“That’s no longer your room.” I turn back around to her cold stare. “Hunter is staying there now. I moved most of your things into storage. But the big stuff is in the guest bedroom.”
Fire starts to brew behind my eyes. “And why couldn’t he stay in the guest bedroom?” I’m not even sure why I ask. The answer is obvious. She never planned on me coming back. “You know what, don’t answer that. I won’t be in your hair for long. As soon as Dad gets back, I’m gone.” I scale up the stairs two at a time. When I pass my old bedroom, the faint sound of music seeps through the door. I walk one more door down, throw my suitcase on the guest bedroom floor, and dive face-first into bed, wishing for this nightmare to be over.
Chapter 2
Catalina
“Get the hell out of my house. You’re nothing but a whore. Don’t you come back here. Don’t you ever come back here!”
My feet feel as if they weigh a million pounds as I trek down the steps of the bus and stop to stare up at Montgomery High. My old high school. Until one night I took things with him too far. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.
That was two years ago.
And now, I’m back.
Kids rush past me, entering the school. Some stop and stare as if I’m some sort of ghost who’s been resurrected. Do they know what I did? Do they know why I was sent away? I tuck my head down and snuggle into the fur of my winter scarf. Whether they know means nothing. It doesn’t change what happened. Or why my mom hates me…why I should probably hate myself.
Bodies are scattered through the hallways, your typical cliques huddled in groups near their lockers. There was a time when I was just like them, gossiping in my friend circle, loving the high school drama, skipping class, and drinking off-campus during school hours. To say I was a rebelling teenager would be an understatement. Being bad made me stand out. It made me be seen.
A few take notice of me as I walk past. Some faces look familiar, but I don’t bother to stop. Pulling my schedule out of my back pocket, I peer down at it and groan. Physics first period? I can barely function until third period. There’s no way. I turn back to head to the counselor’s office for a schedule change and smack straight into a hard chest.
“What the hell?” I snip, trying to catch my balance.
“I could say the same. You should watch where you’re going.”
I push my hair out of my face. My eyes crinkle, and I prepare for my first fight back. Wild dark hair, leather jacket, tattoos… Heat floods my belly as intoxicating eyes, the color of the sea, bore into mine. I’m instantly drunk off his gaze. I bite my bottom lip, preparing to respond, but he beats me to it.
“Not only are you clumsy, you have a fucking staring problem.”
I blink.
Shit. What am I doing? Clearly making an error in judgment. Attractive or not, I do not do assholes. Breaking eye contact, I grab my schedule from where I dropped it, and he snatches it out of my hand.
“Give me that back.”
He glances it over, humming as he says my name. “Catalina Mitchell.”
“Wow, you can read. Congrats. Give it back.” I launch forward to rip it from his grasp, but he pulls away.
“I can do more than read, Stray.”
“What did you just call me?”
He takes a step toward me, forcing me to take one back. “You heard me. You’re the stray girl being stowed for the semester. No real home.” What a fucking asshole. “Better be a good girl and stay out of everyone’s way. Hate for you to be seen and sent back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”
He flings the paper back and turns on his heel to walk into the classroom we’re in front of.
The physics room.
How convenient.
Saying first period sucks is an understatement. Of course, the only open seat is right in front of the asshole. My back has been on fire since I sat down. How could I have felt any kind of spark with this guy? Because he’s hot and mysterious. And an asshole. Taking a deep breath, I search for a distraction.
Mr. Gibson, our physics teacher.
Fit, well-dressed, dark hair, well put-together.
His voice trails through the room, deep and luring. I watch his lips move, becoming annoyed when the lips of the jerk behind me continue to invade my mind. So inviting. Tempting. What is wrong with me? I didn’t sleep a wink last night. That has to be it. It’s the only way to explain my attraction to someone so vile. His crude mouth. His plump lips. His shadowy gaze. Shit. He’s exactly the kind of guy I fall for. I clench my eyes shut, refusing to be roped in by this urge. A desperate attempt for attention. It’s the only way to explain why someone like him has such an immediate effect on me. He may be alluring and attractive, but he’s not what I need. What I need is to focus on getting out of this damn place unscathed.
I inhale slowly and release, opening my eyes. My breath hitches when I realize Mr. Gibson has stalled in his lecture, his eyes dilated and locked on mine. Three heartbeats pass, and he blinks, pulling his gaze from mine to gather himself and continue with class.
What was that?
The way he caught my attention and held it. As if there was no one else in the room. I know I was looking at him. Watching. But my thoughts weren’t on him. They were—oh my God. I was staring at him while my mind ran rampant with thoughts of the asshole behind me. I cover my face with my hands and groan. First day and I’ve already made an ass out of myself. Good job, Cat.
“Get the hell out of my house. You’re nothing but a whore. Don’t you come back here. Don’t you ever come back here!”
When I pull my face free, I catch him glancing at me, but he looks away again and starts to write on the board. What if he knows my story? My shame? I shift in my chair and tuck my hands in my lap. My knees bang against my desk. My heart starts to race, and I sense a panic attack coming on. I raise my hand and ask to be excused to the bathroom.
Without really waiting for an answer, I stand and walk toward the door. Mr. Gibson notices my backpack as I pass him, and he must know I’m not coming back. His glare penetrates through me—a look I know too well. Did he mistake our stare down just minutes ago as an invitation? Does he know my story? I’m not that person anymore. I don’t ever want to be her again. I want to yell and scream that he has the wrong idea. I was stupidly lusting after the jerk behind me. My mom’s words filter through again. Maybe I am the whore my mother labeled me to be.
Rushing out, I find the closest bathroom and hide inside a stall. I take out my phone and dial my dad, but it goes straight to voicemail.
“Hey. It’s me. Listen, it’s not going to work out here. Please let me come home. I’ll behave. I’ll be an adult soon. You know I can take care of myself. Please call me back.”
I hang up and rest my head against the wall, inhaling slow, deep breaths. The way Mr. Gibson looked at me brings back memories I’ve tried hard to bury. Forbidden. Unwarranted words, touches, actions I allowed to happen.
“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with him. Are you so desperate to get attention? You disgust me. I never want to see you again.”
I can’t deny I was promiscuous from a young age. I had my fair share of sex, but there was never any emotion behind it. If I thought about it too much, sex was usually only an attempt to feel wanted. Seen. She was right. I was desperate. I was screaming on the inside for the tiniest form of affection, and when it finally came, there was nothing that was going to convince me to turn it down. And to get it, I allowed lines to be crossed. It’s funny how, in the end, the only thing I got was more solitude.