Of-fucking-course I want it.
But, “Even if I was into dating someone right now,” I grind out, “it sure as hell wouldn’t be you.”
His eyebrow arches. “I don’t think what’s going on here is about dating. Which is good, because I don’t date anyway.”
I’m afraid to know what he does do with girls, because I don’t need it. The kiss will probably fuel my libido for the next six months. The way I’m reacting to whatever he’s putting off right now might not really be about him, specifically, but my body doesn’t actually give a damn.
I swallow back that desire—that fiery, tempting want—and tell him what he needs to hear. What I need to hear. “There’s nothing going on here, and there never will be, so whatever game you’re playing, you can count me out.”
I duck beneath his arm and push past him, bolting back into the hallway. I know that leaving Sebastian Wilcox and all his trouble behind is easier said than done, but one thing is clear. That look on his face as I left the maintenance room—eyebrows scrunched low, frown sharp—was disappointment. I doubt he has much experience with it. But me?
That sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought of never having a kiss like that again is more than familiar.
“Hail to the Devil!”
“Hail to the Devils!”
The crowd chants around me, arms raised while the cheer squad shakes their gold and black pom-poms. Someone dressed in a Devil’s mascot outfit strides up and down the floor, thrusting his pitchfork into the air with each chant. Sweaty basketball players run up and down the court, their sneakers squeaking on the court. The only ‘school spirit’ back home in the Briar Cliffs is the fifth of vodka kids used to sneak behind the Applied Math trailer. Unless you had a family member playing or were dating someone on the team, people didn’t show up to cheer.
That’s not the case at Preston. Devil pride runs deep here.
I try my best not to get twitchy in the crowd. That’s really when this wild, anxious thing trapped in my chest is at its worst. To be truly aware here would take more energy than I have. I can’t keep attuned to all the arms, all the hands, all the bodies.
I have no control.
It’s not like it’s any better when I’m by myself. Doug has always preferred to corner me when we’re alone. At twelve, when my mom worked the late shift. At thirteen, when the busses stopped running to our street and I had to sit trapped in a car with him every day before school. At fourteen, when my grandma died and my mom had to go away for a few days to tie up her nursing home affairs. My moments alone with Doug are the source of my worst nightmares. His punishments always hurt, but that’s when the big stuff happened; broken bones, rabid beltings, burns that stung for days after. It used to be hard to believe he ever really held back when my mom was around, but the scars are a constant reminder.
No. Life with my step-dad conditioned me to fear the small, quiet moments.
A single night around Sebastian Wilcox conditioned me to fear the busy, loud ones.
Vandy leans over Georgia to say, “Reyn’s having some people come over tonight after the game. You guys want to come?”
Georgia’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is his dad going to be there?”
“Um,” Vandy says, her forehead creasing, “I think so. He’s been around a lot more since,” her eyes dart at mine, “everything in the fall. But he’s pretty laid back, you know?”
Georgia nods excitedly. “Count me in!” She looks at me and asks, “Want to go?”
I give her a weird look, because I’m beginning to realize Preston kids have this thing where they just invite me to other people’s parties. Back home, that shit would never fly. Aside from various happenings at the docks, if you showed up uninvited to someone’s party, you’d probably get your ass kicked.
A slew of excuses gather on the tip of my tongue, but Vandy jumps in and says, “His new place is awesome. There’s a heated pool, a hot tub, and a game room downstairs. Come with us? Please?” She clasps her hand together beneath her chin, her big blue eyes beseeching.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one says no to Vandy Hall. At first, she just seemed spoiled, but being under the weight of that adorable pout makes me realize why. Telling her no would be like swatting a puppy with a rolled-up newspaper. I sigh. “Yeah, sure.”
Georgia lurches upright, startling me. “Let’s go get our swimsuits and I’ll drive us over.”
“Oh, wait,” I say, but she’s already jumped up and is headed down the stands. I race to catch up with her, squeezing past the group of guys who sit at our lunch table. I suppose they’ll be at the party, too. Emory, Reyn, Ben, Carlton, and Tyson seem to go everywhere together. I’m at the end of the row when a pair of long legs blocks my way.
Oh, right.
And this jerkoff, too.
Sebastian’s sprawled back on the bleacher, taking up too much space for one person. He gazes up at me with a cocky grin that makes me want to plant my boot in his face.
“Move,” I demand through gritted teeth.
“Say please,” he demands, “and I’ll let you pass.”
“Sebastian, I swear to god. Get out of my fucking way.”
“Why should I?” His eyes sweep down my body. “I kind of like the view.”
“Dude,” Emory says, shoving him in the arm. “You may like the view but she’s blocking the court. Let her go.”
Emory’s not really coming to my aid or anything here, but I appreciate it anyway. “See? You’re bothering everyone. Not just me.”
He pushes himself to his feet, close enough that our bodies are nearly flush. He leans down and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get that ‘please’ out of you eventually.”
I fight down a shudder at the feel of his breath washing over my ear and shove my hands into his shoulders—hard. He stumbles, and then falls, landing clumsily into the group of guys surrounding him.
“What the fuck, Wilcox!” Ben shouts, jostling him away. The other guys gripe at him too, and I take the distraction as an opportunity to get away, rushing down the steps to meet up with Georgia.
“Were you saying something before we got separated?” she asks, walking out into the lobby.
“Oh, right,” I stammer, still flustered by the altercation with Sebastian. That guy just won’t give up. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”
She grins. “Don’t worry, Sugar, I’ve got you covered.”
As it turns out, Georgia doesn’t.
Have me covered, that is.
Oh, she has bathing suits—bikinis exclusively—and none of them provide much coverage at all.
“I don’t know about this,” I say, looking at myself in the mirror. We’re in the small changing room off the pool at Reyn’s house. “I’m the biggest river rat you’ll ever meet, and this is more skin than I’ve shown in my entire life.” Even when the girls at the cliffs went swimming, we mostly just did it in our underwear.
“It’s hot,” Georgia says, tying the string of her bikini at the hip. “You look incredible.”