Thompson said he was going to show Harlow his lake house—a.k.a. his fuck pad—before humping the air like some ravenous dog and moaning his own name.
Bassett forgot his place and announced his plan to bend her over the hood of his convertible until she, quote, “creamed.”
Gallagher found his missing balls and told the entire team, “I guess we should show Beckett how it’s done and pound that pussy into next week.”
He got a laugh, but less than two seconds later, I made sure he fucking paid for it. Thompson and Bassett too, they all paid, even as Everett tried to tear me away. But then Coach made us all pay, and now I’m walking like a gimp because of it.
I shove my books inside my locker and turn to head to the cafeteria, stopping when I spot her. She is across the hall, inside a classroom.
Damn, she looks good enough to eat. At the sight of her, I remember the taste of her sweetness—honey and a pinch of salt—and the scent of her—fresh-cut granny smiths.
My own personal apple pie. My cock rises to the occasion.
Down, boy.
She doesn’t see me, and I watch as she waves to Victor “Vic” Rothschild as he walks to the door. The prick smiles his best heart-stopping grin, the light reflecting off his shiny canines. I want to punch the bastard. I want to make him bleed.
The mother-fucker is so fake, the Department of Justice should arrest him for counterfeiting.
He may be a pretty ray of blonde sunshine on the outside, but inside, he’s a hunk of rancid meat. Everyone knows he beat the shit out of Chloe Ellwish in eighth grade for refusing to suck his dick. She abruptly transferred out of state, and he went on living life like nothing ever happened.
My fists clench at my sides as the beast inside me roars, tugging on its chains, but we have a game on Friday, and Coach will bench me if I slam my fist into our linebacker’s pretty face.
All thoughts of my dumbass defensive line flee my head like a junkie scrambling from a crime scene. Rage fills me to the brim and spills over, hissing as it hits hot coils, when I see her smile back at him. She buys Vic’s bullshit.
I stalk forward, seeing only her. Kids dart away out of my way, but I barely notice their blips on my radar. My gaze never wavers.
Vic continues on his way out of the classroom, picking up speed when he sees me headed straight for him. Stormy still has no idea of the train wreck headed her way. She’s busy doing something with her books. It looks like she’s arranging them in alphabetical order, putting them in piles and then grabbing piles and putting those piles on top of other piles.
What the fuck?
I step inside the room and reach behind me to shut the door. My fingers flick over the cold metal of the lock as it latches in place. I don’t lock it because I fear getting a demerit if we are caught. I do it solely to avoid the interruption.
I am not feeling charitable, and I definitely don’t share. This isn’t a fucking community food bank.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Stormy,” I say, the words coming out deep and dark and growled.
She jumps, shrieks, and sends a pile of books toppling off the desk to the floor, in that order.
“What the hell?” She isn’t looking at me. The question isn’t even directed at me. She’s picking up her stupid books.
My bad mood sours further. As much as I like her kneeling in front of me, I am annoyed.
I am losing patience.
I can’t play this game much longer.
Hot, up close, and personal one minute as she kisses me like she wants me to tear off her skirt and fuck her hard. Cold and distant the next, like we are nothing more than passing strangers.
I need it to end.
My sanity needs it to end.
I. Need. Her.
“Dammit,” she murmurs as she stands, the stupid pile of books in her hands.
Why. The. Fuck. Won’t. She. Look. At. Me.
My patience is hanging on by a miracle and a thread. My eye twitches, a tic normally reserved for my father when he decides it’s necessary to scream at me, an all too frequent occurrence that always occurs in private.
Harlow brushes that captivating black lock of hair behind her ear and resumes examining her books.
“I don’t have time for this, Beckett.” She glances at her watch before frowning at her books. “I have Calculus in five minutes.”
I stalk toward her until the leather toes of my Testoni loafers brush against her regulation-approved black flats. Then she finally looks at me.
Fuck me.
I want to lose myself in her blue eyes. I want to drown in their arctic depths and then float lifeless, carried away by the tide.
The pulse point at the base of her neck jumps wildly as warmth blossoms on her cheeks.
“Hmm?” I question. I’m not really paying attention. When did I start playing with her hair? “Back to last names then? I am truly touched.”
“Don’t pretend to be offended,” she scoffs with a massive eye roll. “You don’t even call me by my real name.”
I laugh wryly, but inside I wonder how long until this game we are playing isn’t fun anymore? How long until one of us breaks?
“I keep thinking about you,” I say. Her hair feels like silk as it falls through my fingertips. I could stand here all day, just letting it cascade across my hand. “You’re like a virus, always worming your way into my brain.”
She stares at me, and that makes me second-guess everything. Maybe it is just a game to her and nothing more. Maybe I’m the only one in too deep.
I watch as her neurons spark. She’s exuding enough brain power to restart the Chernobyl nuclear reactor.
But no, it
