He’s peeled a dress from my body.
He’s tugged me on top of him.
But I have yet to witness the depth I imagine his voice holds.
Is it low and gravelly or crisp and clear?
Oh my god, why does it matter?!
I place my elbows on the tabletop and use my hands as blinders, blocking out any and all things from right to left.
The teacher has us watching a ridiculous film about the safeties of the kitchen, anyone with a decent set of parents or solid caretaker should already know, so I slip from class and head to the bathroom.
I text my sister to see how her first college class went, and all she sends back is a snooze emoji, so I know she doesn’t have the time to help me pass mine. Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I step out the door, and come face-to-face with Beretta.
I jump, but quickly rebalance. “Okay. You really need to dial back this whole Joe Goldberg thing. It’s getting a little weird now.”
“Weird would be admitting I know what color your bedroom’s painted.”
My brows furrow, a subtle hint of panic curling in my abdomen and his far too mindful ass senses it.
His grin widens. “Ask me, Trouble, see if I’m bluffing.”
“And give you the satisfaction of answering? Negative.”
I shoulder past him, and his laughter looms in my wake. I swear it follows me clear into the hall, leading to the classroom, or maybe it’s an illusory echo that’s bounding off the walls as it cuts off completely when a tall, shadowy figure slips into my path.
Electric blue eyes collide with mine.
And then they snap over my shoulder, right as a hand closes around my mouth.
I glare, my fingers flying up to grip the ones forcing me quiet.
Arsen slips from the class door a few feet away, pausing just outside of it, my bag hanging from his fingers.
Ransom’s strong and sturdy chest pushes into mine, driving me against Beretta at my back. “Come with us.”
My ‘fuck you’ is a muffled, broken, and pretty pointless protest since they can’t make it out, but I think he interprets my knee slamming into his nuts for what it is.
He growls, his left hand bolting down to grip his cock. He’s so close, my outfit so thin, that the shape of his knuckles can be felt against my pelvis and my ass cheeks clench.
The palm over my lips twitches.
“I’ll rephrase.” Ransom’s covert gaze sharpens. “Come with us or we’ll post a spicy little picture on social media.” When my brows furrow, he adds, “One taken in a dressing room bigger than my bedroom... right as a certain dress hits the floor...”
At first, I don’t react and his hand disappears in his pocket.
He pulls his phone toward his face, chuckling as I reach out to smack it away, a smug expression taking over him, yet something much darker is hidden in his liquid eyes.
“That’s what I thought. Now.” He steps back, tipping his head. “Close your eyes.”
I attempt to yank free once more, but lips press against my ear in the same moment, and my body freezes in response.
“Do what he says, Trouble... or we might have to serve you some.”
My toes curl in my heels, and I tell myself it’s in uncertainty.
This is kind of fucked up, isn’t it?
They’re strangers and talk about coming on strong.
Not that I’m not used to it, with privilege comes, well, a warped idea that you can do as you please... but I’m not getting an ‘above all’ attitude from this group. More anarchist than anything.
But they’re not murderers, right?
Even my mother would agree there’s nothing wrong with hanging out with new people, granted they’d likely make the ‘do not engage’ list. And I have complained enough about days blending together. The fact is, now that school is in session, it’s guaranteed to get worse until it’s over, and the end begins.
What’s a few hours with them going to hurt? Nobody learns anything during the first week of school anyway, and I’ve already submitted my summer essays for all my AP courses. I know what the reading schedule is.
Let’s not forget the supposed picture. So really, this is not me agreeing.
This is me doing as my mother instructed and avoiding scandal by practicing her favorite motto.
By any means necessary.
As if sensing my crumbling resolve, that, let’s be honest, isn’t all that strong to begin with, Ransom’s expression grows a cocky kind of confident, but he holds in his smirk well enough.
I lower my hands, latching on to Ransom’s shirt, and close my eyes, even though I’m not sure what purpose it serves.
As quick as I do, he removes his hold, and only after they’re sure I won’t peek, does the hand leave my mouth.
There’s a shift around me, a slight swoosh of rubbing fabrics, and then I’m lifted off the ground, cradled like a bride and bouncing around with forward steps.
I can’t say whose arms I’m in, but I’m not sure it matters at the moment, so I simply hold on without thinking about it.
The sun warms my skin minutes later, letting me know we’ve stepped into the parking lot.
It’s not until my ass is gently placed on cooled leather that I grow antsy, but before I decide to do as I want, the command is whispered around me.
“All good now, Trouble.”
My eyes pop open, instantly snapping from one to the next.
Beretta winks from the passenger seat as Arsen pulls from the curbside.
We roll from the parking lot, the four of us tucked inside the two-door sports car, and as we pull onto Main Street, the top begins to fold back.
I trail it, watching as it disappears behind a sheet of metal, and run my fingers along the edge of the matte black paint.
A low laugh leaves me.
Ransom, who sits beside me, catches it, raising a brow, but I leave him to whatever it is his mind provides.
I fish a rubber band from my bag and tie my hair back.
Here’s to hoping they’re not serial killers.
The terms of my not yet, but future engagement, are simple and sensible. Both Anthony and I are to live our lives as normal until my graduation, then we’ll link up officially.
We’re to get to know each other slowly, while still doing as we please over the course of this year, with only one rule, no making headlines.
Unlike my sister, I have no room for failure. She might have popped a bottle to the fine print of her arrangement before and after breaking the single rule, but her situation was different. She had a fall girl.
Me.
But I’m the youngest, the last.
I have no room to fall.
When my parents talked to me about taking her place, I didn’t argue or push back. I knew it was a possibility the day they sat us down to tell us Monti had become a tool of negotiations—they worded it differently, but we understood it for what it was.
My sister and I are similar in many ways, and polar opposites in others. She is a ball of feelings and vulnerability where I am not. She’s all about finding her soul mate, running from one to the next on her way, where I can’t fathom why anyone would ever wish to fall victim to emotions they can’t control.
Simply stated, the girl is a mess, and it doesn’t help that country is her music genre of choice. In my opinion, that was her downfall. I mean, can anyone honestly listen to a single country song without daydreaming or crying or having a literal mental breakdown? If they say yes, I’d call them a liar. Monti has that shit on repeat.