Heather pushes through the crowd, coming at me. “Get down or—”
I point two inches from Heather’s face. “Step back, bitch! Some fucking resident adviser you are.”
“I. Said. Get. Down. Now.”
“Eat a dick, Heather!” I hop down on the opposite side of the table, because bitch has crazy eyes, and I don’t trust people with crazy eyes. “Choke on it, and then go fuck yourself!” I throw my middle finger over my shoulder as I head toward the stairs.
“I don’t have to go fuck myself, Unstoppable; people actually want to fuck me.”
Please, like that’s the worst thing these bitches have ever said, I think as I start to climb the stairs.
Then I hear Chloe say, “Heather, shut up!”
When I walk out of the bathroom, Chloe’s pacing. “She’s such a cunt!”
I say not a thing. I, at the very least, agreed to two days of no communication, and I’m due that.
I open the closet door to find something cozy to wear, because it dropped like twenty—
“I freaking love you, Savvy! I love that you know who you are, that you don’t put up with shit, and that you know who you are!”
I throw a hoodie over my body, drop my towel, grab a pair of undies out of my drawer, and step into them as she sputters and paces behind me.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I’ll prove it. I’m gonna quit. I don’t even care if I have to go back to public school where everyone knows my business. I’ll just walk in there with a Savvy Sutton attitude and tell them all to eat a dick!”
She starts laughing as I walk over and push the comforter over my bed that wasn’t made when I left and hop up on it.
“God, it’s freeing, you know.” She walks over and plops on my bed. “I love you.” She stares at me, smiling, her eyes a bit crazy, but not like Heather crazy, which is all the damn time; but crazy like she’s momentarily thought her epiphany should somehow wash away all the bullshit. Like I’m supposed to forgive her for the year and a half of lies and start making fucking friendship bracelets or something.
Fuck her.
And then she grabs my face and says, “I love you, Savvy.”
And she kisses me.
Chapter 9
"I always wanted to be a femme fatale. Even when I was a young girl, I never really wanted to be a girl. I wanted to be a woman."
~ Diane von Furstenburg
Savvy
Exhausted, because I slept with one fucking eye open after Chloe lost her fucking mind, I sit in homeroom, trying to pretend not to hear the whispers about the newest video Patrick Steel posted on IG. I also try not to watch over one of the groups of girls in front of me, watching on repeat, yet fail. And then it starts all over again.
Patrick, smiling, winks at the camera before saying, “Tonight, the Steel men are going to do a live lasagna cook-off, and you are all going to judge which father/son duo gets bragging rights. Wait until the very end then cast your vote based on presentation, creativity, commentary, and style.” He all but pops the collar of his shirt before introducing all the men in the Steel family; all big, all inked, all look like alpha assholes, except a slight change in the stereotype—they’re in the kitchen, and they’re cooking … with their sons.
I have to say, at the very least, they’re amusing and seem to be very close, which I surmised by the experiences at The Bean with all but three of them.
They don’t even act like they’re doing this in front of probably a million followers; they’re all extremely relaxed. You can hear the females in the background, poking fun at them, and see the way they look at them with fondness.
Whoever’s taping is also male, and his commentary is a bit amusing, too.
One of the females gasps, “Oh my God.”
Another woman laughs. “I’ve gotten used to it over the years. And I can’t say it bothers me that your dad gets hotter as he ages.”
One of the men looks at her and winks. “Back at ya, baby.”
The commentator chuckles. “Someone wants to know who the, and I quote, ‘blond twink with Big Daddy’ is.”
“Twink?” one of the guys, who was high at The Bean that first night, huffs, pulling his shirt up and flashing his abs at the camera. “Baby, don’t kid yourself.”
“Max!” a woman yells, but you can tell she’s trying not to laugh.
“Well, I guess that did it. Team Big Daddy and Hot”—the commentator chuckles—“Blond just got all sorts of love.”
Someone clears their throat, and the recording swings toward him.
Patrick.
“Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?” He reaches behind himself and pulls his tee-shirt completely off.
Of course he has a beautiful body, too.
When a chair screeches beside me, everyone looks back and gasps. Then I watch as all the devices turn off, including the teacher’s.
A bag drops to the floor, and then a smooth, whispered, raspy voice says, or sings, “Almost makes you wanna change teams, huh?”
“Pig,” I whisper back, and he laughs as he sits right next to me.
The chair on the other side of my normally empty row, in the back, away from all the testosterone, bitches, and backbiters, is pulled out, and I look over.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Savannah,” JT Steel says as he sits down.
I roll my eyes. He does the same thing in return. Then he leans forward, like right in front of me, and whispers to Patrick, “This is bullshit. She shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m right fucking here.” I push on
