Archie is the last of us to notice, and I don’t have to look to know it’s because he’s been staring at his phone. He’s addicted to the damn thing. It’s amazing I even know what his face looks like when it’s not tinted blue by LED light.
One of these days I’m going to go berserk and crush the thing. I’ll probably break it in half and throw it at his face.
Archie, who has a way with words, says, “Holy fuck me sideways, beautiful.”
The monster that lurks inside my chest snarls and snaps its chains taut. Back the fuck away!
My fingernails bite into the ball, though I want them to bite into Archie. He’s got the face of an angel, sun-kissed blonde curls, and a year-round tan. The girl is a goner if he goes for it, but not if I get there first. He’s the only one with the balls at this school—hell, on this goddamn continent—to set his sights on what’s mine.
Well, it’s on, brother.
At the thought, my lips curl in the whisper of a smirk. I force my shoulders to relax and crack my neck as I prepare for the game. I will burn the girl’s world to ash and watch her rise from the ruins. When I’m done with her, she will have no ex-lovers—fuck, I don’t want to think about her ex-anything—no knights in shining armor she fantasizes about, no boy she wants to bring home to her mother.
There will only be me.
Time to bury the beast and broadcast the beauty.
I step toward the girl, ready to intersect her path, but she veers abruptly. I halt, Archie along with me.
My gaze flits wildly.
Where is she going?
Then I spot the cowering Thing, head hidden behind a book she isn’t even reading. Her eyes dart wildly like she’s expecting snakes to erupt out of the ground at any moment and strike her.
I watch in horror as the girl waves at the Thing. The Thing jumps as if the girl slapped her. Berkshire, the asshole he is, spots them as the girl enters the Thing’s path.
FUCK!
Berkshire smirks, and it carves the last of my grin out of my face with a dull blade. He sprints toward them both, and the girl has no idea, busy chatting with the Thing. The girl has plummeted straight down into the middle of a war, and she just chose the wrong ally.
I slam the ball into Everett’s chest and run. My heart hammers against my sternum as the heat of summer bakes onto my skin.
I run faster than I’ve ever run before—even on the gridiron at the height of the game—but no matter how fast I pump my legs, Berkshire has distance on his side.
The girl and I both are well and truly fucked.
2
Harlow
I am so relieved when I spot Molly that glee threatens to split my chest wide open. Thanks to two delayed flights turned red-eyes and one lay-over in Vermont, I arrived at Voclain Academy last night long after orientation and just in time to be escorted to my dormitory by the night guard before falling into bed for a two-hour nap. I am exhausted, and I’m hoping a friendly face will point me in the direction of my first class.
Although I grew up well enough off, I am new to this kind of money and all the nice things it can bring. When Grandma and Granddad won the lottery this past winter, I thought, Cool. Mom and Dad will get to retire, and we’ll spend more time together before I go off to college. That was before Grandma announced her decision to send me to the—and I quote—“premier collegiate preparatory school in North America, where future Presidents of the United States and Fortune 500 CEOs are groomed.”
With its monolithic stone structures and sprawling thousand-plus acres smack-dab in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, Voclain is breathtaking, but I refuse to be distracted. I can’t mess this up.
Focus, Harlow! Focus!
This morning, after Molly left our dorm room in a rush, barely even giving me her first name, I ran after her.
“Hey,” I say in greeting, but she isn’t looking at me. Her brown eyes dart every which way as she steamrolls ahead. “Would you mind pointing me to the—” I blink down at my schedule “—the Colin Firth Center for Excellence?”
I blush, my love for vintage rom-coms getting the best of me. “I mean the, uh, Colleen Mirthe Center—”
Molly grips my forearm tightly, her pink glittery nails digging into my flesh.
“Why did you follow me?” she hisses. “You should have left me alone!”
“W—what?” I manage as she tugs me ahead. “Where are we going?” I ask. A moment later when she quickens the pace, I add, “Why does it feel like we’re running? Are we running?”
Molly’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head. She is beautiful in a frail, porcelain doll sort of way that reminds me of myself more than I would like to admit. Both of us hover at a respectable five foot five inches tall. While my nose is small and button-shaped, hers is long and pointed. While my hair is a white blonde save for the singular black lock at my right temple, hers is a chestnut brown tinged with auburn. I always wanted big boobs and a nice ass like a reality TV star. Instead, I am stuck at a b cup, seemingly for life, and no matter how much I eat, I never add junk to my trunk.
Our feet slap against the field now, the expensive ballet-style slip-ons my grandmother insisted on threatening to trip me. We are full-fledged sprinting across the football field. I can’t ask anymore questions. I can’t even breathe.
Fresh cut grass wets my shoes as my lungs sear like steaks inside my chest. I am about as aerobic as a freakin’ potato.
From the
