Except, she's so fucking beautiful. I want to taste her. Feel her all over. Lick her from head to toe.
The thought ripples down through my chest, sparking a heat in my gut that burns hot and heavy. It surprises me for a moment, making me wonder if I'm losing my damn mind.
How could I ever think like that about someone I despise? A girl who deserves to feel the same pain I live with every single day. A girl who won't see me coming, because she's pretending to be so fucking innocent.
Fuck, that innocence, her purity is like a target for me. I can make her scream my name, make her beg for me to keep going until she jumps off the edge. I can make her buckle at the knees, aching for me to just finish her off.
No. Not a chance. Forget her. I won't let myself think about her as anything other than a sore on my ass. She's not worth a fucking second of my time. In person or in thought.
Dropping into my seat, I relax back, biting the metal edge of my pencil. I can't let her in my head like this. She's the enemy, period.
Glancing up at the clock, it's almost eight, and I groan to myself as I realize the day hasn't even begun. I'm not the best at school, I don't really give a shit about history or math, but I know being here is the only way I can do what I love. Basketball is the only reason I'm even sitting in this seat.
Yeah, that's if I'm lucky enough to still be considered for a scholarship.
I have to do everything the judge ordered me to do to even come close to still having a chance. I can't fuck up at all, not if I really want this.
Letting out a deep breath, I rest my elbows on the desk, twisting the tip of the pencil into the smooth wood grain. My eyes are down, the other kids around me are chatting and laughing.
I catch small bits of conversations. Where they went over the summer, what they did, who they were with. It's all bullshit—stupid, no one gives a fuck—bullshit.
I mean, who really give a rat's ass if someone spent the summer on the Cape or went shopping on the strip? No one. None of that shit makes a difference.
Maybe I'm just a little too jealous, wishing my life was normal. But it's not. Not all of us are that lucky. And honestly, I don't want to hear shit about what they did, what trinkets they bought, or how many new pairs of shoes they got.
Twisting in my seat, I grip the back of my chair in one hand, and stare at Chelsea Chandler. Even just looking at her makes me cringe. Her hair is dyed blond, her expensive shoes cry spoiled, and her sassy, pouty lips say, 'I'm better than you.'
She notices me looking at her and gives me a snotty smile. “Something wrong, Ramon?”
Smugly, I grin, tapping my fingers against the top of the chair. “No, please, go on. We're all waiting to learn how difficult it was for you to pull that floss from your ass on the beach.”
Her jaw crooks as she glances at Michelle Fayette, another cheerleader asshole, and rolls her eyes. Her eyes drift back to me, mouth dropping into a frown. “Fuck you, Ramon.”
“No, thank you though. I only fuck real women, not plastic whores.”
The guys around us all let out a loud howl as they laugh and grin.
“Screw you, nothing about me is plastic.”
Looking her up and down, I suck in a gulp of air through thin lips. “I don't know, I'm pretty sure I smell Daddy's money in those overstuffed lips.”
“You're such an asshole.”
Smiling, I wink. “That's the nicest thing you ever said to me.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes again, her mouth parting as she's about to tell me off. She doesn't get far, her words are quickly muted as the teacher walks in the room, silencing everyone instantly.
“All right class, settle down.” Mrs. Gemstone sets her briefcase on the floor and claps her hands together. “I hope everyone had a good summer, but now it's time to get back to learning. Who's ready?” She holds out her hands, eyes bouncing around the class.
No one but her is excited. Everyone groans all at once, closing eyes, and slouching deeper into their seats.
Mrs. Gemstone smiles and lowers her eyes. “Oh come on, it isn't that bad. It's your last year, you should all be over the moon about that.”
Her gray hair is curled up at the ends as her Hawaiian flower dress moves easily around her legs. She teaches French, and every so often she yells something out I don't understand.
“Quelqu'un?” she asks, looking for someone to agree with her. “Anyone?” she repeats in English and asks again. But no one answers. “Bien, bien, all right, I have my answer.” Taking out a clipboard, she starts going through the attendance. Mrs. Gemstone is checking off names as kids raise hands and say they're present.
“Benjamin Summons?”
“Here.”
Her eyes look up for a second, then back to her list. “Cassandra Thompson?”
“Here.”
The door springs open, causing a big gust of wind to blow a small stack of papers off the teacher's desk. Mrs. Gemstone lets out a small gasp as she whips her eyes to the door.
“Sorry, I'm so sorry I'm late, I got lost.”
My ears perk, and I lift my head to see Prairie standing in the doorway, her hands folded across her waist. Wearing a pair of tight jeans and combat boots, her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her baby doll t-shirt dips low, showing a peek of cleavage.
Dropping her eyes to the floor, she looks up at the ceiling, then over at the teacher. “I'm really sorry, I won't be late again.”
The entire room stares at her. She put herself on display, like a fucking statue in the center of the fountain. She looks so vulnerable as she stands there with wide eyes, a nameless fawn in a room full of wolves.
This girl is going to get eaten alive.
And I can't seem to fucking escape her.
I can't escape her in my dreams. I can't escape her in my memories. And now she's here.
Why the fuck does it feel like she's following me? Is the world out to screw me over? Is this some type of sick joke from the big man upstairs?
Mrs. Gemstone presses the tips of her fingers into her desk and smiles. “Come on in.” Standing up straight, she takes her by the shoulders and moves her further into the room. “You must be Prairie Westmin. Prairie, why don't you take that open seat over there while I finish attendance.”
Prairie nods and smiles, taking a few steps toward the desk the teacher pointed at. Lifting her face to look around the room, her eyes meet mine and she pauses mid step. I see her inhale sharply, surprised just the same as I am to have her walk into my homeroom.
Her tits rise and fall, cleavage pillowing over the top of her shirt as she holds her breath. I won't break eye contact first. I refuse to. I want her to see me. To feel me. To know I'm a presence, and not just a face she pointed out to the cops.
She's in my world now. If I can't escape her, she can't escape me.
I'm going to make her life a living nightmare.
Her eyes flicker back and forth over my face until she finally drops them to the floor and takes her seat. Nervously, Prairie tucks loose strands of hair behind her ears, and clears her throat as she folds her hands on the desk and sits up straight.
Her back is stiff as a board as she shifts in her chair, uncomfortably aware that I'm so close. I know she wants to look back at me, I can see her eyes as they move, trying to catch a glimpse of me in her peripheral vision. Except, she's afraid to actually look.