Very Wicked Things

So what if he smelled delicious? I could handle it. I knew his game now. He had a knack for being a playa and…

Tingles skipped up my spin, and as if it were choreographed, every hair on my body lifted in perfect unison. For the first time in a year, my peripheral vision saw his head turn and sensed his golden eyes behind those shades, running over my body, lingering uninvited.

He had actually looked at me. Holy moly.

I stared into the recesses of the locker, my mind reeling.

Why today?

Since senior year had started—six months ago—he’d not once glanced in my direction. All by his design, of course.

Like I was toxic, he gave me plenty of leeway in the classrooms, the cafeteria, and the quad. He’d see me coming from twenty yards, and he’d turn around and go the other way. If our eyes accidentally bumped into each other’s in class, his never paused, just kept right on trucking. Once when the dance troupe had performed during an assembly, I’d been on stage, putting everything I had into my performance, yet knowing exactly where he sat. Second row to the left, next to a tramp with blonde hair who couldn’t keep her hands off him. He’d stared at his program the entire ten minutes I’d danced. When the music students came out with violins and cellos for their performance, he’d raised his head and blessed them with his full-on gaze. But not me. Never me.

He hated me and I didn’t know why.

Well, maybe I did.

Even without glancing at him, I knew his visage by heart. The soft dark hair with sun-tinted highlights, wavy and overgrown enough to label him as a bad boy by BA standards, and his absurdly long lashes that rested on his sun-kissed skin. He reminded me of the Greek gods, the ones with patrician noses, high foreheads, and aloof expressions. They’d sit up in there in lofty clouds and gaze down at the lowly mortals. Because they think they’re better than you. And here’s a tip: nine times out of ten, when a god gets with a mortal, nothing good comes from it. Well, the sex maybe, but once that’s over, most humans suffer a horrible death or die from a broken heart. Gods tended to ditch them for some other prettier mortal, or better yet, a goddess. Screw them all, especially fancy goddesses, I say.

Yeah, so guys who reminded me of walking, talking sex gods? Bad news. Back up and run. They will make you looney.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him turn back to his locker, his arm muscles flexing like liquid steel as he pilfered through it like he was in a hurry. Ha. He was probably freaking out because of our proximity. Which I’d found interesting at first when his No Looking at Dovey campaign began, but had long since given up trying to figure him out.

Perhaps that’s not the entire truth.

I still ached to know why he’d played his head games with me.

I still ached to have his eyes see me.

Being sneaky, I slid my gaze over him, taking in the finely-sculpted body, designed by football in the fall and rowing crew in the spring. Oh, who was I kidding, he was built like a god, too, with muscles that absolutely pulsed with a tangible sexuality. He was lickable. I can’t deny it. But the kicker was how in tune he was with the female heart, how he innately knew how to pose his physique for optimal viewing. Some people are born knowing the right stance and gestures that capture your eyes, hypnotize you with every step. Call it confidence or cockiness or charm—or what I referred to as the three C’s—it worked. Making you want what wasn’t good or safe. Making you entertain the idea of him. Of being his.

It’s impossible though. He laid his heart at no girl’s feet. Hadn’t he told me so?

Since our break-up—if you call it that—I’ve had a whole year to watch him and eavesdrop on every conversation I could with him in it. Conversations between beautiful girls who gushed on and on about how hot he was or how rich. The worse were the whispers about his prowess in bed. And when I could, I’d listen to him talk. I’d hear him talking to girls in the back of class, calling them baby this and sweetheart that. Gag. More often than not, that same girl would cry to her friends in a month or so because he’d moved on to someone else. And the guys? They talked about him with reverence in their tones. Like he was an idol.

Bad guys are always the prettiest, but then pretty is an understatement when it came to him. He was simply more. So yeah, no way was I turning to face him. Nope. Just gonna stand here and pretend he was a rock and think of unsexy things, like the frog I had to dissect in science this week. Wait, better yet, I could think about Spider and how I was going pop him…

He moved, selecting his English Lit book, startling me. Afraid of being caught, I turned back to my locker, pulling out my own book, angry that I’d allowed myself to dwell on him and his well-proven assets.

It was over between us.

He fumbled and dropped something. Cursing, he bent down, his body leaning close to mine, getting into my personal space. I told myself to step away from him, but my body didn’t obey.

And he didn’t move either, as if he were mesmerized by something on the ground.

Then his warm fingers slid up, up my calf, stopping at the top of my upper thigh, just at the hemline of my skirt. And my skirts are short, which meant his hand was nearly to my panties.

How dare he touch me after a year of denying me even a single glance?

I flinched and pulled away. Even though his touch had lit me on fire.

And I hated him for it, for making me still want him.

Long seconds passed as I waited for him to stand and face me, my head screaming at me to just walk away now, to snub him like he did me every day. A rush of adrenaline kicked in because I’d fantasized this moment a thousand times in my head. Images of me spitting in his face came to mind.