“Aubrey.”
She nods. “They were mad at me for hitting you, but they seemed kind of pissed off at you, too.”
I have no fucking idea where this is going. “Sounds about right.”
She crosses her arm, eyes fixed on the toes of her scuffed boots. “They really care about you. Even when you’re being a complete bastard, they still want to protect you. I don’t really get it.”
“Neither do I,” I say honestly.
“I think maybe…” She makes a face, like whatever’s about to come out of her mouth has a sour taste. “I think you must have some kind of redeeming qualities, to get so many good people on your side like that. God knows what they are.”
I’ll be damned. That almost sounded like a compliment.
“Well,” I reason, “I am very pretty.”
“That’s the thing.” She gives me a baffled look. “I don’t think any of them even want to fuck you.”
Sighing, I say, “I know. The curse of platonic female friendships. They won’t even show me their tits. Kind of makes you wonder what the point is.”
Sugar must sense that I don’t mean it, because she gives me an exasperated look. “They seem to think you’re someone worth standing up for. Maybe you could show me a little of why that is sometime.”
I blink in surprise. “Provided you’d actually let me? I really could.”
She stares at me, jaw working around her response. “To be clear, this is me letting you off the hook for hitting me—not all the other shit.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So what is this, like a ceasefire?”
Her eyes narrow threateningly. “Only because you have some very convincing friends.”
“Noted.” Look at that. Team Bass finally coming in clutch. I’m going to have to buy my girls something shiny. I offer her my hand. “Truce?”
But she just stares at it, inching back half a step. “Sure.”
Jesus Christ, this ‘sure’ shit again. “Sugar,” I start, leveling her with a look. “Basic rules of engagement here. Shake on a truce.”
Her gaze flits back and forth between my eyes and my hand, shoulders rising tightly. She’s suddenly radiating tension, and even though it’s cold in here, I can still see a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.
She lets out a gusty, frustrated exhale. “I can’t.”
I drop my hand. “You can’t.”
“Yeah, I fucking can’t, okay?” She says it all belligerently, looking like she’s waiting for me fight her on this.
I don’t.
Instead, I reach for her, ignoring her flinch, and carefully pluck that pair of dog tags from her chest. I close them in a fist and give it two pointed shakes.
They fall noisily against her when I let them go. “Good?”
She looks down at them for a long moment, then at me, face blank. Her responding, “Good,” sounds rough and wrung out, but she exits the shop without brandishing her knife even once.
Progress.
Never let it be said that Sebastian Wilcox doesn’t take any opportunity by the balls.
The following Wednesday, I park myself in the lobby of the arts building and wait. I lean against the wall adjacent to the ‘Creative Corner’—painfully lame—and twirl a flower between my forefinger and thumb. Just a few minutes earlier, I’d gently rescued a few of the better-looking white jasmines from the Martha Preston community garden.
I’ve never been one for any of Preston’s creative programs myself, but I know our school has a good department. Well-staffed and well-funded, especially since the Bates family donated more than enough for the new creative arts building. Maybe Hamilton can come out as gay and get us a new lacrosse field.
I know basically nothing about the photography club, except that Sugar is apparently a member. Personally, I never saw the draw. Anyone can point their phone at something and snap a picture. Who needs a club for that? Then again, I am here, putting my precious balls on the line, once again. That has to say some serious shit about artistic merit.
When they start spilling out of the room, I see the Adams twins first. Micha and Michaela notice me at the same time—perfectly in sync—and both start fumbling their folders.
“Uh, hey, Bass!” Michaela gives me a dreamy smile and her brother’s not much better.
“Michaela.” I smile back, deciding—fuck it—and extend a flower to each of them. “Micha.”
They look like they’re about to faint.
God, freshmen are so easy.
“Great. The fuck are you doing here?” Sugar’s standing behind them, eyeing me resentfully.
I level the same smile at her I’d given the twins. She doesn’t even twitch. “Wooing the shit out of you,” I answer, giving her the rest of the flowers.
She looks at them, and then at me, and then tosses them aside.
I press a hand to my chest. “Ouch.”
She’s already marching away. “Go away, Sebastian.”
I block the door. “I’m not done wooing you yet. There were going to be chocolates and candles and possibly even a shiny new knife to threaten my manhood with.”
She glares at me, that vein in her temple already starting to bulge. “What the hell, Wilcox? I thought we had a truce.”
“We do,” I say, frowning. “You said I should show you sometime. In the real world, giving someone flowers is widely regarded as a nice gesture. I didn’t do it to give you a hard time.”
She raises a hostile eyebrow. “And you didn’t bring me flowers to woo me, either.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, you’re right. I wanted to ask a favor.”
“A favor?!” She gapes at me for a long moment before laughing harshly. “Oh, you’re really something else.”
“Not a favor,” I hastily backtrack. “More of like a… business transaction.”
She folds her arms, already looking sick of me. “A business transaction. Is this a sex thing?”
“Only if you want it to be.” At her total lack of amusement, I point to the photo hanging in the corner. “I want that picture of Abby.” I’d asked Mr. Lee, but he said it wasn’t up to him. Students owned their own photos. I rush to clarify, “Not for free. I’m happy to pay. What would it be, like a hundred? Two hundred?”
She just stares at me blankly.
“Three?”
Nothing.
“Four?”
Still, nada.
I sigh, pulling my wallet from my pocket and peeking inside the billfold. “Well, if it’s anything over six, I’ll need to come back.”
“Six hundred dollars,” she says, voice flat, “for a picture of a cat.”
I scratch the back of my neck, wincing. “Is that, like… too little? I don’t know, I’ve never bought a photo before. Just tell me a price, I guarantee you I can pay it.” My mom’s always asking for photos of the cats, and sometimes I’ll send a snapshot here and there, but this? Fuck, that picture is amazing. It’d be the perfect gift.
She smiles, but it’s not happy. It’s all sharp edges and bitterness. “So this is your angle now, huh? You’re just going to buy me off.”