1
LEIGH
I disliked him the moment I saw him on that first day of school. He is everything I detest in a guy. Arrogance. Power. Influence. An ego the size of the Pacific Ocean.
Seven Shanahan is all of that and more with the cocky smirk on his face and the way he struts down the hall, flanked by his friends. He and his friends Trace and Malice are gods at Cambridge High, where ninety percent of the student body is loaded.
Well, their parents are, anyway.
Trust fund kids. Spoiled. Impressionable. Tolerant of the jerks at the top of the food chain. Seven and his friends keep everyone in line from their perch, wearing their black-and-yellow letterman jackets as a symbol of their high school royalty status.
From my vantage point behind the open door of my locker, I sneak a glance at the stars of Cambridge High’s football team, Mayhem. Seven Shanahan, quarterback. Trace Saints, wide receiver. Malice Sterling, offensive lineman.
The guys are similar in looks, with their chiseled jawlines, dark tousled hair under their backward baseball caps, and intense eyes framed by thick brows and fringed with long lashes that could give any girl lash envy. They are also equal in height, six feet, give or take a half inch.
Seven and Trace are lean but not lanky. Their clothes mold to their bodies like a second skin, showcasing their wide shoulders, muscular arms, broad chests, and washboard abs. Malice fits his lineman position. He is bulk and muscle, a human bulldozer.
The jockholes are a photographer’s cover model dream come true. It’s a shame the “model” part doesn’t extend to their behavior. Be different from them or challenge their established social hierarchy, and there’s a guarantee you’ll be public enemy number one.
I hold my textbooks to my chest and close my locker.
No matter which high school I’m sent to, the halls are chocked full of the same cliques. Jocks. Nerds. Stoners. Gang bangers. It’s so universal, it’s laughable. There are also the same kinds of guys and girls. Nice. Mean. Smart. Funny. Blessed with good looks, or not.
Seven and his teammates amble down the hall toward me. I look away but too late, my resting bitch face catches Seven’s attention.
“What you staring at, Safari?” he sneers.
Safari? Okay, I can see how he’s interpreting my outfit as such. There’s a red bandana around my neck, tied at the ends. And I’m wearing a buttoned-up, long-sleeved white shirt half-tucked into tiki brown cargo pants. Not to mention my boots are professional grade—sturdy, leather, and steel-toed.
“Nothing. I’m looking at nothing.” I blow at the nails I’ve painted a mustard yellow. The color clashes nicely with my favorite shade of lipstick—Fatal Plum.
He looks me up and down and flashes straight white teeth, his sneer doing nothing to lessen how good-looking he is in this confusing mix of menacing and holy hotness kind of way. I swear the girls loitering nearby sigh with longing.
“Did you peg me as a nobody?”
The conversation around us stops. The other students stare. My stomach knots. If we weren’t on full display, I’d run for the nearest bathroom and hurl my breakfast into the garbage bin.
But we are the center of attention, and I can’t waver. If I show an ounce of weakness, I’ll give a jerk like Seven the power to hurt me. I’m done with hurting. What I’m not done with is putting up a brave front and fighting an equal grounds fight.
“You’re a good-for-nothing nobody.” I make it clear what I think of him and his you’re-dirt-beneath-my-expensive-sneakers attitude.
Boys like Seven and his friends are a dime a dozen where I grew up until the mention of a paternity suit landed me in the rich farm town of Cambridge, Washington.
Here, away from the housing developments and the sly grins of my foster brothers, I can spread my wings, inhale the crisp, clean air, and find purpose for my existence.
Now, I just need to extract myself from the crosshairs of Seven Shanahan’s attentions. Damn it, I should have looked away quicker. We are two weeks into the school year, and from the hardened gleam in his dark-as-coal eyes, he plans on punishing me for mouthing off.
I’m right. He leans in and whispers near my ear, “Watch your back, Safari. I’ll take a chunk out of you if you’re not careful.”
I’m on the edge of clucking my tongue and sassing him, but for the sake of not calling further attention to myself, I shrug and shove past him and his friends. I expect him to punish me, but not so soon.
He sticks out his foot. I trip and fall forward, landing on my hands and knees. Books go flying. Papers fall from my notebook. Male laughter echoes off the walls. I glance over my shoulder and glare at him, refusing to wince or cry out in pain. He rolls his eyes and mimes giving a blowjob.
I grit my teeth. So be it. Seven Shanahan, this means war.
2
SEVEN
I don’t feel bad for knocking the new girl down a peg. Girls with attitude and hateful glares aren’t welcome on me and my boys’ turf. What we like is what I see waiting at the end of the hall.
A group of girls eye us expectantly. I run my gaze over their fine bodies. Their hair is in my favorite shades. Burnt caramel. Dark chocolate. Honey blonde. Platinum blonde. Fiery red. But not pitch black. Black is death.
Their skin is pale and smooth, unlike the girl from earlier with the natural tan. Blue eyes. Green eyes. Dark-brown eyes. Not clear amber like hers. The girls direct their flirty smiles our way. Predictable. So is the lust in their eyes. They want a piece of us. Our mouths on theirs. Our hands on their bodies.
Soon enough, ladies. There’s a party at my place tonight, the folks gone for the week for their millionth try at saving their marriage.
“Hi there, Seven.”
Hannah walks over and runs her manicured finger up and down my arm, sending hot need to my junk. I stop her fiery caresses and grasp her hand in mine. She has other ideas. Fully aware of all eyes on us, she takes my hand and sucks on my middle finger.
Her tongue on my finger, her wet, warm mouth . . . I groan and resist the urge to stroke my cock through my jeans. Fuck sakes, this girl is killing me softly and slowly with how well she sucks my damn finger.
“Hannah.” Jesus, I’m panting.
She lets go of my finger and, biting down on her smile, says, “Tonight. You and me.”
How can I refuse? I nod, too turned on to speak. My boys and I, we head to our class. They shove me back and forth with shit-eating grins on their faces. They understand I’ve been wanting in Hannah’s pants, but you see, she has a mean-as-fuck older brother who likes to keep a close eye on his fine-ass little sis.
But the dude’s away at college. And that, my friends, give me free rein to do whatever the hell I want with Hannah.
In math class, I sit behind the new girl. Her long black hair drapes over the back of her chair, the strands falling over her white shirt like muddied waters after a flash storm.
To show her not to mess with me, that I’m a somebody and she’s the nobody, I shove my shoe into the small of her back, leaving a muddy imprint on her shirt. It rained buckets, and the walk from the school parking lot to the front doors was fraught with puddles.
She doesn’t flinch or acknowledge that my shoe is pushing into her back so hard, I can feel her rigid spine straight to my core. I press harder. She picks up her desk and scoots forward. I scoot after her. The guys notice and snicker. The teacher turns from writing a math problem on the board and lifts a drawn on brow.