We’re the only two people in the back row. Gabriel leans over my desk, using his index finger to turn my schedule toward him so he can read it. A rush of his scent hits me – this sultry, sugary, smoky fragrance that makes me think of torrid winter nights dancing around a wild bonfire. Not that I’ve ever danced around a fire like a pagan, but if Gabriel asked, I wouldn’t refuse.
He studies my schedule, then studies me. His arm presses against mine. I’m coming apart under his gaze, my edges fraying, my secrets dancing on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m Gabriel. And you are?”
Gabriel fucking Fallen is touching my arm.
This is like the start of a bad teen movie. I marathoned a ton of the classics over the weekend – Mean Girls, Easy A, Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, The Craft (because you never know, witches could walk the halls of Stonehurst and I want to stay on their good side) – hoping they might somehow prepare me for my first day of high school. But nothing could prepare me for the electric jolt that fires through my veins at Gabriel’s touch.
“Mackenzie Malloy,” I manage to choke out. I fancy my voice sounds husky, mysterious. Not like I’m desperately trying to hold back bile. “Your friends seem to know me.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mackenzie, which is the way a reputation should be.” Gabriel’s smile manages to look both arrogant and mischievous. “I’m pleased I decided to come back to school this year after all.”
I nod, because that’s what you do when the singer who’s wept with pain from your speakers implies he wants to spend time with you.
“We have our first two classes together,” he continues. His British accent makes every mundane word sound musical. “I’ll walk you there – this place can seem a bit like Pan’s Labyrinth.”
“I don’t need your help.” I swipe my schedule back and shove it into my notebook. Too late, Gabriel notices the sticker on the inside of the cover. The latest Octavia’s Ruin album art. Fuck. Now he’s going to think I’m a band-junkie stalker.
“Nice taste in music.” That arrogant smile tugs at his lip again, making the piercing wiggle. “I’ve heard their lead singer is a real wanker. Though he makes up for it by being a demon in the sack.”
I turn my face away, willing the heat rushing through my veins to leave my cheeks the fuck alone. My heart hammers against my chest. It’s like the universe is determined to mess with me. It knows how important this year is to our whole fucking plan, so it throws the one guy in front of me I might’ve wanted to get to know.
All those nights when the silence of the house gets too much for me, when the walls close in, dripping with memories I don’t want to face, I turn on Octavia’s Ruin and scream the lyrics into the empty rooms, attacking the silence with power chords. Questions swirl inside my head – all the things I’m dying to ask Gabriel about the meanings behind his lyrics, about the way his voice cracks on ‘Requiem for a Rose’ as if he can barely stand the pain any longer…
But I don’t.
Every moment of homeroom is torture as I force myself to ignore Gabriel. The teacher reads announcements, and I don’t hear a word. All my brain-space is taken up with the awareness that Gabriel’s leg hovers next to mine and how fucking tempted I am to drop my knee against his and feel that heat searing between us again.
Finally, the bell rings and I snatch up my bag and shove my way to the front of the room. The homeroom teacher calls my name, but I’m already out the door.
So much for my Visigoth pride. At this rate, by the end of the day I’ll be a puddle of goo formally known as Mackenzie Malloy.
5
Mackenzie
In chemistry, we sit in groups of two along laboratory benches filled with equipment I don’t recognize or understand. I slump down beside a brunette in the middle of the room. She opens her mouth to say something but I hit her with my classic Mackenzie Malloy death glare and she leans back, folding her arms and staring straight ahead. At least my superpower still works and I have a partner who won’t distract me with sexy Britishness or a weird magnetic connection.
Gabriel saunters in last. His eyes meet mine and he stops by our table, flicking his head at the girl. Without a word, she gets up and walks to the back of the room, and Gabriel takes her empty seat.
Bastard.
“I guess we’re partners,” he says, flashing me that smile – the smile of a guy who isn’t used to hearing no. I desperately want to be the one to fling that word at him and make it stick, but he’s Gabriel fucking Fallen, and I’m only human. I settle for glaring at him, but all that does is make him stick his tongue out to wiggle that bar at me.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.” He opens his textbook and gestures to the glass tubey things in front of us. “I hope you’re good at this stuff, partner. Because I’m terrible.”
He isn’t lying. As the teacher leads us through a simple experiment, Gabriel mixes the wrong chemicals and creates a putrid stench that clears the classroom for a good ten minutes. Then, he measures out 50mls instead of 5mls of hydrochloric acid. I grab his arm before he pours that into our beaker and singes off his perfect eyebrows. I deserve a medal for public service for that one. Not least because touching his skin is like sticking my hand in an electrical socket, but in a fun way.
I’m not any better at the work. Every brush of Gabriel’s skin against mine sends my heart into freefall. By the end of the class we’re the only ones who haven’t completed the experiment, and I’m a puddle of fangirling mush on the floor.
“That would usually be an F on this module,” Mr. Dallas frowns over our station. “But I know you’re new, Mackenzie, and you might need some time to catch up. And Mr. Fallen, the faculty are aware that you’re dealing with certain personal situations. So if you come after class one day this week and try again, I’ll allow you to make up the grade.”
Gabriel leans over and squeezes my hand. “Our first date. Should I bring the Champagne, or are you more of a beers behind the bike shed kind of girl?”
I race from class with Gabriel’s laughter peeling behind me. I can’t decide if he’s amused by himself, or if he’s laughing at my expense. No one else laughs at me. Yet. I’m too new, an unknown. Plus, there’s the fact they all thought I was a ghost until I strutted in the door.
My next class is English, which I expect to be easy, but is anything but. Isn’t Shakespeare supposed to be in English? I glare at the nonsense in my textbook while Gabriel’s grey eyes dig holes in my back. A pair of girls in the front row with cheerleading jackets slung over their chairs keep turning around to look at me, then whispering to each other. As I fly out of class the moment the bell rings, I overhear a snatch of their conversation.
“…I heard she killed them and hid the bodies in the basement. Gabriel better watch out, or he’ll be next—”
My next class is Physics, which might as well be Sanskrit for all I understand. A bell rings for lunch, and I’m swept along in the crowd. My stomach growls, but I hesitate in the doorway of the dining hall, taking it all in. Waiters in coat and tails sweep from the kitchen doors, carrying platters piled high with gourmet food, which they deliver to a magnificent buffet where students line up to serve themselves. Steak in some kind of red-wine reduction. Broccolini toasted with pine nuts. Mashed potatoes sculpted into tiny wedges, an entire table bulging under the weight of cakes and desserts. My mouth waters – this sure beats the fried crap I scarf down at the diner whenever I can catch a spare minute on my shifts. I grab a tray and pile it as high as I dare. If school lunches are like this every day, I won’t need to worry about dinners. More money saved.