Very Wicked Things (4 page)

We strolled past the
For Sale
sign in the front yard, and despite being nervous about leaving Sarah, I got a zap of excitement. As soon as this house sold, we’d be out of Ratcliffe and living in a decent neighborhood. Cue, angels singing.

Maybe we’d find a small apartment near my ballet company—if I got into one. That depended on my upcoming audition at the Dallas Ballet Company. Not only was it validation for eight years of hard work, but they also awarded stipends to their students, which would obviously come in handy. Of course, my dream had been to move to New York City or even Paris to dance, but I needed to stay close to Sarah.

I slung my dance bag and books in my car and backed out of the small gravel drive next to our building. When I got to the road, Sarah stood on the old, rickety porch, watching me leave like she always did, her hands on her hips. A vacant smile graced her face.

Did she know who I was…right at this moment?

A morning was coming when she
wouldn’t
sing out to me, when she
wouldn’t
remember my name. Alzheimer’s does that. Like a thief, it steals all the moments of a lifetime; it scrounges through your heart and rips out the people you love; it claws through your mind and takes your ability to think, and then it takes your words until you can’t speak. And once you have nothing left inside, it slithers away.

Because you’re dead.

I lowered my window down and called out in a sing-song voice. “
Did I mention that I love you?”

She rolled her eyes and waved me away.

A COLD RAIN drenched me in seconds as I raced from my car to the front doors of Briarcrest Academy. That’s what I got for parking my beat-up car in BFE. But it was preferable to parking next to an import or a luxury car. At least in the overflow parking, I didn’t have to worry about accidentally dinging a hundred thousand dollar car with my door. But most of all, I didn’t have to worry about running into
him.
He always parked in the closest lot, the one designated for seniors.

Prestigious and old, Briarcrest Academy was hailed as one of the most academically excellent schools in Texas. It also had an excellent dance and music department. It certainly had one of the biggest price tags, annual tuition costing around thirty-five thousand a year for non-boarders. Against a backdrop of stately oak trees and carefully maintained shrubbery, the austere grey stones ushered in the privileged to its hallowed halls. Calling me privileged was downright funny, yet here I am, finishing up my last year at BA. All because Sarah had wrangled me a scholarship, pulling strings with one of the dance teachers here.

BA reeked of money, sophistication and class. It reeked of things I didn’t have, like Hummers and Prada purses. The girls—and guys—dressed like it was Milan Fashion Week and the paparazzi were waiting right outside the school to take their pictures.

I pushed through the double doors, stopping in the tastefully decorated foyer to brush off the rain. It didn’t help. I probably looked like a drowned rat, but at least my backpack had kept my books and ballet clothes dry.

I continued down the long entry hallway to my locker, and it was a lot like walking the gauntlet. But I’d mastered the art of ignoring the eye-judging of the girls and the leers from the jerk-offs who thought I was easy. They’d recognized I wasn’t a clone of them on day one.

Fine with me. I liked being on the fringe. The less they knew about me and where I came from the better. And ballet kept me happy. I didn’t need people.

But I shouldn’t generalize because I had some friends here, namely Spider. With his stuffy English accent, you’d think we wouldn’t go together, but we’d met freshman year and had been friends ever since. He was filthy rich and I wasn’t, but we did share a love for cafeteria French fries and Minecraft. He boarded at BA, and sometimes if I was too exhausted to drive home after hours of dance or if he was scary drunk, I’d sneak into his dorm and crash or take care of him, whichever was needed.

One of the football jocks—Matt the Quarterdick I called him in my head—whistled at me as I passed.
As if.
The star quarterback at BA, he was the epitome of the handsome, frat boy type. He was also Emma Easton’s on again, off again boyfriend. Although they’d been off for a while this last time.

Whatever. I avoided him.

I’d already learned a painful lesson with a certain rich boy at BA.

When I’d first come to BA, like most girls, I’d entertained thoughts—briefly—of meeting a hot guy, kinda like a Taylor Lautner type with a warm smile and perfect abs. He’d see me breeze through the door, and he’d break his neck to rush to my side. He’d introduce me to his friends, even the female ones, who’d be just as welcoming. Maybe he’d try and smell my hair without me knowing or offer to sing to me even when he couldn’t carry a tune. He’d drive a fast car and own his own penthouse where he’d promptly invite me over for a candlelight dinner. He’d sprinkle roses out in a trail to his bedroom. Ha. Yeah, I’m no beauty and that scenario only happens in the movies.

Imitating my classmates, I lifted my nose a notch higher and increased my stride, anxious to distance myself from the crowd who hung around the front entrance.

My phone buzzed, so I stepped inside the library. Heather-Lynn rarely texted, so I immediately got curious.

She’d written
, Sarah owes money to the wrong people. Just a head’s up.

What? That made no sense.

I’d only be gone for forty-five minutes.

With rapid-fire fingers, I texted back,
What happened? Should I come home?

But that would be hard. I had a test in Calculus and then ballet.

No, I’ll explain later,
she said.
Try not to worry.
Gotta go
.
Sarah needs me.

Baffled, I put the phone back in my purse. We weren’t rich, but neither were we hand-to-mouth either. Not with Sarah’s teaching income and the settlement from the oil-rig accident when her husband had been killed.

I headed to class. Sometimes Heather-Lynn could be dramatic, so I let it go, yet made a mental plan to call her at my first break.

My locker beckoned, but I stopped in my tracks.

Please. Not today. Not with my plastered hair and wet shoes that squeaked when I walked.

He
was there
,
his big shoulders and well-toned biceps taking up most of the space and all of my air.
Yes,
brooding and sexy, Cuba Hudson was serious man-candy, the kind good girls knew to stay away from. But I hadn’t. Within the space of a few weeks last year, he’d wooed me, screwed me, and then tossed me in the trash.

My heart clenched, remembering how he’d lied to me, how he’d fooled me. Of course, I’d given in to him, and he’d broken me, shattering something fragile that could never be fixed.

Perhaps running or hiding would be good now. There was always the bathroom or the library where I could loiter for the next five minutes. But then I’d be late for class.

I stood there uncertainly. Perhaps it was time to face him head-on.

And truthfully, I wanted a reaction out of him. Anything except the whole ignoring thing he’d been doing since he dumped me.

I marched up to my locker and flung it open with a metallic bang, making him flinch.

Of course, I immediately smelled him, a woodsy, expensive scent that wafted around him, bringing back a time I didn’t want to remember. One whiff and a thousand memories assaulted me, of how he’d incinerated me. I held my breath for a few seconds until I decided that was straight-up stupid. I had to breathe because it would suck if I passed out at his feet.

Oh, wouldn’t that just be dandy.

So what if he smelled delicious? I could handle it. I knew his game now. He had a knack for being a
playa
and…

Tingles skipped up my spin, and as if it were choreographed, every hair on my body lifted in perfect unison. For the first time in a year, my peripheral vision saw his head turn and sensed his golden eyes behind those shades, running over my body, lingering uninvited.

He had actually
looked
at me. Holy moly.

I stared into the recesses of the locker, my mind reeling.

Why today?

Since senior year had started—six months ago—he’d not
once
glanced in my direction. All by his design, of course.

Like I was toxic, he gave me plenty of leeway in the classrooms, the cafeteria, and the quad. He’d see me coming from twenty yards, and he’d turn around and go the other way. If our eyes accidentally bumped into each other’s in class, his never paused, just kept right on trucking. Once when the dance troupe had performed during an assembly, I’d been on stage, putting everything I had into my performance, yet knowing exactly where he sat. Second row to the left, next to a tramp with blonde hair who couldn’t keep her hands off him. He’d stared at his program the entire ten minutes I’d danced. When the music students came out with violins and cellos for their performance, he’d raised his head and blessed them with his full-on gaze. But not me. Never me.

He hated me and I didn’t know why.

Well, maybe I did.

Even without glancing at him, I knew his visage by heart. The soft dark hair with sun-tinted highlights, wavy and overgrown enough to label him as a bad boy by BA standards, and his absurdly long lashes that rested on his sun-kissed skin. He reminded me of the Greek gods, the ones with patrician noses, high foreheads, and aloof expressions. They’d sit up in there in lofty clouds and gaze down at the lowly mortals. Because they think they’re better than you. And here’s a tip: nine times out of ten, when a god gets with a mortal, nothing good comes from it. Well, the sex maybe, but once that’s over, most humans suffer a horrible death or die from a broken heart. Gods tended to ditch them for some other prettier mortal, or better yet, a goddess. Screw them all, especially fancy goddesses, I say.

Yeah, so guys who reminded me of walking, talking sex gods?
Bad news. Back up and run. They will make you looney.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him turn back to his locker, his arm muscles flexing like liquid steel as he pilfered through it like he was in a hurry. Ha
.
He was probably freaking out because of our proximity. Which I’d found interesting at first when his
No Looking at Dovey
campaign began, but had long since given up trying to figure him out.

Perhaps that’s not the entire truth.

I still ached to know why he’d played his head games with me.

I still ached to have his eyes
see
me.

Being sneaky, I slid my gaze over him, taking in the finely-sculpted body, designed by football in the fall and rowing crew in the spring. Oh, who was I kidding, he was built like a god, too, with muscles that absolutely pulsed with a tangible sexuality. He was lickable. I can’t deny it. But the kicker was how in tune he was with the female heart, how he innately knew how to pose his physique for optimal viewing. Some people are born knowing the right stance and gestures that capture your eyes, hypnotize you with every step. Call it confidence or cockiness or charm—or what I referred to as the three C’s—it worked. Making you want what wasn’t good or safe. Making you entertain the idea of him. Of being
his.

It’s impossible though. He laid his heart at no girl’s feet. Hadn’t he told me so?

Since our break-up—if you call it that—I’ve had a whole year to watch him and eavesdrop on every conversation I could with him in it. Conversations between beautiful girls who gushed on and on about how hot he was or how rich. The worse were the whispers about his prowess in bed. And when I could, I’d listen to him talk. I’d hear him talking to girls in the back of class, calling them
baby
this and
sweetheart
that. Gag. More often than not, that same girl would cry to her friends in a month or so because he’d moved on to someone else. And the guys? They talked about him with reverence in their tones. Like he was an idol.

Bad guys are always the prettiest, but then pretty is an understatement when it came to him. He was simply
more
. So yeah, no way was I turning to face him. Nope. Just gonna stand here and pretend he was a rock and think of unsexy things, like the frog I had to dissect in science this week. Wait, better yet, I could think about Spider and how I was going pop him…

He
moved, selecting his English Lit book, startling me. Afraid of being caught, I turned back to my locker, pulling out my own book, angry that I’d allowed myself to dwell on him and his well-proven assets.

It was over between us.

He fumbled and dropped something. Cursing, he bent down, his body leaning close to mine, getting into my personal space. I told myself to step away from him, but my body didn’t obey.

And he didn’t move either, as if he were mesmerized by something on the ground.

Then his warm fingers slid up, up my calf, stopping at the top of my upper thigh, just at the hemline of my skirt. And my skirts are short, which meant his hand was nearly to my panties.

How dare he touch me after a year of denying me even a single glance?