There’s so much I don’t understand.
But there’s also one thing I do.
Lincoln and I? We fit.
Our beginning was fucked up, and I don’t even know where the hell this might lead, but this thing between us, the connection that blazes like an inferno—it’s real. It’s powerful.
And it’s not going anywhere.
He stays with me all night, his arms wrapped around me like he might protect me even in sleep, and only when the first gray light of early morning brightens the room does he let me go.
He kisses my sleepy lips, pulls the blankets over me, and slips out the door.
25
I sleep for another hour after Lincoln leaves and then doze for another thirty minutes after that, enjoying the spicy smell of him that lingers on my pillow and the pleasant soreness between my legs.
But finally, I can’t hit snooze any longer, so I haul myself out of bed and shower.
I head downstairs to meet him at 7:25, and the grin he shoots up at me as he sees me coming down the steps just about melts my fucking panties off. I have a feeling we might’ve just opened a floodgate, and I’m very, very okay with that. The idea of sneaking off to his car during lunch or ditching class entirely and going off campus to tear each other’s clothes off makes me bite my lip, and his cocky as fuck smile tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
He rests his hand on my lower back as we head out to his car, the gesture both protective and proprietary, and his touch sends little thrills through me. We haven’t talked about what this means, what we’re actually doing, but I don’t really care. I don’t need a label for it right now.
On the drive to school, reality starts to sink back in though, and I hope like fuck Savannah took the guys’ warning to heart and will back the hell off of me. I’m not quite sure what we’ll do if she doesn’t. An all-out war with the cheer squad and football team, on top of all the other shit that’s going on, doesn’t seem like a smart idea. But I know Lincoln and the others won’t back down. They didn’t become the kings of Linwood Academy for nothing.
When I see the red-headed cheerleader in the hall later that day, her nostrils flare and she glares at me as I pass by. She whispers something to one of her cheer squad minions, a girl named Becca, but doesn’t say anything to me.
Fine. It’s not exactly a ceasefire, but I’ll take it.
I don’t know why she’s so fixated on me. Yeah, she saw Trent hitting on me once, but she and Iris literally fought over which one of them would get to claim the blond football star all the time, and Savannah never hated Iris with the passion she has for me.
Or maybe she did.
I know it’s stupid, and the guys already said they don’t believe it, but I can’t quite let go of the idea that Savannah could’ve been involved in Iris’s murder somehow. It sounds ludicrous when I say it out loud, but I have to remind myself I’m not used to this world. The stakes are higher in just about every way here, and how people do in school—socially as much as academically—can actually have a lasting impact on their life.
Practically everyone walking these halls is a future CEO, politician, or mogul of some kind. And as much as the scrabble to stay on top might seem petty to me, it probably seems like life or death to some of them.
Is it that big of a stretch to think the “life or death” part could’ve become literal?
There’s absolutely no evidence to back up my suspicions of Savannah though, so I try to put them out of mind and keep a neutral view of her.
In her defense, she’s one of the few people in school who still talks about Iris all the time. Thanksgiving break is coming up soon, and everyone is getting antsy for the semester to be over. For a lot of kids, the gossipy thrill of Iris’s death is fading. Those who didn’t know her well have pretty much moved on, distracted by other high school gossip and drama.
The good news is, River’s dad seems to think the cops are finally making moves on investigating Iris’s death more seriously, approaching it as a possible premeditated action rather than just accidental manslaughter.
Twice over the next few days, the guys have to talk me out of taking what we know to the police. If the cops are seriously investigating, the information we have could be a game changer for them. But, as River points out in a low, serious voice, an actual investigation will only make whoever did it more agitated and liable to strike out. Now is a dangerous time to report anything.
I still hate keeping quiet, but every time I think about that man attacking me in the parking lot—about his thick arm sliding under my chin, pressing against my throat, cutting off my air supply—a wave of fear washes over me and makes my skin prickle with cold sweat.
So we don’t say anything, and River keeps a close watch on his dad, trying to glean what information he can from him. I’ve noticed that when he talks about his parents, his dad especially, there’s a stiffness and a distance in his voice. I only met Mr. Bettencourt once, but I get the feeling their relationship is pretty strained. It makes me appreciate even more what River’s doing to try to keep me—to keep all of us—safe.
This fucking waiting game is driving
