Big brown eyes—that remind me of the little brats from my old neighborhood when the ice cream truck would come around—look up at me. "From them," she says.
I'm going to kill those fuckers, I think. I pry my arm out of her grip and as soon as she realizes that I'm not about to bounce, she releases me. "Well, sorry to break it to you"—I'm really fucking not sorry at all—"but your information's wrong. I ain't shit to them and they ain't shit to me."
She bites her lip. "So, you're not with them?" she clarifies.
"I'd rather be dropped off a cliff," I say brightly.
"Oh." She wavers on her wedges, chewing silently on her lower lip. "Well, I mean, do you still want to come?"
I snort. "You're really asking me that?"
Her shoulders move up and down. "Why not? You don't have many friends, do you? And have you ever been to Urban before? It's really fun."
I don't even know what Urban is. My answer is to cross my arms and eye her speculatively. "Is it dangerous?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No, of course not."
"Then no thanks." I drop my arms and start off.
The clicking of her solid shoes hit the pavement as she follows after me. "Are you sure?" she beseeches. "There's dancing and—"
I groan but don't say anything as I make my strides longer, causing her to lag behind a bit as she struggles to catch up. That's what happens when you wear heels—anyone in Converse can outrun you.
"It's run by the Carter family, though!"
I stop dead, slowly turning back to face her and wincing when she finally catches up and ends up plowing right into me. Her backpack slips down one delicate shoulder. "Oomph, sorry," she mutters.
"Dean Carter?" I ask.
As if sensing my newfound interest, she smiles. "Yeah. The very one. If he's off from football practice and isn't throwing a party, he and the guys usually go. You can probably go clear things up with them if you want."
Yes, that sounds like a great idea. "Alright," I say, "but I'm bringing a friend."
She practically beams. "Awesome! I'll pick you guys up in front of your dorm on Friday." Corina bounces away, lifting her backpack strap over her shoulder again.
"How do you know which—"
She giggles, looking back. "You're in the Havers Dorm," she answers before I'm even through with my question. "Everyone knows that program students live there."
With that, she whips around and struts off, her legs straightening as her heels clack on the ground. Sprinting in heels is pretty impressive, even I have to admit, but most girls wouldn’t be able to, and why anyone would want to walk around like a clumsy deer is beyond me. I stand there, musing over that when her words actually hit me. Everyone knows that program students live in the Havers dorm and everyone knows that I'm a program student. Ergo, everyone on this campus knows where I live.
Fuck my life. Damn, I hope shit doesn't start stirring, or else I'm going to have to go off the deep end. And if that happens, it won't matter what threat those Sick Boys might throw my way—off the deep end Avalon is a bitch no one wants to mess with.
19
Avalon
Two days later, I get a text message from the rich girl who flagged me down. I'm not even going to ask how she got my phone number. I have my suspicions. Jake comes to mind. These people seem to get anything they want and I did tell him I was looking for a specific kind of trouble. As it stands, Eastpoint isn’t that big of a school. Plus, I bet for these kids, if they've got the money—which they do—they can get any information they want. Dean certainly did.
I get off my bed and kick the end of Rylie's as I head to my closet. "Get up," I say. "We're going out."
She rips her headphones out. "What?"
Sliding my t-shirt over my head, I grab a tank and pull it on. "We're going out," I repeat.
Her eyes narrow. "Where?" she demands immediately.
I laugh and wiggle out of my pajama shorts, reaching for a pair of skinny cut jeans with holes cut out across the knees. "Out," I state.
Rylie rolls her eyes and plugs her headphones back into her ears. "Not happening," she says.
I finish dressing and yank my long hair out of its ponytail. Hanging down my back, it's nearly to my ass. Shit, I need to get it cut soon. Without even bothering to give her a chance to fight back, I grab Rylie’s leg and yank her off the bed until her entire lower half slams into the floor.
“What the fuck?” she snaps.
"Oh look, you're up," I deadpan as she growls and struggles to get to her feet. I grab my phone and check the time. "Well, you better hurry—our ride will be here in less than twenty minutes."
“Ride?” she blurts. “Why didn’t you tell me about this if you had it planned? And who the hell is picking us up?”
“I didn’t tell you because I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t run away.” I smile. If looks could kill … Rylie would be figuring out a way to get rid of a body right about now.
For a full minute she stares at me, her hazel eyes narrowed and full of irritation. I blink slowly back at her, waiting and knowing I'll get my way. There's no way in hell I'm getting in Corina Harrison's car alone. I don't trust the chick and even if Rylie doesn't like me much, she's been far more honest than I suspect Corina has been. There's absolutely no way she didn't know my name if Dean's had his minions spreading shit.
“Where are we going?” she demands, finally caving as she slides the rest of the way off her bed and heads to her own closet.
I think back, trying to remember the name of the club Corina had told me about. “Urban.”
She freezes and looks at me. “Urban?” She repeats the word as if it leaves a sour taste in her mouth. “Are you shitting me?”
“Not at the moment.” I rake my fingers through my dark hair, trying to comb out the knots and snags as much as I can. My brush is somewhere in this room, but a quick survey doesn’t turn it up. Oh well.
Rylie turns, leaning against the frame of her closet door as she watches me through slitted eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest. “And just where did you find the kind of money to go to Urban? Drinks aren’t cheap, you know.”
“I didn’t say anything about money,” I reply. I grab the bag of extra make-up samples and old dollar store eyeliner pencils and get to work. She remains with her side against the doorframe for several minutes, watching as I finish my make-up. It’s not much, but then again, I’m only wearing it so I blend in rather than stick out. I’m on an information hunting mission tonight.
“I don’t want to go to Urban,” she states plainly.
“I don’t really care what you want,” I say. “You’re going or else.”
She bares her teeth at me. “Or else fucking what?” she bites back.
I grin, turning slowly to face her. Reaching back, I gather my hair into a fist—it’s thick, and several strands slip out as I wrangle it up towards the back of my head. “Or else I’ll tell Dean Carter you’re on lockdown.”