The Jeep’s engine roared to life, and headlights filled the driveway as he came tearing out of the parking lot, passing in front of me. I caught a glimpse of Kimberly’s face in the passenger window—her eyes staring at nothing. The Jeep made a right and peeled out in a screech of tires, leaving me alone on the quiet, dark street.
I’m too late, again. Too late.
I gave up the rest of my route and went back to my place. The nightmares were as bad as I expected.
I was almost glad.
It took a week for what I’d suspected to be confirmed. On Friday, at Central, senior girls were huddled together, whispering and talking. Mikey Grimaldi hurried past a group of cheerleaders, his shoulders hunched against their angry and tear-filled stares.
“What’s all this about?” Holden asked, leaning with me at our spot on the wall.
“Nothing good,” I said with that same stomach-churning feeling as the other night.
“I must know,” Holden said. “B-R-B with the intel.”
Holden crossed to the nearest group of girls. They watched him approach warily, but within moments, he’d charmed his way into their circle. A few minutes later he reported back, his face grim.
“Well?”
Tell me I’m wrong.
“Kimberly Mason isn’t coming back to Central.”
My stomach dropped. “Why not?”
Holden rubbed his chin, subdued. “She was out Monday night with that walking hemorrhoid, Mikey Grimaldi. Everyone else left. She and Mikey stayed.”
“And?”
“The shit swizzler took things too far, if you catch my drift.”
“Fuck me.”
He nodded grimly. “But her friends say she’s not pressing charges.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Probably because she’s fucking scared,” Holden burst out angrily, wearing a look I’d never seen him wear. “I’m sure it’s humiliating to report that shit and get questioned on every last thing you did or didn’t do. Like being forced to strip naked and parade around while that asshole stays fully clothed.”
My damn heart thudded dully as I looked at my friend. There was a story there I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. “You got all that from what those girls told you?”
“Yes,” Holden said too quickly and looked away. “Anyway, that’s the deal. She’s leaving town and Grimaldi’s going to get into college, play pro, and go about his life like nothing happened. The American Dream.”
“Fuck that.”
“That sounded like a threat,” Holden said. He gave me a strange, hopeful look that sort of broke my heart.
“Because it was.”
Chapter Sixteen
Monday morning, I’d just made it to the parking lot at Central when my phone chimed a text from Amber Blake.
Did you see this???
A photo popped up of a white Jeep with the word RAPIST spray-painted in red along the entire length of the passenger side.
I climbed out of the Buick and hit call. “Is that Mikey Grimaldi’s Jeep?”
“The brand-spanking-new Rubicon he got for his birthday last summer? It sure is,” Amber said, sounding breathless. “He was at the Burger Barn on Saturday night with Frankie Dowd and some people. They say he drove all over town like a dumbass before noticing. Must’ve happened while he was eating.”
“Holy shit.” I bit my lip. “For Kimberly.”
“Yep. Whoever did it is a hero in my book.”
Amber was waiting for me at the parking lot’s chain link entrance to the school. She looked pretty in a long, flowered skirt, similar to the flowing white one I wore that day.
“Crazy, right?” she said as I joined her.
“Maybe something good will come out of it,” I said. “He might not go to jail or have his future tainted forever like hers is, but he didn’t get away with it either. That’s something.”
“Agreed,” Amber said. “I wonder who did it. Kimberly’s brother, maybe? No, he’s at NYU…”
The quad was bustling before first bell. All three Lost Boys were headed to their usual spot along the short wall. My gaze was stuck on Ronan, his long legs striding purposefully, inked arms striated with muscle… He was dangerously beautiful in my eyes, and suddenly I knew Ronan had spray-painted Mikey’s car. I’d have bet my future shop on it.
I reached into my oversized embroidered bag for the necklace in the side pocket that I’d started all those weeks ago. I’d finally finished it and had been carrying it around wherever I went, waiting for…I didn’t know what. Ronan and I agreed that it was best to go our separate ways, but something in me couldn’t let go.
Amber tucked a lock of her long blond hair behind her ear with a sigh, and I realized she was staring at a different Lost Boy.
“How are things with Miller?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Terrible. As usual. Don’t know why I stay. Don’t know why he does.”
Because he’s trying to do the right thing.
I had a hand in that when I told Miller not to treat Amber as if she were disposable, and I stood by it. But I hadn’t expected the dummy to stick with her for months.
Amber led me behind the flagpole in the center of the quad. “Watch this.” She tapped out a text.
Are we hanging out today or not??
Miller slowed his steps, peered at his phone, and visibly sighed. He did not reply.
“See?”
I didn’t know how to comfort her without the truth—and my loyalty to Violet—bursting out. I needed a change of subject. Clusters of kids were huddled together, all of them watching the Lost Boys and whispering.
“God, this place is a gossip mill today,” I said.
Amber made a sour face. “Evelyn Gonzalez put Miller on her vlog and it’s going viral.”
“No shit?”
She nodded. “I keep waiting for him to sing to me, but he never does. He’s a jerk.”
This has gone on long enough. And not just the mess with Miller and Amber.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Ronan and didn’t want to. These last months had been like suffering through a forced diet. I was starving for him. To be touched, kissed, to have those gray eyes darken with want for me. But why? I was strong. I could protect myself. Back in Louisiana, Jalen and I’d had no problems keeping it casual. Why couldn’t Ronan and I do the same?
I caught up to Miller at the start of the lunch hour. He was sitting on a large rock near the lunch tables, giving himself an insulin shot in the upper arm. With his beanie and plaid flannel tied around his waist, he was the perfect image of a rock star in the making.
If Shawn Mendes and Dave Grohl had a love child.
“Hey, Mr. Famous.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, but I didn’t miss the glint of hope flashing in his eyes. “What’s up?”
“Ronan mentioned his birthday was this month.”
“It was on the twentieth.”
“Shit.” I’d missed it by a week.
“Why?” Miller put his kit away and reached for a brown paper sack lunch.
“Nothing. I have something for him. It’s no big deal. At all.”