I’m sitting in his office and telling him everything.
He is grading papers. He won’t let me see what I got, but it doesn’t matter. I already know I got an A. And not because I’m sleeping with my teacher, but because I’m damn good at debating, which I proved tonight when I convinced Pierce to fuck me for a third time.
The longing ache between my legs is replaced by a real one. I’m sore all over. I feel like he sliced me open and filled me with more than I can handle. My thighs are still shaking from the aftermath of every time we had sex.
Pierce is wearing his low-hanging gray sweatpants and a long white T-shirt. It’s hot outside, but Pierce keeps his house like an igloo. He still looks expensive and rich, even in things Ryan usually wears. Pierce smells clean. Like soap and cologne and a little bit of me. And like sex. A lot like sex, actually.
“So your dad doesn’t believe you?” he asks, running his hands through my hair. I am slouched under his desk, flipping through a stack of photos I recently had developed. Of our Sunday trip. Of Christian’s new look. Then random ones, like my shoes on a cracked sidewalk. The single flower brave and strong enough to grow in our yard otherwise full of dirt and weeds. And of Pierce. So many pictures of Pierce. He has no idea. I have a hundred more waiting for me at home. Of him. Looking down to his papers behind his desk. Smirking at a student who answered his question. Looking at me with those eyes—that promise to give me pleasure and pain in spades.
“Nope.” I blow a lock of hair from my face. “He believes Ryan. Even when I told him about Ryan wanting me…”
“I see.” Pierce purses his lips together, and I know that he is pissed off. “So that’s what made you run away?”
“I didn’t run away. I just…walked away from a really screwed-up situation. Yes, that, and he didn’t remember my birthday.”
Pierce wheels his office chair sideways so that I’m placed between his legs, and I look up and see him staring at me hard.
“I want you to get your things and move away from there.”
“I have nowhere to go, and before you suggest it, I can’t live on the boathouse forever. It’s too far away from school and civilization, and even though I hate how hot and cold you are toward me, even I admit that moving in together would be asking to get caught.”
“What about Christian?” he asks. I shrug.
“His family is going through a rough time. I very much doubt they’d let some white trash chick live under their roof.”
“You’re not white trash,” Pierce snaps through gritted teeth.
“That’s not what the rest of the school thinks.”
“The rest of the school can go fuck itself.”
“Very mature.” I laugh, but really, I feel a little better hearing that. He takes my hand and yanks me up to sit on his thigh. It feels so different, sitting on him instead of Ryan. I knot my arms behind his neck and stare into his too-deep blue eyes.
“I’ll figure it out.” I smooth his shirt for an excuse to touch more of him.
“No need. I will rent you a place near my house first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re eighteen,” he says. “You can live by yourself. All I ask is that we keep this quiet. For now.”
“You know I will.” And as I say it, I realize that I’m letting Pierce take care of me. I’m giving up something that’s completely mine and placing my trust in him. I’m being taken care of for the first time in a long time, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
“We’ll get you your stuff from your place tomorrow after school.” He smacks my ass a little and I wince because everything is still sore.
“I don’t want to let go.” My voice is below a whisper. Almost non-existing. Pierce knows exactly what I mean because he shakes his head.
“I don’t want you to do this by yourself.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “You deserve so much more than this life.”
“I know, but I want to find ‘more’ by myself. To earn it.”
“You have earned it.” His lips are now on mine, and his fingers are in my hair. “Now let me deserve you.”
The next day, I get a phone call from Ducky Woods, the PI I hired, and know that the Ryan Anderson case is bulletproof. From a lawyer’s point of view, I can tell you straight out that I can lock this guy in jail for a long time. Nevada doesn’t take any bullshit when it comes to drug rings and weapons. And Ryan Anderson has been very busy with both. I hang up the call after arranging to meet at a coffee shop on the other side of town—as far away as possible from West Point—and even though he doesn’t ask why, I know. I know why, and it’s killing me.
It’s time to tell her. Even after everything she’s said to me about how her dad treated her, how Ryan shoved her into the fucking coffee table, I still know that she will be distraught. Guys like Ryan Anderson are not complete villains. I mean, who is? But when he doesn’t try to shove his tongue down her throat and boss her around, he also takes care of her. Gives her money and rides and talks to her about how her day has been. I try to reason with myself. To tell myself that this is the best thing that could happen to Remi. And my sister, Gwen, deserves closure. She deserves the truth. But at the end of the day, even I can’t take away one thing from Ryan Anderson that I’ll never be able to offer Remington: history.
He was the one who kissed it better when she scraped her knee and bandaged her wrist when she fell off a tree and took her to see the Fourth of July fireworks when she was still oblivious to how pretty things that shine in the dark are.
I pass Mikaela Stephens down the hallway. She is wearing her cheerleading uniform—white and baby blue—and looks every inch of the drone she was raised to be. The fact that she is picking on my girlfriend, who already has so much bullshit to deal with in life, rubs me the wrong way.
Jesus Christ. Did I just call Remington Stringer my girlfriend? Even in my head, it seems…off. Off, but then oddly on. I try not to think about it too much.
I don’t slow down as I pass her, leaning against her locker and clutching her books to her chest as she laughs with a couple of her friends, but when she sees me, she starts after me.
“What punishment did Remington get?” Mikaela keeps up my pace, and she’s already out of breath.
“Remind me again how it’s any of your business?”
“It’s just that I didn’t see her yesterday, and I was wondering if she got—”
“No,” I say flatly. “Stop worrying about other people and start thinking about your own future.”
“I got an acceptance letter from UCLA.” Her voice is hopeful. Like she expects me to be proud of her. If anything, it reminds me that no one took Remington to look at colleges. No one guided Remington about where she should apply. No one even considered the idea that she will go to college. It’s like her presence here, at West Point, is one big fucking joke. I make a mental note to help her with that too, even though I’ve spent the majority of my morning looking at apartments on Zillow so I can find her a place to stay. This girl is filling up every single blank moment in my life, and even though there were quite a few of those before she walked into my existence, I love how busy she makes me feel. How vital. How important.
“Good for you, Miss Stephens.”
We stop by Charles’ office. I knock twice. She flinches. I pay no attention.
“I wish you would hate me a little less, Mr. James,” Mikaela whines, and I hate this nasally, teenager-y thing that she does. She leans a shoulder against the wall and circles the floor with her toe.
“I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t like me either.”
“I treat you like every single one of my students.”
“Not like Remington. Remington seems to be getting a lot of one-on-one time with you.” Her eyes dart to me, as if to say “busted”. And I know that she is trying to blackmail me.
“Anything you wanna tell me, Miss Stephens?”
“There are rumors around campus.” She smiles, a cunning, ugly smile, and even though she has a generically beautiful face, this peek to her personality makes her absolutely horrendous to look at.
“There are, I agree. They’re called rumors for a reason. The consequences of spreading them and causing trouble for fellow students—and teachers—are heavier than you can ever imagine. You want to go to UCLA, right, Miss Stephens?” I lean toward her, just as I hear the headmaster shuffling in his office on his way to open the door for us.
Mikaela swallows. “Of course.”
“Then I would advise against pissing me off. I promise you, Miss Stephens, I will not hesitate to write detailed letters to every single one of the schools you would like to attend and tell them what I think of you. And, of course, my colleagues will be happy to contribute to my personality assessment of you.”
The headmaster opens the door, and we both erect our spines.
“Hello, Mr. James, Miss Stephens.”
“Hello,” I say, neutral as always, and Mikaela scurries away.
And I feel just a little more alive than I did when I first walked into school.