight continued to escalate and a crowd was gathering, teachers were called in. They made us all leave while Conrad and the group of coaches tried to break up the fight. In the chaos of it all, I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see Ledger either.

I’m pretty sure he looks the same.

My heart squeezes painfully as I study his bruises in the rapidly vanishing evening light.

Stupid soccer.

I hate soccer.

My thoughts break when he moves.

He takes a huge sip from the bottle that I didn’t know he was holding — a liquor bottle, I presume; the liquid inside it looks as transparent as water though — and slams it down on the hood.

Throwing his hoodie aside, he springs up on his feet. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

I hug the backpack to my chest. “I came to –”

He doesn’t let me speak. “Shouldn’t you be at rehearsal?”

“Rehearsal is done. I –”

He fires off another question before I can finish, his eyes searching something beyond my shoulders. “How in the hell did you get here?”

“I, uh, got a ride from a friend.”

His gaze comes back to me, all belligerent. “What friend?”