Never, in all my eighteen years, have I been in a fight.
I usually leave that to Austin.
Furiously, I blink the wetness out of my eyes until my vision clears. Kingsley has his arms wrapped around Sloane as she struggles against him like a wildcat. Her blue eyes are clouded with fury as she howls out her outrage. With his lips near her ear, he whispers something too soft for me to hear before lifting her off the ground and swinging her away from me.
As soon as I’m out of sight, she goes limp as loud sobs fall from her lips. “She’s horrible, Kingsley! She attacked me for no reason! She’s just like her psycho brother!”
Stunned, I watch as she turns and tangles her arms around his neck, burrowing against the strength of his chest as if she needs to be protected from me.
What a fucking crazy bitch.
I lift my hand to my scalp and wince, gingerly touching the spot where she tried to rip the hair out.
“Come on,” he murmurs, leading her from the bathroom without so much as a word to me. Sloane’s minions shoot me dirty looks before spinning on their heels and following the pair out the door.
An eerie silence settles around me as I stare in disbelief at my disheveled appearance in the mirror.
Did that seriously happen?
Maybe it was a poor decision on my part to get mouthy, but there’s only so much a person can take before they completely lose it. If this episode is any indication, I’ve reached my limit. Especially where Sloane and her crew are concerned.
With shaking fingers, I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face before attempting to smooth down my hair. It looks like I’ve been put through the ringer. All I want to do is go home, but that’s not going to happen. I missed half a day last week and can’t afford to leave.
The door to the bathroom swings open and I tense, shifting toward it, ready for round two if Sloane decides to finish what she started. Air leaks from my lungs when I find Kingsley filling the doorway.
He hasn’t acknowledged my existence since Austin found us together at the Dairy Barn. Worse than that, I’m not sure which is preferable—his hatred or disregard. It’s one more troubling realization where this boy is concerned.
He was screwing with you, Summer.
That’s all it ever was.
One giant mindfuck.
And yet, the pain of his indifference is enough to gut me.
“What the hell was that about?” he growls, closing the distance between us.
My eyes widen at the accusation that fills his sharp voice. Why am I so surprised that he’s defending Sloane? It only solidifies my earlier thoughts. Be relieved that he’s done playing games with you.
“Are you serious?” I press my palm against my pounding chest. “Do you honestly think I would start anything with Sloane?” Ever since I stepped foot on the campus of Hawthorne Prep, I’ve done my best to steer clear of her.
His brow furrows. “She says you attacked her for no reason.”
Of course she did.
My mouth drops open and laughter tumbles out. “She’s lying. From my experience, Sloane says a lot of things I hope aren’t true.” Another prick of pain stabs me before I sweep it away.
His eyes narrow as he takes another step closer. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I press my lips together, refusing to answer. It was all a game. An agreement. He helped me and I…
I allowed him to touch me in return.
And now you’re going to complain and cry that he’s moved on?
Pathetic.
I shove all of the pain deep inside where I can pretend it doesn’t exist before straightening my shoulders. I’ll be damned if I allow him to see how much damage he’s inflicted.
“You know what?” I snap. “It doesn’t matter. None of it does.”
There’s no point in trying to defend myself. Nothing I say or do will change his mind. It’s like he said at the Dairy Barn—he’s a Rothchild and I’m a Hawthorne. I should have listened to him instead of thinking I knew better.
“The hell it does,” he snaps. When I remain silent, his tone grows harsh. “Answer the question, Summer. What the hell did you mean by that?”
I shake my head as a bitter smile twists my lips. I’m done wasting my time. “Nothing.”
When I attempt to push past him, he grabs my upper arms and swings me around until my back is pressed against the wall. The air hisses from my lungs when he shackles my wrists and forces them above my head. His body pins mine in place as his mouth hovers inches above my own. Even in anger, I crave his touch. It’s disheartening to realize that instead of trying to escape from him, I’m straining to get closer.