Queen of Hawthorne Prep

Did it mean anything?

Or was it just another mind fuck?

That’s the question that plagues me most.

“No,” I shake my head, “that’s all right. I’d rather—”

With a flick of his eyes, he dismisses me before turning to the girl at my side. His tone is firm. He’s not asking permission, he’s telling us the way it is. “I appreciate you watching out for my girl, but I’ll take it from here.”

My girl?

Where did that come from?

What I hate most is that the endearment makes me feel all warm and tingly inside.

Everly’s brows shoot up across her forehead as if she is just as surprised to hear him refer to me like that as I am. Her gaze bounces from him to me as if to determine my thoughts on the matter. The last thing I want is to put her in the middle of our skirmish. I like the auburn-haired girl way too much to see her make an enemy out of Kingsley.

“It’s fine.” Much like a magnet, my gaze is drawn to him. “There are things we need to sort out.”

“Are you sure?” Her eyes narrow as skepticism colors her voice. Maybe I haven’t confessed everything going on with Kingsley, but she’s seen enough to draw her own conclusions.

I nod and force a smile to my lips. There doesn’t seem to be a way out of the situation. Instead of walking away, she takes a step toward the dark-haired boy, crowding into his personal space. She’s a couple inches shorter than I am and next to Kingsley’s towering figure, she looks like David to his Goliath. My mouth falls open when she rams a finger into his chest.

“Just know that I’m watching you,” she warns.

I glance at him with wide eyes, afraid of what his reaction will be.

Instead of getting annoyed, his lips curl into a thin smile. “Noted.”

A heavy silence falls over the three of us as she gives him the hairy eyeball before swinging around to face me. “I’ll text you later.”

Unsure how to respond, I shift from one foot to the other. “Umm, okay.”

Was there really a time when I thought Everly was timid?

The idea is almost laughable. The girl has huge balls.

Huge!

With one last narrowed glare at Kingsley, Everly takes off with the strap of her messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

We watch as she disappears down the corridor before he says, “You like her.” It’s not a question, more like a statement.

What’s not to like?

Everly doesn’t let anyone push her around, and she gives zero fucks if she offends the popular people at Hawthorne. For those reasons alone, it would be difficult not to like her.

“Yeah, I do.” She’s turned out to be a good friend. One who is willing to stick by my side through thick and thin. That’s not easy to find. Especially in high school.

I clear those thoughts from my head and make a last-ditch effort to escape his dangerous presence. “Don’t you have football?”

As much as Kingsley enjoys the sport, his life doesn’t revolve around it. In that regard, he and my brother couldn’t be more different. Austin lives and breathes the game. It’s his sole reason for waking up in the morning. Take that away and he would be lost.

“Practice was cancelled for the afternoon.”

“Oh.” Well, damn.

“Your brother is staying after to lift with a couple of the guys,” he adds.

No surprise there.

Football and lifting have always been a physical outlet for Austin. He used to spend an hour or two a day working out. Now it’s more like three or four. His dream is to play in the NFL. In order for that to happen, he needs to keep his grades up and get recruited by a top Division I university. His dyslexia has always made academics a challenge. Being ripped away from his team in Chicago and the starting QB position to move to Hawthorne only made it worse. Layer on Dad’s sudden death and me being forced to live with the Rothchilds and you have the perfect recipe for disaster. I’ve always been the one to make sure that Austin was on track with homework and grades. Without me living at home, it’s not as easy to keep tabs on him.

“Ready to go?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts.

Devoid of any other choices, I jerk my head into a nod. As I reach for my backpack, Kingsley snatches it from the locker.

Why does he do this?

Why does he have to be nice?

It only stirs up more confusion, and that’s exactly what I don’t need. It would be so much easier if he’d be a domineering asshole without a single redeeming quality.

“You don’t have to carry it,” I snap, frustration bubbling up inside me. “I’m not an invalid.”

Hurt flickers across his face before his expression hardens and his jaw tightens. “Did I say that you were?”