Very Wicked Things

He stood.

He eased off his ridiculously expensive sun-glasses.

Don’t look at him.

Gazing at him was suicide for your soul.

But basic need won out over self-preservation, and my blue eyes crashed into his amber ones straight-on, the force of his gaze making my chest tightened.

Tick, tock.

Time passed, maybe a minute or two. I really don’t know because everything but him zoomed out. As we studied each other, the sounds of students going to and fro and teachers starting class faded, leaving only us and the sounds of our breathing. The rumbling sound of thunder from the storm outside registered briefly, but then it disappeared as my vision narrowed in on him, blacking out everything. This was it, the moment I’d dreamed about, the moment I could lie and tell him that the way he’d destroyed me hadn’t really hurt. My heart was still in my chest; it still beat.

I licked my lips, accusatory words rising up in my throat, but I swallowed down my bitterness at the expression I saw on his chiseled face.

Because even though I remembered clearly what he’d done to me, it got all mixed up—and I deflated.

Cuba Hudson, the hottest, richest, most popular guy on campus looked as broken as I felt.

“I can do anything but love you.”

– Cuba

A RAIN STORM battered my silver Porsche as I parked in the usual spot, unofficially designated for upperclassmen students only. A primo spot, it was under a shady oak tree and close to the main entrance to Briarcrest Academy. At least I wouldn’t get drenched in the downpour. Not like those poor freshmen who had to park out in no man’s land. I fiddled with my umbrella and messenger bag, noticing it was nearly eight o’clock. Weinstein would be pissed if I was late. So what. A few more months and I’d be out of this place and in college focusing on my pre-med major. Yeah, right. With the way I’d let my GPA slide, I’d never be accepted to a decent university. Maybe I’d just be a fry cook somewhere. A long as it was away from Dallas, I didn’t care. But one thing was for sure, I wanted to put some distance between me and her, the one girl I couldn’t have.

Yet, no matter how far I went, I’d never be rid of the blood on my hands.

Not going there right now.

I scrubbed my face with my hands, trying to erase those jacked up feelings in my head. I’d gotten good at pushing those thoughts aside, but today, something was decidedly off. Something kept jiggling at me in the back of mind, like maybe I had homework due I’d forgotten about. Whatever.

As soon as I’d woken up this morning, things hadn’t flowed as usual. First off, Dad had spent the night at the penthouse in Dallas, sending over someone from the sitting service to stay with me. Which was something he did sometimes after working late. Since he was part-owner of the Dallas Mavericks, he had commitments, and much of it involved parties and schmoozing with the elite. Even a certain ex-President of the United States was his friend. Not that I cared.

I slipped on my dark sunglasses even though it was raining. Had to complete the look. And somehow it’s easier to smile when no one can see your eyes.

I did a walk-run all the way to the entrance, my mind focused on getting to my locker and getting to class. Leaving my Tom Ford umbrella outside on the portico, I strolled through the stone archways and into the double doors of BA. The scent of power and money assailed me. Rich people smelled good, like Chanel perfume, genuine leather, and cold diamonds—if diamonds had a scent, that is. Future movers and shakers made up the student body. And me. I fit right in with this crowd.

Guys unconsciously puffed up their chests, checking me out, wondering what I had they didn’t. I inclined my head in a slight nod. I didn’t give a damn if they liked me or not, which seemed to make them want to be my friend even more. Go figure. High school politics and hierarchy. Two giggling freshmen girls tried to catch my eye as I walked down the hall, and I gave them what they wanted, a heavy-lidded look and a slow-tipping smile. Yeah. I knew how to play this game. It’s all about image and they see what they want to.

Opening my locker, I rummaged inside, trying to hurry it up and not just because I was running late. No, I didn’t want to see her. My locker neighbor. I was number forty-eight and she was forty-nine. We’d been sharing the same real estate since August and somehow I’d made it all the way to February without eye contact. That takes skill, not looking at someone who’s standing right next to you, close enough you can almost feel the heat coming off their skin. I felt her hate too. It was a visceral thing, and I imagined I could feel it emanating from her pores, mushrooming and then settling in a cloud over me, clogging up the air I breathed.

I didn’t blame her for hating me.

Yet, on the flip side of that, she’d cracked open my chest when I’d thought it was invincible. When I thought I was immune to feeling anything more than lust for a girl.

I stiffened, smelling her before she arrived. Like silk, she slid in beside me like it didn’t bother her to be near me. Like we didn’t have this electric barrier between us that would fry you in a heartbeat.

I scooted away.

Even though I didn’t want to be near her, I breathed her in her sweet smell, one of the little extras I allowed myself. I might not be able to face her, but I tortured myself with her scent.

Yeah, she was altogether different from any of the other girls at BA.

Ugly, short skirts—yet not short enough to be sent home—were her staple this year, calling attention to her long and toned legs. I peeked at her from the corner of my eyes, because well, I had to. She had magnetism, and for some crazy reason, my eyes were doing whatever they wanted today.