Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Six-three. And I’m just casing the joint.” RJ shrugs, but I see his lips twitching with humor. Her rampant flirting isn’t going unnoticed.
“I know who this is,” Oliver tells her. “He goes to Sandover. Fenn’s new stepbrother.” He directs his gaze at RJ. “Rumor is the honeymoon’s over and you’re on the outs with Duke.”
“He doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor.” One of the things I like best about RJ is that he doesn’t rise to asshole bait.
Oliver tips his head. “The way I hear it, you’ve got a title fight coming up. Watch out for that wicked left hook.”
“Smart money’s on RJ.” Lucas suddenly feels compelled to throw himself in the middle of it, and I only wish I could have grabbed him by the shirt collar before he caught Oliver’s attention. “Duke will be lucky if he wakes up before Christmas.”
“Watch your wallet around this one,” Oliver says to RJ with a sarcastic laugh. “How’s Gabe liking San Quentin Prep, Lucas? You smuggling him Ziplocs of oxy up your ass?”
Proving he’s tougher than he looks, Lucas rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you’re so cool, Oliver. I don’t remember you talking so much shit to my brother’s face.”
I give Oliver a shove, which he takes with a pleased smirk. I don’t know Lucas well, but I don’t like seeing him take shit because his brother screwed up. It’s the lowest form of bullying.
“You’re such a prick,” I tell Oliver. “Don’t you have tacks to throw on the handicap parking spaces or something?”
“Ouch, Sloane. Harsh. We’re just having a laugh. Right, Ciprian?”
“Whatever.” Unfazed, Lucas heads off to find his friends.
“I heard your dad sent you to Catholic school,” Mila says to me. The inclination to mention Casey’s name is sparkling in her treacherous eyes. RJ must feel my rising rage because he squeezes my hand to hold it tight at his side. “Looks like it hasn’t put a damper on your dating life.”
“Yep. I’m the whore of Babylon.” I put on an indifferent voice. “And this whore’s got to powder her nose.”
“Can’t wait to see if there are butlers in the bathrooms.” RJ throws an arm over my shoulder to steer us out of the gravity well of Mila and Oliver’s malicious boredom.
A moment later, we grab our tickets and make our way inside the small brick stadium.
“Well, that settles it,” RJ leans in to say at my ear. “I’m never asking you for a handjob.”
I give him a questioning look. In response, he shows me the fingernail marks and lingering impression of my hand on his as the blood rushes back in.
“That’s some grip,” he says in amusement.
“Mila’s not good people.” Which is a profound understatement and far less than she deserves. “And just so you don’t get any ideas—she only wants to suck your dick to piss me off.”
“I mean, I’m not really political.” He immediately throws his hands up in apology to my withering glare. “Easy, tiger. Kidding.”
Jealousy is a new one for me. The instant blood-red territorial instinct that arises at the thought of RJ hooking up with Mila catches me off-guard. It’s impossible to ignore what it means. I think I’ve known it for a while but there’s no convincing myself otherwise anymore.
I’ve got it bad for this one.
For no good reason RJ has wandered into my life and upended everything I thought I knew about myself. My favorite color is black. My favorite food is chicken piccata. And I’m not a jealous girl. Except now I am, apparently. And that’s both exciting and a little annoying. Because now he has power. The power to manipulate my heart and tie it in knots while I stand there helpless and entranced.
Luckily, he’s not aware of this yet. So I better not blow my cover.
“What’s the story there?” he asks. We make our way through the concourse toward the concession stands. I hate this place with a molten passion, but they have excellent soft pretzels. “You two used to be friends?”
It’s a trick question. I pause for a beat, wondering how I can distill the experience of teenage girl warfare into a digestible soundbite.
“The short version is, after Casey’s ordeal, we realized who our true friends were.”
“What happened?” he presses.
“Mila decided it was a better story to start a rumor that Casey made the whole thing up. Popped some pills and plunged our car into the lake. That the pathetic sophomore wanted attention and faked this whole elaborate drama for sympathy clout. Which is total bullshit. But it took hold, and they tortured her. Called her crazy, mental, psychotic. Taunted her about it. Someone put a straitjacket in her locker—my bet was on Mila’s right-hand cheerleader Connie.”
He whistles under his breath. “Chicks are brutal.”
He has no idea.
Guys don’t understand the inherent rivalry at play in female high school relationships. Make friends with people you like, yes. But your best friend, she’s always the first throat you’d slit when the coup starts. I suppose it was my fault for not getting Mila before she got me.