“So what?” he said, forcing nonchalance into his voice even though having his life history played out by a girl he’d met even an hour ago was unnerving him all the way down to his stomach. “You might also know I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of me.”
Clare grinned predatorily. “This next year could be easy for you, sweetheart. Easy as all-American pie. Or it could be hell.”
“And I’m guessing with a bit of double, double, toil and trouble, you three could pick that path for me.”
Clare gave him a sly smile. Mia looked offended. Ryder looked confused.
“All you’ve got to do is hang onto your V card,” Clare said. “Or more specifically, don’t give it to Adam Hemlock.”
“Virginity is a social construct designed to hand power over a woman’s body to the first man who fucks her,” Jared drawled. “I’m calling bullshit.”
“Then do it to prove you can.” Clare’s expression flashed with a challenge.
“You girls are fucking twisted,” Jared said, running his hands over his face. “Are you serious?” They nodded, and Jared sighed heavily. “Yeah. Whatever. I have no intention of sleeping with him anyway.”
The three girls exchanged knowing glances, then turned back to Jared with identical, predatory grins.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t like adapting to a uniform was anything new for Jared. He’d been forced to wear one at military boarding school, an ugly combination of knitted sweater and polyester pants they had to wear year-round, even in the summer.
Of course, at the New Harbor Academy things were slightly different. Pressed gray pants, the crease sharp down the front. A white shirt, navy blue blazer with the Academy’s crest on the breast pocket, and a blue and red tie, the stripes angled, not horizontal.
He threw on a white T-shirt, left the shirt unbuttoned, the tie loose around his neck, and carried the blazer with his leather satchel out to the car while trying not to get lockjaw due to the bagel shoved in his mouth.
He hoisted himself into the cab of his shiny red truck and drove at inadvisable speeds through the small town of New Harbor. Being only an hour from Seattle meant it could have turned into yet another commuter town, but it remained a pocket community with several big businesses running out of small offices.
The [six-dollar toll to get over the bridge kept the riff-raff out, too.
Private, fee-charging high schools weren’t exactly an unknown entity in Washington; there were at least four others within a few hours’ drive. This one was different, though. Founded with old money for the children of older money, and with a pious, Christian message, New Harbor Academy boasted the best grades, highest standards, and most pretentious kids in the state. It was also the only school that demanded the students wear a uniform, much to Jared’s disgust.
The Academy had a sterling academic reputation, and students benefitted from liberal attitudes in the state and the school’s emphasis on classical, conservative learning. To Jared’s surprise, most of the kids were still outside when he arrived and pulled into one of the “visitor” parking spaces. He’d move once he had a pass for the truck.
Clare was leaning against a sleek black Audi convertible, and since he knew almost no one else was around, he walked over to her.
“Morning,” Jared said easily. “Where’s the office?”
“You follow the sign that says ‘office’,” she said. Today her hair was folded into a long braid down her back, and combined with the girls’ uniform of gray skirt and long socks, she looked far too innocent for the activities Jared had seen her engaged in the night before.
“All right,” Jared drawled, and left Ms. Thing with her Celine purse to her nail examining as he sauntered off. More than one person watched him. In fact, a lot of people were watching.
At the office, Jared leaned on the counter and flashed a grin to the older woman sitting at the desk. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Jared Rawell. First day. Please don’t give me a shit locker.”
Two gray eyebrows shot up into a gray hairline. Never mind then.
“Please mind your language, Mr. Rawell. We won’t tolerate that here at New Harbor Academy.”
“I sincerely apologize.”
She sniffed and turned to the computer, tapping something a few times, then whizzed on her chair to the printer.
“Mr. Rawell,” she said again. “Your homeroom class is in 11A. That’s upstairs. There’s a map on the back of your schedule, and this is your temporary parking pass. One will be mailed to your address within the next week or so.”
“Thanks,” Jared said and turned away.
“Oh, and Mr. Rawell?”
“Yeah?”
“I strongly encourage you to dress yourself before you go to class.”
Jared snorted with laughter and folded his map, tucking it into his back pocket and buttoning his shirt as he walked back outside. The bell had rung a few minutes ago, so the parking lot was almost completely empty of students. He tucked the parking pass into the truck, grabbed his battered leather messenger bag, and strolled back to the building.
The school was old, a huge red brick building that had a lot of stone steps and an elaborate external façade. The windows were huge, too, letting plenty of light into the bright, open hallways.
It was fairly easy for Jared to find his way around; there seemed to be a logical way of numbering the classrooms, and he walked into his homeroom only a few minutes late.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m Jared Rawell.”
The female teacher looked young and blatantly checked him out. “Take a seat, Mr. Rawell. I’m Ms. Bowen.”
There were only a few left, and the first one he came to was in the front row. With a “fuck it” attitude, he sat down and shifted low in his seat,
