“Yeah, well… I haven’t written in months. It’s gone, so don’t wait for me.”

After I left the band, the guys all stepped in and carried on with three people. They still perform here and there, and the summer tour is still on. I know Dane is hoping I’ll be back on track by then, but I have zero interest.

When I lost Annie, I lost Ryen, too, and now nothing is speaking to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever have anything to write or anything more to say.

“What’s this?”

I cast a glance over at Dane who holds Ryen’s white notebook, fanning the pages as he looks inside.

“Are you writing, after all?” he asks but then stops on a page. “Nope.

This is a girl’s writing.” He continues to read and then lets out a little laugh.

“A very bad girl’s writing. Who is she?”

I snatch the notebook away from him and drop it to the seat. “My muse.”

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“Does she want it back?”

I smile to myself. “More than anything.”

And he grabs his seatbelt, fastening it. “Well, then let’s go.”

Walking into the school, I hear the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner, probably coming from the library, since that’s the only room that I’ve noticed in the school with carpeting.

I cast a look left. A janitor must be in there. I’m not sure how many there are, but there has to be more than one with a school this size.

My school, Thunder Bay Prep, is a bit smaller but, in many ways, a lot nicer. Falcon’s Well has almost no security—I glance up at the cameras that are being installed but are not yet active—and the Athletics here suck.

The hallways are dark, classroom doors are closed, and since we noticed the parking lot was nearly empty on the way in, that means the lacrosse, cheer, and track practices must be done for the night.

Maybe a few teachers are lurking on the second and third levels, but other than the janitors, only Ryen is left, teaching down in the pool.

I walk up to the front office doors, glancing around me to make sure we’re alone, and hand the notebook to Dane. “Hold this.”

“What are we doing?” He pulls up the hood on his black sweatshirt, nervously looking up at one of the dead cameras.

I slip out a tension wrench from my jeans pocket and immediately dig back in, feeling for the paperclip I swiped off a page in Ryen’s notebook. I unwind the clip and straighten it, bending the end just slightly.

Dane watches as I insert the wrench, applying pressure and feeling which way has more give, before sticking the paper clip into the lock and

working the pins, pressing all five of them up until they click. I add pressure to the wrench and then…

Click.

The lock turns, and the door opens.

“Where’d you learn that?” he whispers, sounding surprised.

“YouTube. Stop talking.”

We both dive into the dark office, quickly scanning the area to make sure it’s empty. The desks behind the counter sit vacant, and I shoot my eyes left, seeing Mrs. Burrowes written on a door. I walk over and jiggle the handle, finding it locked as well. Inserting the wrench, I work quickly and feel relief when the handle finally gives way, the door opening wide.

I stare into the office, amazed that this actually worked. I’ve never picked a lock before, until I Googled how this afternoon and practiced on some rusty old doors at the Cove.

“The Principal’s Office.” Dane inches in, filling the doorway with me.

“I spent a lot of time in one of these. I think they gave me my diploma just to get rid of me.”

His voice is thick with humor, and I stuff the tools back in my pocket.

“Shhh.”

Stepping inside, I immediately go for the cabinets and begin opening drawers, looking for anything even close to resembling what I’m searching for.

I sift through student files, budgets, receipts, teacher records, disciplinary records…

“What are you looking for?”

I open drawer after drawer, dragging my fingers over the files as I quickly scan. It has to be here. Annie told me once she mailed the stuff here.

“Dude, we should get out of here,” Dane urges, sounding nervous.

And then I see it. A thick, brown pocket folder labeled Private with a rubber band wrapped around it.

I grab it, quickly opening it and peeking inside. It’s filled with pink envelopes and a small photo album, and an ache shudders through my chest as I force down the lump in my throat.

Annie.

I close the folder and wrap the rubber band around it again, shutting the drawers and walking out of the office. There are people still in the building, and I don’t want to get caught.

Dane following in my wake as I turn around and push the button, locking and closing the door behind us.

Unfortunately, the double doors in front are locked with keys, so I can’t cover my tracks on those. Hopefully the office staff will just think they forgot to lock them on their way out this afternoon.

Dane looks down at the folder in my hand. “What does this have to do with the notebook?” He holds up Ryen’s diary.

“Nothing.” I walk down the hallway toward the locker rooms at the back of the school, taking the book out of his hand. “Not a damn thing.”

Ryen isn’t why I’m in Falcon’s Well, but I knew I would run into her here. Something I feared.

She doesn’t deserve my attention. Annie’s all that matters. But after months of not giving a shit about anything—my family, friends, or music—

having Ryen close is kind of distracting. In an almost pleasant way.

It doesn’t matter, though. I have the file, and as soon as I have what else I came here to collect, I’m gone. I earned enough credits to graduate in January, and I’m not going back home. I’m taking my fake name and my fake I.D., and I’m going to try to forget.

Forget that I was taking selfies with Ryen that night, ignoring my instincts and responsibilities, while my sister was dying alone on a dark, cold road.

We walk into the locker room, knowing that the pool is accessible from it. Passing by the offices and through the locker bay, I see something out of the corner of my eye and catch a glimpse of two bodies in the shower.

I enter the hallway and slow to a stop.. Did I just see…?

I jerk my chin at Dane and point ahead. “There’s a pool through there.

Give me a sec.”

He nods lazily and heads out of the locker room. I turn around again and, keeping my body close to the wall, I peer carefully around the corner again.

Amusement pulls at the corners of my mouth. Well, it looks like not everyone in cheer and lacrosse has gone home for the night, after all.

Trey Burrowes, the guy who thinks Ryen is his, stands in the shower, holding her best friend—Lyla, is it?—up against the bathroom wall, both of them naked, wet, and fucking as the showers spray around them.

Classic.

Lyla’s dark hair is up in a wet ponytail, and her arms and legs are wrapped around him, holding on tight while he grips her ass and goes at her, both of them breathing hard and moaning quietly.

This is the guy Ryen wants to take her to prom? She chooses her dates about as well as her friends. I wonder how long they’ve been screwing behind her back.

But hopefully, if he’s fucking this girl, then he might not be getting it from Ryen.

An ounce of pleasure hits me.

I turn around and walk down the hallway again, pushing through the locker door and seeing the impressive, ten-lane indoor pool.

Parents sit on the bleachers, observing and taking pictures, while Dane leans against the wall. I walk over and stand next to him, following his gaze.

Ryen stands in the pool with four students—all kids, probably younger than ten—and moves her arms in big circles as she dips her face in the water.

The students count. “One-two-three-breathe!” they scream, and Ryen twists her head to the side, taking a breath before dipping it back in. She circles her arms again, pretending to push herself through the water, doing three strokes as they count. “One-two-three-breathe!”

She lifts her head up and stands up straight as she pushes her hair back off her forehead. “Okay, now your turn!”

All the kids begin mimicking her as she counts.

And I just watch her. She lets out a big smile, clearly proud as they all fall into sync, completing their strokes and breathing when they should, and I have to fight not to laugh when one of the boys splashes her accidentally.

She feigns a growl and splashes him back.

“Alright, again!” she shouts. “One-two—” And then she stops, her eyes falling on me.

They narrow, and I hold her gaze, recognizing the temper flaring as her smile falls.

“Again!” she bites out at the kids, her eyes dropping to my hand with the notebook.

“That water looks cold,” Dane comments, a quiet laugh following, and I know what he’s referring to.

I let my eyes fall to her breasts, seeing the hard points of her nipples straining against her long-sleeved, black rash guard. A pretty impressive feat, considering the wet material is clinging to her skin, and I can see that she’s also wearing a bikini top under the shirt, adding extra padding.

Which I’m grateful for. I look up at the bleachers, seeing a few dads gazing down, and while they’re probably looking at their kids, I don’t like that they might be looking at her. She doesn’t need to give them a show.

I drop my eyes back to her, watching her smile at the kids.

“Great job, everyone!” She walks down the line, giving them high fives before standing in front of the last one, asking, “Washing machine or cannonball?”

“Washing machine!” the little girl with freckles squeals.

Ryen picks her up, cradles her in her arms, and twirls in the pool, whipping left and then whipping right as the kid squeezes her eyes shut and laughs.

“Shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo,” Ryen says, mimicking a washing machine sound.

I shift and draw in a breath, realizing I’d forgotten to breathe for a moment.

“Me, me!” the next kid waves his hand in the air and shouts,

“Cannonball!”

Ryen picks him up. This kid she vaults into the air, and he flies a couple feet above the water and then plunges below the surface, making a big splash.

I tear my eyes away, reminding myself that I don’t care. I stand with Dane and wait for her to finish all the kids, and as soon as she dismisses them to their parents, I walk over to the bench where she’s drying herself off.

“And here I thought you ate children,” I muse, handing her the notebook.

She throws her towel down and takes the book, immediately opening it and scanning the inside. “Well, I do like to play with my food a bit before I eat it.”

She fans the diary, probably looking to see if anything is missing.

“I didn’t tear out any pages,” I assure her.

“How do I know you didn’t make copies?”

“Because I don’t play with my food before I eat it.”

Dane clears his throat at my side, speaking low. “I’m going to go wait in the parking lot. Take your time.”

He follows the parents and their kids out of the gym through the side door. Ryen stuffs the diary in her bag and picks up the towel, continuing to dry off her legs. Her black bikini bottom, unlike her rash guard, is not as conservative as I would like. Her toned legs look tight and smooth, and the droplets of water on her thighs have my heart skipping a beat.

She realizes I’m still here and scowls. “Well?” she snaps. “You can leave now.”

I slide my hands into my pocket. “And why would I do that, Rocks?

When it’s so warm in your presence.”

“Why do you keep calling me Rocks?”

I ignore the question, keeping my eyes locked on hers. But then I notice her shiver, and without thinking, I glance down, seeing that her nipples are harder than ever. She’s obviously cold, and visions of her in a hot shower invade my head. Naked, steam, heat…

Wait…

Shower. I glance behind me at the men’s locker room door. Her friend and that fuckwad could still be in there. What if she hears something? Or

sees them come out together?

I turn back to her. So what? She should find out what goddamn sleazes those people are whose opinions she cares so much about. She should find out exactly what a bad investment that was. She has this coming.

But, for some reason, I don’t want her to confront that. Not unprepared.

If she sees her prom date and best friend together, no one will take her side when the fallout happens.

No one will probably be surprised by Lyla’s behavior, and Trey will be the man.

Ryen will just be the stupid girl who was duped.

And I’m not sure why I care.

“Come on,” I say, “It’s dark out. I’ll walk you out.”

“Piss off.”

She pulls on some shorts, tying the little string, and then slaps on a baseball cap, not even sparing me a glance.

“There’s someone breaking into the school at night,” I point out, my voice turning angry. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”’

She laughs, leaning down to zip up her bag. “Yeah, maybe it’s you, and you just want me out of here so you can get going on writing stupid crap on the walls.”

I hesitate.

Okay, yeah, I’ve broken into the school a couple of times. She’s right about that. But I’m not the one breaking in and vandalizing the place. That is definitely not me.

I didn’t risk coming here to get caught doing stupid shit.

She straightens and turns to fix me with a look. “You called me a cunt and cut my hair. You think I’d actually trust you to protect me? Don’t blink too hard, Shit-for-Brains. You might lose your last few brain cells.”

I widen my eyes, and every muscle in my body squeezes so tight it burns. What the fuck did she just say?

Before I know what I’m doing, I sweep her up into my arms and carry her to the side of the pool.

“Cannonball or washing machine?”

Her eyes widen. “Wha—?”

“Cannonball, it is!” I shout out. And I throw her into the pool, hearing her scream as her entire body hits the water, and she completely submerges.

I storm out of the gym without looking back. Hope the swim teacher knows how to swim.

I dig my keys out of my pocket and head for my truck. Shit-for-Brains?

Breathe too hard?

She’s got a nasty mouth on her and an answer for everything. Does she ever shut up?

I climb into the truck, slamming the door. “Dammit!” I growl. “What a fucking—!” But I stop myself, breathing hard. I’m so damn angry I almost wish we had a gig tonight. Or a practice. I want to take what I’m feeling out on something.

I hear a snort next to me, and I suddenly remember Dane is with me.

“I told you,” he says. “She looked kind of cold. I’ll bet she feels good when she warms up, though.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

I stick the key in the ignition, yank the shifter to Drive, and lay on the gas.

“Yeah, it looks like it,” Dane comments dryly.

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Image 22

 

 

Dear Ryen,

What do you think of this line to replace the ending of the chorus for Titan? You know, that song I sent you last time?

Don’t hold your breath, ‘cause you weren’t first! Someone had to build the stairs that you climb.

I was at the warehouse last night, and it just popped in my head. I think it fits the song a lot better, and with the beat, I think I’ll like the way it’s going to come out. Thoughts?

And yeah. Before you give me shit, I was at a party last night, sitting by myself, and writing music. So what? I think it helps my street cred, to be honest. You know…the quiet loner? The mysterious, hot rebel? Something like that? Maybe?

Whatever. Fuck it. You know I don’t like people.

Anyway, you asked me my favorite place in your last letter. The warehouse is one of them. During the day, when no one is there, you can

hear the pigeons flapping through the rafters, and you can take in all the graffiti without everyone around. Some of it’s pretty incredible.

But I guess my absolute favorite place, other than you, of course, is my house. I know, I know. My dad is there, so why would I want to be? But actually… After my dad and sister have gone to sleep at night, when everything is dark, I crawl out my window and up to the roof. There’s a little hidden valley between the ridges where I sit back against the chimney, sometimes for hours, dicking around on my phone, taking in the view, or sometimes I write you. I love it up there. I can see the tops of the trees, blowing in the night wind, the glow of the street lamps and stars, the sound of leaves rustling… I guess it makes me feel like anything is possible.

The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below, it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we just need to change our perspective.

And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad, school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.

 

Misha

 

I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read.

The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.

Amusement creeps up. I’ve never had a problem reading his writing, though. I grew up with it, after all.

So many times I’ve read this letter. Looking for clues—any clues—to figure out why he stopped writing after this. There’s no hint that this was a goodbye, no indication that he was going to be any busier than usual or that he’d gotten bored or tired of me…

The emptiness is getting bigger and wider and deeper, and I sit on my bed, “Happy Song” playing from my iPod, and study his words that always put the perfect light on anything.

I’m not ready to start my day.

Why don’t I want to get up or even muster the energy to worry about what I’m going to wear?

He’s the only thing I look forward to. The only reason I rush home from school, so I can see if there’s mail for me.

I look up and stare at the words I wrote on my chalk wall last night.

 

Alone

Empty

Fraud

 

Masen’s words are in my head now. Not Misha’s.

“Ryen!” my mom calls and knocks on my bedroom door. “Are you up?”

My shoulders fall a bit, and I force myself to answer. “Yeah.”

I’m not entirely lying. I am awake and sitting up in bed, cross-legged and reading.

But as I hear her steps retreat back down the hallway and the stairs, I glance at the clock and see that I’ve procrastinated long enough. Folding the letter back up, I slip it into the white envelope and stick it in my bedside

drawer. The rest of Misha’s letters are under my bed, every single one close in case I need them.

Standing up, I make my bed and pack my school bag before walking to my closet and snatching out a pair of white shorts and a black top. I may have already worn that outfit this week. I’m not sure. I suddenly don’t care.

Once dressed, I head for the bathroom to do my hair and make-up since I already showered after swim lessons last night.

I can’t believe that asshole threw me in the pool. It was my turn to stand up to him, and I was doing a damn good job, but just like a guy, when he can’t win with wit, he uses brawn.

Slow clap for Masen.

He may have had the last word, but he’d had to step up his game to do it. I feel an ounce of pride and smile as I enter the bathroom.

I straighten my hair, getting rid of my bedhead, and begin applying my make-up, getting rid of the dark circles I have from staying up too late doing homework last night. I also add some blush to make me look healthy and happy.

Someone walks in and tosses something in front of me. I look down and see my black envelope addressed to Misha. I pick it up.

It’s the letter I wrote him a few days ago. I can tell, because it has the stamps with the planets on them I just bought at the post office last week.

I look over at my sister, seeing her hair up in a messy bun and that she’s wearing a summer dress with my black flats she didn’t ask if she could borrow.

I frown. “Why do you have my letter?”

“I took it out of the mailbox when I left for class the other day.”

“Why?”

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“Because he hasn’t written you in months,” she snips. “You need to let it go.”

Anger boils under my skin as I watch her twist toward the mirror and mess with her bun. “Tell me again how that’s any of your business,” I snap, and I don’t care if our mom hears.

“Ryen, it’s pathetic,” she says, looking at me like I’m a child. “You look like you’re chasing him. When he gets his shit together, he can find you.”

I throw down the letter and grab my lipstick, facing the mirror again.

“He’s not my boyfriend who needs to check in, and I don’t have to explain myself to you. Don’t touch my mail again.”

“Fine.” She turns and walks for the door but stops and turns her head to look at me. “Oh, and mom’s waiting for you at the kitchen table. She saw your essay score online.”

She walks out, and I close my eyes, entertaining the idea of taking a cue from Masen for a wonderful split-second.

Cannonball or washing machine, Carson? Maybe a haircut?

I walk out of my house and past my Jeep, holding the strap of my school bag over my shoulder as I carry my letter to Misha back to the mailbox. I stick it inside and raise the flag so the mail carrier knows to pick it up.

But then my eyes fall to the trash cans next to the mailbox, and I pause.

You look like you’re chasing him. It’s pathetic.

Pathetic.

I swallow the bitter lump in my throat.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not a priority anymore. Maybe he got a girlfriend, and she made him stop writing me. Maybe he got bored. His

letters have been slowing down over the past couple of years, after all. I didn’t mind, because I also got busier in school, but still…

Misha never wrote me as much as I wrote him. I’d never really thought about that until now.

I snatch the letter out of the mailbox, crumple it up in my fists, and toss it on top of the pile in the garbage can. Screw him.

I charge back toward my Jeep, my heart starting to race as the fresh dew on the grass wets my feet through my sandals.

But then I stop, feeling a wave of loss wash over me. No. It’s not pathetic. Misha wouldn’t want me to stop writing him. He made me promise. I need you, you know that, right? he’d said. Tell me we’ll always have this. Tell me you won’t stop. That was in one of his rare letters where I got a glimpse of everything he keeps hidden. He’d seemed afraid and vulnerable, and so I promised him. Why would I ever stop? I never want to lose him.

Misha.

I swing around and jog back to the garbage can, digging the crumpled envelope out and straightening it again. I flatten it as much as I can and stick it back in the mailbox, shutting the lid.

Without giving myself time to dwell on it, I hop in my car and drive to school. It’s almost May, and even though it’s a bit chilly, I brave it in my shorts and thin blouse, knowing the afternoon will be warmer. With ten minutes to spare, I park in the lot, seeing crowds of students milling about as I walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance.

Music plays from phones, people text, and I feel an arm snake around me, a familiar scent hitting my nose. Ten wears Jean Paul Gaultier cologne every day, and I love it. It makes my stomach somersault.

“What’s this,” he asks, lifting up my right hand.

I look down, seeing blue paint on my index finger and a little under my nail.

Shit.

I pull my hand away, my heart picking up pace. “It’s nothing. My mom is painting the bathroom, and I helped,” I tell him.

Curling my fingers into a fist, I hide my finger under the strap of my bag. I guess I need to wash in the shower a lot better at night.

“Look.” He gestures to my right.

I turn my head, seeing people circle around the lawn, and we both drift over to the edge of the sidewalk, reading the huge message, in big, silver letters, spray-painted on the grass.

 

Lyla got lost, got her salad tossed

In the men’s locker room last night.

Someone was in awe, fucking her raw,

But who could it be? It wasn’t J.D.

 

“Oh, shit,” Ten whispers, surprise heavy in his voice.

I stare at the words on the lawn, my mouth going dry with a sudden urge to laugh.

Uh, okay. Who the hell…?

Students crowd around, gasping and laughing, some taking pictures, while Ten and I back away.

“That’s the first time he ever got personal by naming names,” Ten says.

“Who?”

“Punk,” he answers as if I should know. “Now we know it’s someone who goes to school here. Someone who knows us.”

I groan inwardly. Yeah, but “Punk” always signs their messages. This is getting out of hand.

I hear a noise and look up to see one of the janitors rolling a pressure washer outside and trying to maneuver it down the stairs.

“Let’s go,” I tell Ten.

We walk into school and pass groups of students surrounding more messages on the walls, these ones signed.

 

You kissed my hair while sticking me in the heart.

But your house will break before I fall apart.

-Punk

 

I see a couple of girls take out pens and add more under the lines, dissing old boyfriends and writing things like, Yeah, Jake.

I hold back my laugh.

“This is killing me,” Ten exclaims as we make our way to our lockers.

“I want to know who Punk is, and I want in.”

I snort. Leave it to Ten. Of course Lyla is our friend, but Ten knows as well as I do that what’s written on the lawn isn’t a lie, and I’m sure he’s excited to see the showdown with J.D.

“I’ve got to hunt that bitch down and find out who she was in the locker room with,” Ten says as he stops in front of his locker.

I keep walking, calling over my shoulder, “See you at lunch.”

I’m sure no one will discover whom Lyla was messing around with last night. She probably won’t even admit it’s true.

Coming up in front of my new locker, I key in the combination and open it, glancing to my left and noticing another janitor scrubbing away

another message on the wall. He’s erased the first few words already, but I know what it says.

 

You loved me, we were besties, I lent you my eye shadow.

But someday all you’ll be is someone I used to know.

-Punk

 

And underneath is a collage of ripped-out yearbook pictures from last year, showing sports teams and groups of students smiling at rallies and games, hugging and laughing with each other.

I hang up my bag in my locker and take out the travel size nail polish remover from the shelf. Glancing around to make sure no one is looking, I walk over and hold it in front of Mr. Thompson, the janitor.

“Nail polish remover will take off anything,” I suggest, seeing his face sweaty and red from the exertion of scrubbing so hard.

He pinches his eyebrows together, probably taken aback by my being nice for once. Not that I’ve ever talked to him, but I may have missed the trash can a few times when tossing away my Starbucks cups. But he accepts the bottle, nodding in thanks.

Luckily nothing used to write on the walls is permanent, but it’s still a hassle for the cleaning staff. Not that I care, but…

I turn to go back to my locker, but my eyes instantly lock with Masen’s, and I pause. He’s leaning against the lockers across the hall, watching me with his arms crossed over his chest and a curious expression in his eyes.

Has he been there the whole time?

I force myself to ignore him and start grabbing my books out of my locker for my first class.

“There you are.”

I turn and see Lyla, looking a little worse for wear. There’s sweat on her brow, and her cheeks are flushed. I hear her phone buzzing. “What happened to your other locker?” she asks.

I raise my eyebrows at her. Is she really going to act like there’s not a big, flaming slap to her face on the school’s front lawn right now?

Oooookay.

“Someone broke into it,” I answer, turning back to my locker. “Was it you? After my black Bebe top?”

She tosses me a dirty look. “Like it would fit. I’m softballs, and you’re baseballs, babe.”

I hold back my eye roll as I stuff what I need in my bag, making sure I have my water bottle. I cast a quick glance behind me and see that Masen is gone.

Lyla’s phone keeps buzzing, and I don’t know if it’s Facebook notifications or J.D. burning her up, but I really don’t care.

Some girls pass by, covering their mouths with their hands, and Lyla shoots them a scowl. “Bite me, bitches,” she growls. And they look away, carrying their smirks with them as they walk down the hall.

Manny Cortez comes up behind her and tries to open his locker, but she turns around, facing both of us. “Well, well, well, maybe it was Manny who broke into your locker. Did you need some lipstick to go with that eyeliner?”

I see his expression harden as he keeps his back to her and doesn’t respond.

“Nah,” I step in, shutting my locker. “Two different color palettes. I’m a Mountain Sunset. He’s A Smokey Night.”

Lyla laughs but then she stops when we hear a yell.

“Heads up!”

We both dart our eyes upward and see a football flying down, coming straight for us. We scurry back, but there’s no need. The ball slams into the left side of Manny’s head, and he’s knocked to his right, his hand immediately shooting to cover his ear as he winces in pain.

“Oh, shit.” Trey runs up to us, laughing. “Sorry, dude. I honestly didn’t mean it. This time,” he adds.

I watch as Manny breathes hard, his black eyebrows wrinkled up in pain. He brings his hand away from his ear, and I see blood. My eyes go wide, and I suck in a breath.

Oh, my God. Is that coming from his ear or out of it? Before I can find out, though, Manny slams his locker door shut and charges off, disappearing into the bathroom as the bell sounds off.

“Nice going, asshole,” I scold.

“Hey, it was an accident.”

I see him cast a look at Lyla, and then I see J.D. pop up behind him as all of the students hurry to class.

“Get in class,” J.D. tells Lyla, his jaw flexing.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I’ll finish talking to you later.”

She stands there, looking angry, but I don’t stick around to watch the outcome.

Walking past them, I head to Art, but I don’t see Masen in his seat. And by the time the bell rings, he’s still not there.

I just saw him in the hall. How does he get to just come and go as he likes and skip classes?

Luckily, though, Trey isn’t crashing class, either, so I make it through the entire period getting work on Misha’s cover done and being left entirely alone.

Even Manny is missing, probably having gone to the nurse to get his ear checked. I hope he’s okay. That had to hurt.

After class ends, I make my way to English, weaving through students as I slip into the classroom. Masen is sitting in his seat, and I pause, taken aback.

Jesus. What does he do? Put in appearances whenever he feels like it?

No books again, no visible pencil, and looks like he just showed up because he has nothing better to do. Isn’t he worried about graduating?

“Alright, take your questionnaires and go set the rest of your things down,” Mr. Foster instructs as we file into the room and he passes out papers. “And don’t forget to take a pencil. Once I call your names, you can pair up, take your things to the library, and begin working.”

Oh, that’s right. It’s Research Day.

Once in a while, Foster sends us to the library to let us work on our skills. He pairs us up, hands us a worksheet of information to find, and then we’re on our own for the whole period. It’s a reason to get out of class. I never complain.

“Lane, Rodney, and Cooper,” Foster calls from his roster.

Three students stand up, take their materials, and leave the room.

“Jess, Carmen, and Riley.”

He keeps going, one group after another, as the room slowly empties, and my nerves start to turn anxious when I realize there’s only a handful of people left, including Masen and me.

Please not him.

But Foster calls the next group. “Ryen, J.D., and Trey.”

I let out a breath of relief.

“Hell, yeah,” J.D. boasts, and I see him swipe a high-five at Trey next to him. I start to stand up, taking what I need.

“And last two…” Foster announces. “Lyla and Masen.”

I falter for only a moment and then swing my bag over my shoulder, hurrying out of the classroom.

Lyla and Masen. Great. She won’t be able to control herself.

I step out of the classroom, hardening my expression. Why do I even care? I don’t like him. I don’t give a damn if she flirts with him, which she’ll definitely do, so let her have at it. Fine.

She’s J.D.’s problem anyway.

And it doesn’t matter. Someone else already has my heart, and Masen Laurent isn’t him. He’ll never be Misha.

“My parents are out of town in a couple weeks,” Trey jogs up to me and places his hand on my waist as we walk. “I’m having a party, and I want you there.”

“Yeah, the pool’s heated,” J.D. adds behind us.

I look back, seeing Lyla and Masen following us, Masen’s eyes on me.

“Yeah, I know,” I tell J.D. “I’ve been in it. Remember?”

“Great,” Trey chimes back in. “So bring a swimsuit. Or don’t. Either way.”

Heat blankets my back, and I suddenly feel surrounded. I cast a quick glance back again, and I see Masen looking away as Lyla chats about something, but then he must sense me looking, because he meets my eyes again.

Trey follows my gaze, noticing my attention is not on him. Before I even realize my mistake, he whips around and grabs Masen by the collar, throwing him into the lockers.

“Hey,” he says in an overly friendly voice. “I don’t think we’ve met.

I’m Trey Burrowes. You’re Masen Laurent.”

J.D., Lyla, and I stand and watch as Masen remains still, simply staring at Trey.

“Now that that’s over,” Trey goes on, closing in and getting in his face.

“Let’s get a few things straight.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I inch closer.

“Yeah, Trey, come on,” J.D. speaks up. “He’s a good guy.”

But Trey just holds up his hands. “Relax. We’re just having a talk. I promise.”

I look down and see Masen’s fingers curl into fists, but he doesn’t move as Trey and he stand eye to eye.

“Now you’ve been having a little fun with my girl in class, and I also hear you were hassling her in the parking lot yesterday,” Trey states.

“Whatever bullshit you’ve got going on stops now. Leave her alone.”

Masen’s gaze flickers to me, and a weight hits me in the chest. His eyes look sharp and angry at first, but that seems to change to disappointment along with something else. Sadness, maybe?

What’s going on in his head? Why is he looking at me like that?

“Don’t look at her,” Trey growls, getting in Masen’s face. “What’s the matter? You can’t speak?”

“What’s going on?”

We all turn to see Principal Burrowes standing in the middle of the hallway, her black suit and burgundy blouse crisp and ironed.

Trey stands up straight and backs off Masen. “Nothing, Gillian,” he mocks his stepmom and then looks back to Masen. “We’re cool. Right?”

Masen’s eyes are on the floor, and he doesn’t speak.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Burrowes asks Trey.

But I answer instead. “Foster is sending us to the library to research.”

“Then move.”

I nod, and we all quickly start walking down the hall.

“You, too,” I hear her say behind us, probably to Masen.

Why didn’t he do anything? Not that Trey’s a small guy he could easily take, but I get the impression Masen has been in fights before. He’s volatile and impulsive, so why did he hold back?

We jog up the stairs and enter the library. All of the other students are already here, whispering, moving about, and gathering the materials they need. Some are on the computers, and some are in the stacks. Our library consists of two floors and a nice view into the main level from the balcony up above. I dump my bag on a table toward the back and see Lyla and Masen take seats two tables up.

J.D. and Trey plop down in the seats at our table, and Trey puts his feet up.

Yeah, not happening. “You guys go to the computers and look up

‘Annotated Bibliographies,’” I tell them. “Print off some examples, and I’ll go find some from secondary sources.”

I’m not doing this worksheet on my own.

Trey heaves a sigh, and J.D. laughs to himself, both of them getting back up off their asses.

I twist around and head back to the non-fiction section.

The shelves loom high, and I skirt around a rolling ladder and turn left, diving farther into the back of the library, away from the tables of students and their hushed whispers.

I reach out and graze my hand along the spines of the books as I pass.

My mom’s going to wonder why I haven’t even started Fahrenheit 451. Not that I’ll get into trouble, but she’ll wonder what’s been distracting me.

“You know, that kid,” I hear someone say, and I jerk my head to look behind me.

Masen approaches, and my heartbeat picks up pace.

“The one writing on the walls at night?” he continues. “We have something in common. I like to write on things, too.” He stops in front of me and takes my hand. “But you know that, right?”

My skin warms where he touches it, and I try to jerk my hand free, but he holds on tight.

He likes to write on things, too? What? And then I remember the wall at the Cove, my chalk wall in my room, my locker that first day…

I jerk my hand harder, yanking it free. “What? Did you find Trey a bit too big and scary, so you’re going to take your fight to me instead now?”

He gives me a casual grin and snatches my hand again, pulling out a Sharpie from his pocket with his other hand.

“Let go.”

He sticks the marker in his mouth, bites off the cap, and flips the pen around, shoving it back inside the cap. “But I thought you wanted my phone number. For the drive-in, remember?”

He looks down at me with an innocent expression on his face, and I don’t know what he’s doing, but I have to admit I’m kind of afraid to put up a fight this time. Throwing me into a pool when no one’s around isn’t that embarrassing, but I highly doubt he’s going to give a shit that we’re not alone right now if he deems it necessary to put me in my place again. I don’t want his fucking number.

He takes my left index finger and starts writing on the inside of it, while I grind my teeth and glare at him.

“You know, I remember so much of what was in that diary,” he muses as he writes. “I can say whatever I want. I don’t need proof. Not with them.” He jerks his chin, indicating all the students sitting over in the table area that we can’t see.

I pull away again, but he tightens his hold.

“Don’t worry.” He smiles down at my finger as he sketches. The velvety tip tickles my skin. “I have no interest in tormenting you. Not like that anyway. I just have one question.” And then he stops drawing and looks up, peering at me. “Who’s Delilah?”

I freeze and stare at him, forgetting that he’s holding my hand as the hair on my neck stands up.

“What?”

“You had her name doodled all over your notebook,” he tells me. “Who is she? Secret girlfriend? Secret shame?” He drops his eyes and continues writing. “A regret?”

“You read my notebook. You should already know.”

“I didn’t read anything,” he retorts.

I glare at him. He didn’t read it? But…

“I flipped the pages and saw her name on the inside cover,” he explains.

“You think I give a shit about what goes on in your mind? I’ve got better things to do.”

Then why are you asking if you don’t care?

I yank my hand away, growling under my breath. “You’re an asshole.”

I keep my voice low, even though I don’t see anyone around.

But before I can walk away, he places his hands on the bookshelves, locking me in. “You know I could’ve taken him and his friend in one breath just now. What was I waiting for?”

He stares into my eyes, searching for something.

“Maybe the same thing that Cortez kid waits for when your boyfriend’s pushing him around,” he says in a low voice, his lips inches from mine.

“Maybe for someone in their perky, little ponytail”—he flips my hair—“and come-fuck-me short shorts to grow a dick and stand up to the asshole.”

I knock his arm away, my stomach tight with anger. But he locks me in again, bearing down.

“Was that what Delilah was waiting for, too?” he presses. “Did she wait for you? And you never showed?”

He grabs my hand and turns my finger, showing me what he wrote.

I look down at the thick black letters written on the inside of my finger.

Shame.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t say anything. Your secrets are yours.

You have to live with them.”

And then he lifts my finger to his lips, making the shh sign.

I pull my hand away and slam my hands into his chest, pushing him off.

“The next time he lays a hand on me, I’ll end him,” he warns, curling his lips in a smirk. “And then I’ll take his prom date.”

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“I was getting a little lonely,” Lyla purrs, resting back in her seat with her arms folded over her chest and her legs crossed. “You were gone so long.”

Lonely? I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word. Not that I have any opinion of a chick who messes around on her boyfriend—unless the boyfriend is me or one of my friends—but I don’t like her for other reasons. She’s like Ryen on crack.

At least my Ryen is still in there somewhere. I see it in how she’s uncomfortable when that Cortez kid is bullied. I saw it this morning when she gave the janitor nail polish remover to help take off the graffiti.

And I see it all over her room. The collages, the poetry, the lyrics I’ve sent her for review, the quotes and colors everywhere… That’s the Ryen I know.

But in ten years she could be Lyla. Self-serving, false, and screwing anything to forget how much she hates herself.

And everything I’ve always found incredible about her will be gone.

I pull out my chair and sit down, knowing damn well I have no intention of doing this assignment. Misha Lare is as good as done with high

school, so I’m not here for that.

“Here.” She sits up, pushing some books toward me. “I dug up some primary resources, so we can start on this questionnaire.”

But before I can tell this chick she’s on her own, I’m shoved forward from behind, a body slamming down on my back and an arm pressing into my neck.

“What the hell?” I shoot out my arms to keep my head from hitting the table, and then I feel breaths in my ear.

“Ryen!” I hear someone exclaim. I think it’s Lyla.

“Don’t move,” Ryen whispers in my ear, and I feel a sharp point digging into the back of my neck. “I’d hate for this pen to slip.”

I shake with a shocked laugh. She didn’t like being served back in the stacks, and now she’s lost her mind. Excellent.

I do exactly what she asks, even though my heart is racing and my groin is throbbing with heat.

I feel the pen glide over my skin in long, slow strokes, and I’m actually amused. I know people are watching. Everyone is suddenly silent, even Lyla.

The pen digs deep, and I wince as I feel a sting. She finishes and stands up, taking her weight off me and throwing down the pen. I feel her leave, and I sit up straight. Everyone is looking at me, and I see Ryen brush past my table with her bag on her shoulder, storming out of the library.

“Are you okay?” Lyla asks.

“Yeah.” I nod and glance behind me, seeing J.D. smiling and shaking his head, while Trey leans forward on the table and glares at me.

She did that in front of him. Good girl.

I turn back to my partner. “What did she write?”

Lyla rises from her seat and takes a look. I hear a snort. “Um, are you sure you want to know?”

Great.

I nod.

“Um…” she starts, reading in slow syllables. “Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole.”

I break into laughter. Awesome. Stuck-up Ryen Trevarrow is learning how to play in the mud, and I feel a little excitement course through my veins.

“Do you want me to go get you some wet paper towels?” Lyla puts a hand on her hip, hovering.

But I just wave her off. “Fuck it. Just leave it.”

What do I care?

“Masen Laurent?” someone calls.

I sit there for a moment before I blink and look up, remembering that’s my name. The librarian is holding the receiver of the phone at the circulation desk and looking around.

“Yeah?”

She follows my voice and meets my eyes, hanging up the phone. “The principal would like to see you. Take your things just in case.”

But I don’t move. The principal? Heat floods my veins, and I feel weighted to my seat.

Why the hell does she want to see me? Does she know?

My breathing quickens, and I stand up, grabbing nothing because I brought nothing, and make my way toward the doors. I ignore the curious glances and snorts, probably because, as I pass them, they can see the shit Ryen wrote on my neck.

I should just leave. Walk out the front doors right now. But as I come up on her office, I find myself opening the doors, my resolve hardening. I haven’t gotten everything I came here for yet. I’m not running away, so let’s see what she has to say.

If she knows, she knows. Or if she found out my records are fake, supplied by one of my cousin’s shady connections, Masen Laurent is a name I made up, and I live in a dilapidated basement and sneak into the school to shower at night, then I’ll deal with it.

Either way, I’m not leaving. Not yet.

Stepping inside the front office, I nod at one of the receptionists.

“Masen Laurent,” I tell her.

“You can go in.” She gestures to my left, but I already know where to go.

Walking up to the door, I knock twice, feeling my hands shake just slightly as I push it open.

“Hi, Masen,” the principal greets, looking up from her desk and smiling.

She stacks a large pile of folders, clearing a space on her desk, and stands up, holding out her hand for me to shake.

I lock my jaw tight and straighten my back. Her eyes are warm, and I suddenly don’t want to be here.

I force myself forward, slowly raising my hand and taking hers but letting go nearly immediately.

I shift my eyes to the side.

She’s silent for a moment, and I can tell she’s watching me. “Please sit down,” she says finally.

I take the seat in front of her desk and keep my gaze averted, making eye contact only briefly.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me, humor lacing her voice. “You’re not in trouble. I just like to try to meet everyone when they register, but you slipped in under my radar.”

Okay. That’s good news, I guess.

“So how are you liking Falcon’s Well so far?”

I unclench my jaw, replying flatly, “Fine.”

“And your classes?” she presses. “Are you finding the transition easy?”

Her eyes won’t leave me, and I shift in my seat, nodding as I stare at the picture frames she has on her desk. I remember seeing them the other night.

Pictures of her family.

“Well,” she keeps going, starting to sound uncomfortable. “There’s so little time left in the school year, but judging from your records and your grades, you should have no trouble passing your finals.” She flips through transcripts and forms, from my fake file, no doubt. “Are you looking at colleges?”

I shake my head.

“Well, we have a great college-career center here. The counselor can help you make some decisions about where you’re going after high school and see about getting applications in.”

I nod, and we both just sit there, the silence growing more awkward.

She clearly wants to be attentive but is probably figuring out whether or not I’m worth the effort when I’ll be out of her school in six weeks. Sooner, actually, but she’s doesn’t know that.

She inhales a deep breath and softens her voice. “Trey Burrowes is my stepson,” she points out. “He can be a handful, but…he’s my handful. Let me know if you have any more problems, okay?”

He’s my handful. I squeeze my fists, finally raising my eyes to hers.

Don’t worry, lady. I know exactly how to handle my problems. Your son will

stay out of my way, or I’ll make him stay out of my way.

She smiles, and I stand up, not waiting to be dismissed. I walk out of her office, feeling my stomach uncurl and taking in quick, shallow breaths when the adrenaline finally hits me, coursing down my arms and legs. Once outside the office doors, standing in the empty hallway, I stop and smile to myself.

She didn’t find me out. Not only can I leave whenever I want, but I can stay as long as I like.

No one knows.

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“You’re just smearing it,” an amused voice says behind me.

I turn my head to see Ryen standing with her back to her open locker, smirking. I take my hand away from the back of my neck, throwing the wet paper towel in the trash next to the water fountain. While I thought I wouldn’t care about having Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole written on my neck for everyone to see, I was wrong. I feel like an idiot.

She turns and reaches into her locker, pulling out a long piece of fabric.

“Wanna borrow a scarf?”

She laughs, and I arch an eyebrow, unamused. Glancing into her locker, I see the bottle she loaned the janitor this morning back on the shelf, and I walk over. “Nail polish remover. Now.”

But she simply folds her arms over her chest and positions herself in front of her locker, not budging.

“Don’t play with me.” I hold out my hand. “We’ve been keeping our shit PG. I can go R if you want.”

She twists up her lips and lets out a small sigh. “Fine. I can pick my battles, I guess.”

She twists around and takes out the bottle, flinging it toward me. I catch it and twist off the cap, quickly pulling the scarf out of her hands, too.

“Hey!”

But it’s too late. I dump some of the acetone onto the soft beige fabric and use it to rub the pen off on the back of my neck.

“Bastard!” she cries out. “That’s cashmere!”

I pull the scarf away from my neck, seeing the black ink now on her scarf and off my neck. At least most of it, I think.

“Yeah.” I toss the scarf back at her and cap the bottle. “It works great.

Thanks.”

She twists up her face in anguish and holds up the scarf with both hands, inspecting the damage.

I set the bottle back on her shelf and walk off before we have time to get into it again. I hear her let out a little growl behind me and slam her locker shut as I make my way for the front of the school.

I need to stop challenging her, despite the amusement I feel. Engaging her is just too easy. Why, when I walk into this building, is she the first thought that comes to my mind and not the real reason I’m here?

If she hadn’t happened upon my spot at the Cove and stolen my shit that night, I might never have crossed her path here. Maybe we would’ve been in some of the same classes, while I lurked quietly around, waiting to take care of business, but I never intended to…

No. That’s not right. I knew better. I kind of knew this would happen, and I knew I was walking into a temptation. I knew Ryen would be here, I knew I would see her and hear her, and I knew my attention would be drawn to her, because despite everything else on my mind, I wouldn’t be able to contain my curiosity.

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And then when I found out she was popular, not an outcast, and a cardboard cut-out, not at all original, I became angry. She led me to believe those things, and my muse was a lie.

Until yesterday in the parking lot when I bit and she bit back.

That’s my Ryen.

And I want to see more.

I take out my keys and glance around me, checking the windows of the main house. I didn’t see my dad’s car in the driveway, but it could be in the garage, too. Since he deals in antiques and art, owning a few shops along the coast, his schedule is flexible. He can be gone all day or home at any time.

I unlock the guest house door and step inside, closing it behind me. It’s not even noon, so it’s still light out, but I blacked out most of the windows when I moved in here after Annie’s death. I take out my small flashlight and switch it on. I don’t want to turn on the big light in case my dad sees.

Most of my clothes and belongings are still here, and since Dane wants to grill me every time I mooch off his washer and dryer, I decided to come back here and pick up some more stuff to avoid his third degree this time.

I left school after the scarf thing with Ryen, leaving my truck in the parking lot and taking the ferry to Thunder Bay. I didn’t want my dad or anyone else we know to spot my car.

He doesn’t know where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way. It isn’t like he’s called, either.

Digging a duffel bag out of the closet, I empty drawers and stuff the clothes in the bag, bringing a folded T-shirt to my nose. The scent brings needles to my throat.

Annie’s fabric softener. She was good about doing the laundry, since my dad was busy and I always did it wrong. I complained about the flowery scents she used for my clothes, but now I close my eyes, feeling only home.

I made sure to keep using it after she was gone. Nothing would change. We would never change anything she did.

Annie. I blink, feeling my eyes water. I finish gathering the clothes I need and pack an extra pair of shoes as well as the pictures of Annie and me that I have taped to the wall above my desk.

I pass by my guitar, resting on the stand, and a pile of our band’s posters that never got used. Three months ago I had three things I loved. My music, my sister, and…

Everything empties from my lungs, and I turn away from the guitar, unable to look at the fucking thing. It doesn’t matter what I had. Annie’s gone now. My words are gone, and Ryen’s… I don’t know what she is.

And that’s when it occurs to me. I got a letter from her last week. She’s probably sent me another one by now, since she writes like I breathe air.

Not that I ever minded, though. They were the best things to come home to.

I leave the guest house, carrying the duffel bag and locking up behind me. I notice that everything seems darker, and I look up and see thunder clouds hovering low. Shit. Did I leave the windows down in my truck? I better get back to school. Falcon’s Well might not get hit with the rain, but it’s possible.

I hurry to the back door of the main house and unlock it, dashing inside.

The kitchen is dark, so my dad must be out. Heading over to the counter, I find the pile of mail, all of it mine, and immediately scan for a smoky black envelope with a skull seal.

But I don’t find one. There’s nothing there but college brochures and credit card applications. Has she stopped writing me then?

Relax, dude. You came home last week and checked, and there was a letter there. It’s only been six days.

But I’m curious to see if she writes about Masen. What will she say about him?

Ryen rarely ever mentions another guy in her letters. After the one she told me about when she was sixteen—the one she lowered her standards for

—she seems to have kept guys at a distance. In fact, it’s almost like she’s lost interest, because she told me that foreplay is overrated in a letter once.

I told her I might consider that a challenge. After all, seven years of writing letters is epic foreplay, and she’s addicted.

Six days. My last letter from her was six days ago. Her last letter from me was over three months ago. I made her promise never to stop writing me, and she never has. She remains constant, even despite the lack of faith she must have by now that I’ll ever write her again.

My shoulders slump a little, thinking about how she’s always been there for me. Her bullshit pisses me off, but to Misha, she’s been a friend. And a very good one.

Annie would be disappointed in me if I treated badly the only person left who loved everything about me.

Goddammit. Fuck.

I let out a hard sigh and walk into the hallway, rounding the bannister and jogging up the stairs. Approaching my sister’s room, I slowly twist the door knob and enter, her smell and the remnants of her carpet freshener suddenly wafting over me.

My heart aches, seeing everything the way she left it. Tidy and ready for her to come home from her jog that night. A bed she would never sleep in again, make-up she would never touch again, assignments that lay unfinished on her desk…

An ache lodges in my throat, and I feel like I want to scream. Annie, what were you thinking? But then I’m angry with myself, too. And my dad.

How did we not see it? Why didn’t we take care of her better?

I walk slowly over to her dresser and open drawers carefully and quietly, as if she’ll come bursting in at any moment, scolding me for being in her room. When I open the top drawer of her chest I see her scarves, folded neatly and stacked in two piles. I smell her perfume, and my chest shakes with a sob that I force back down as I sift through, finding one that feels like Ryen’s. It’s not beige, but it’s cashmere. I feel a moment’s guilt, but my sister would rather Ryen have it than let it sit in her empty room, forgotten.

I pull out the light blue scarf and close the drawer, sticking it in my duffel bag.

“Hello?” I hear a muffled call from the hallway.

I jerk my head toward the doorway, recognizing the voice.

My father. “Shit.”

I look around, knowing there’s no other way out of here. I slip behind the privacy screen my sister put up as decoration by the wall and lock my teeth together to calm my breathing.

I see a shadow block out the hallway light streaming through the doorway and falling on the carpet.

“Misha?” my father asks hesitantly. “Are you here?”

He knows I’m here. He has to. I left Annie’s door open when I came in, and it’s always closed.

But I don’t move. I can’t talk to him.

I peer through the holes in the screen, trying to see him, but I can’t. He’s not in my eyesight.

He doesn’t say anything more, but I watch as his shadow falls farther into the room, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He enters my sight as he sits at the end of the bed, wearing his usual shirt, tie, and sweater vest. He used to dress me like that when I was a kid.

Until I turned nine and started having an opinion. That was the beginning of our fighting.

“You were always so different,” he says, staring off.

I can barely breathe.

“T-shirts and jeans to family functions, guitar lessons instead of the violin or piano, always so difficult to get motivated for anything other than what you wanted to do…always so difficult. Period.”

My eyes water, but I don’t budge. He’s right. In his head, I fought about everything. I made arguments where there weren’t any.

In my head I just wanted him to accept me. That’s why I held onto Ryen so hard for so long.

“I stopped being able to talk to you,” he nearly whispers. And then he drops his eyes, correcting, “I stopped finding a way to talk to you.”

He picks up my sister’s blanket at the end of the bed and slowly brings it to his nose, and then his body immediately shakes as he lets out a sob.

I pull my lip ring in between my teeth and tug until I feel a sting.

Everything hurts, and I hate this. I hate that Annie’s room is empty. I hate that our house is dark. I hate that I don’t know where I’m supposed to be—I don’t belong anywhere. And I hate that I hate he’s alone. He didn’t comfort me after Annie’s death. Why should I want to be here for him?

And why do I feel a sudden need to tell Ryen everything? For her to know what I haven’t said and to tell me just the right thing, just like she does in her letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and what I’m doing there.

To go back, simply because that’s where she is.

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I make it back to the school just as the final bell is ringing. The rain had started in Thunder Bay just as I jumped on the ferry, but it still held off here, the clouds threatening but not giving in yet.

My father left Annie’s room as soon as he started crying, and once I heard the hum of Brahms coming from his office, I knew it was safe to get out of the house. He’d be in there the rest of the night, drinking scotch and working on his model WWII battlefield.

I can see the soccer team practicing on the field off to my right, and I hook the duffel bag over my head, hanging it across my chest. Digging the scarf out of my bag, I reach into Ryen’s Jeep and set it on the driver’s seat. I pull my Sharpie out of my pocket and look around, pulling out a small piece of paper I spot in a cup holder. I leave a note on the back of the receipt.

 

You’ll look better in blue. (And no, I didn’t steal it.) I drop it on top of the scarf as students start flooding the parking lot and climbing into their cars. It’s Friday afternoon, so I doubt Ryen has any team practices, but I keep an eye on her Jeep anyway as I head to my truck, making sure no one tries to take it out of the open cab.

I toss my duffel in the bed of my truck but suddenly look up, noticing people crowding around my hood, at the front of my vehicle. They stare at something, and unease coils its way through my body. What now?

Gasps and whispers fill the air, and more people head over. I charge to the front of the truck and stop, finding a whole fucking mess.

Large circles of white paint are splattered on my hood, shooting out in all directions and spilling down the sides, as if someone took a paintball

gun and used the car for target practice. Some of it is already dried, which means it was done a while ago, probably right after I left campus.

And right in the middle, on top of the hood, in big white letters, is the word FAG sitting bright and loud, glaring back at me.

Rage heats up every single muscle in my body. Motherfucker.

I raise my eyes, anger and readiness boiling under my skin as I let my gaze slowly scan the parking lot. I spot Trey Burrowes near what I assume is his car—a blue Camaro that his doting little step-mommy probably bought him. I ignore the people gathering around and narrow my eyes, seeing him stroll around all cocky, chewing on a straw and shooting Lyla a lascivious glance that his best friend probably doesn’t see.

I take off. Stalking right for him, I dig in my heels, ready to slam his fucking face into the hood of his fucking car. I’m almost glad he’s picking a fight right now. I’ve wanted to hit something all day.

I hear someone call “Masen” but I don’t stop to find out who. I lunge straight for him and grab his collar, throwing him around and slamming him up against his car.

He growls, taking my jaw in his hand and trying to push me off, but I twist away from him and swing my fist back, landing a punch in his stomach.

I hear screams and shouts around me, feeling a crowd close in, and I quickly grab him again, slamming him against the car.

“Fuck you, faggot,” he bursts out, swinging his fist back and knocking me in the face. The metallic taste of blood seeps into my mouth from the inside of my cheek, but I still don’t release my hold on him.

“Can’t take a joke?” he yells.

I bring my knee up, hitting him in his stomach. He hunches over, and I raise my fist high, pounding down on the back of his head twice.

“Masen, stop!” I hear someone yell, and I think it’s Ryen.

I grab him by the collar again and throw him down on the ground, sweat covering my back and my lungs begging for air. But before I can get to him and land another hit, hands grab my upper arms and haul me back. I struggle against the hold, and the guy holding me stumbles forward, trying to keep a grip on me as I glare at Trey.

“What’s going on?” a woman barks.

“It took you long enough!” Trey snarls at the guy behind me, and I gather it must be J.D., his friend, holding me back.

The principal appears between us, looking at me as Trey pushes himself off the ground. “Calm down!” she orders me.

I breathe hard, dragging in air through my nose. Every muscle in my body is tight, and I keep my eyes on Trey as the arms behind me finally let go.

“What happened?” Burrowes demands, looking between us.

“I didn’t do anything!” Trey shouts. “This asshole shows up and jumps on me!”

She looks to me for an answer, but I don’t say anything. Everyone stands around us, their attention held captivated, a few people putting away phones now that the principal is here, and I can’t help but let out a small smile, seeing a drop of blood at the corner of Trey’s mouth.

“Whose car is that?” the principal questions, gesturing to my truck off to the right.

But Trey and I are locked in a stare, both of us refusing to say anything.

She seems to draw her own conclusions, though, because she looks at Trey, her voice turning stern. “You will get a bucket and the hose, and you will clean every inch of it. Both of you! That better not be permanent paint.”

“But—”

“Now!” she cuts him off. “And I warned you what would happen if you pulled anything else…”

“It wasn’t him, Mrs. Burrowes.”

I blink, hearing Ryen’s voice. The principal stops and turns toward her.

“Trey’s just covering for me,” Ryen says. I hear her voice off to the side somewhere, but I refuse to look at her.

What the hell is she doing? I might believe she’d vandalize my car, but to write FAG on the hood? Not a chance.

“Excuse me?” Burrowes asks her.

“Yeah,” Ryen goes on. “It was a stupid prank. I’m sorry.”

Voices sound off around us as everyone starts whispering, and I blink long and hard. Her prom date was about to get in trouble, and she couldn’t let that happen, could she? It would just be too humiliating to show up to prom alone.

Stupid girl.

“You did that to his car?”

“It was a joke.” Ryen’s voice is calm and convincing. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it for a car wash and pay for it. Right now.”

“Hell no,” Trey chimes in.

“Just shut up,” Ryen snaps at him and then lowers her voice. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t wait to be dismissed. I shoot Trey one last scowl and walk away, the crowd of students clearing as I head to my truck. I dig my keys out of my pocket and yank open the door, climbing in.

This isn’t over.

Ryen climbs in the passenger side, dropping her bag on the floor, and I can feel her eyes on me.

I bite my tongue, too fucking angry to deal with her right now.

I start the engine and lay on the horn, barely waiting for the nosy little shits to move their fucking asses before I step on the gas. Students squeal and rush out of the way as I speed out of the parking lot, putting as much distance as possible between me and everyone there.

Everyone except Ryen.

I pull out onto the road while light sprinkles of rain hit the windshield, and I stare at the paint and shit all over my hood, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m going to kill him.

“Here,” Ryen says. “I don’t want this.”

I’m glaring ahead, but I shoot a glance over, seeing her hold up Annie’s blue scarf. She must’ve seen it in her Jeep before the fight happened.

“Just take it,” I bite out. “It was a dick move, ruining yours. I owed you.”

“I don’t want it,” she insists and tosses it at me. “Another girl’s perfume is on it, so you should let your skank know she left it in your backseat.”

I shake my head.

Bitch.

I take the scarf and stuff it in the center console. “Fine,” I grit out.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her. To let her know that it was my sister’s and somehow I liked the idea of Ryen having a part of her and what a dumb idea that was, because why would I want a vile brat like her to put her hands on anything that belonged to Annie?

But I would never show her weakness. I never want her pity.

I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.

Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep Mudshovel playing on the radio.

We sit there silently, neither of us moving.

I look to Ryen. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who fucked up the car.”

She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”

Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.

I’m suddenly so tired.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.

I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.

 

Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter

—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my best friend.

So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our small towns, we’re going to find our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves, how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the same tribe, right?)

And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.

 

God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the fuck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.

Never.

I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, finding her in front of the truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.

Why did she never take the advice she so readily gave me?

I keep my hands locked behind my head and watch her, moving around the hood and fanning the hose up and down, spraying every inch. I notice some of the paint coming up and running down the truck as she tries to remove as much shit with the hose as possible.

She then releases the handle, stopping the flow, and drops the gun to the ground. Grabbing the hem of her loose black shirt, she pulls it over her head, revealing a thin white tank top with glimpses of a dark pink bra

peeking out from underneath. Heat floods my groin, and I feel it start to swell. Shit.

She walks to the passenger side door, opens it, and barely glances at me before she tosses her shirt inside and slams the door closed again. Taking the brush with the long handle off the wall, she shuffles her feet, like she’s taking off her sandals, and heads for the front of the truck, stepping up on the bumper.

I didn’t think of that. She’s probably too short to be able to scrub the middle of the hood if she stands on the ground. Maybe I should help her.

But I look out the windshield, streaked with water, and see her beautiful body leaning forward over the hood, scrubbing so hard her breasts shake just enough to send me reeling. This was a bad idea.

And I can’t take my eyes off her. Her tanned thighs bob against the grill as her tank top rises up with the exertion, and I can see inches of toned stomach, her hair hanging around her and her chest in perfect view. My cock starts to grow hard, and I want her in here, not out there. I want her straddling my lap, close and in my hands.

She jumps down and rounds the car to my side, stepping up again, this time on the tire. Leaning into the hood, right in front of me, she scrubs the paint off, the small muscles in her arms flexing and her scowl getting deeper the harder she works. My eyes flash to her stomach again, and my hands are begging to touch her skin there.

What a double-edged sword. Am I angry she’s a fake, weak-assed, little liar? Yes. But am I happy she’s also got the body of a porn star? Hell yes.

She doesn’t have to talk for me to look.

All of a sudden I see her turn her head, and I meet her eyes, hers looking like she wants to kick me in the nuts. She flips me a middle finger, seeing me watching her, and I start laughing to myself.

Trey is nearly forgotten. For the moment.

She hops down and takes the brush back to the wall, and then she picks the hose up off the ground again. Spraying the truck, she washes away all of the paint, the white-tinted water spilling off the hood and onto the ground. I close my eyes again, enjoying the sound of the rain and the water covering the truck.

But something cold and wet suddenly hits my face, and I jerk, opening my eyes. Ryen stands on the passenger side, spraying the side of the truck and hitting the inch-wide slit in the window left open on the passenger side door.

Dammit!

She fans the hose, spraying more, and I growl as water splatters all over the inside of the cab and the leather seats.

“Shit!” I yell, opening my door and jumping out. “Knock it off!”

My black T-shirt is damp, and I round the truck, glaring at her. She casually sprays the hood of the car, pretending to whistle. “What? What did I do?”

“Give me the hose.” I hold out my hand.

She shrugs, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know the window was down.

Water can be dried. Relax.”

I stalk toward her, because she’s the one with the weapon. “Give me…

the hose.”

She purses her lips, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Come and get it.”

I inch toward her, knowing she’s going to spray me, but maybe if I’m quick I can—

All of a sudden, she swings the gun toward me and sprays, the cold water hitting my arms, hands, and making my shirt stick to my chest.

I growl, lunging for her, and she squeals, throwing the gun at me and yanking open the back door. I pick up the gun from where it dropped and swing around the door, seeing her lying on the back seat, her head arched up, breathing hard, and holding out her hands in defense as she watches me.

She licks her lips, out of breath with a hint of a smile. “Don’t, please,”

she begs. “I’m sorry.”

Her body shakes with a silent, nervous laugh, but I can’t move. The sight of her there on the seat, her breasts rising and falling and her thighs slightly spread with one foot on the floor and the other leg arched up, sends my body reeling.

Jesus.

Sweat—or water, I’m not sure—glistens across her chest, and a blush covers her cheeks.

I step up and set the hose, still locked on, onto the roof. The water spills in a wide, steady stream down the front windshield.

I hold her eyes. “You got me wet,” I point out. “Fair’s fair.”

Her breathing falters, and she stares at me, frozen. Will she run away?

I lean down, bowing my head into the cab and hovering over her body, holding myself up with my hands. Her eyes flash to the windshield; she’s probably nervous we can be seen. But the water distorts the view, creating a blur.

She arches up on her hands, meeting me halfway as her hot, little breaths fan across my lips. Her eyes fall to my mouth.

“What does it feel like?” she asks quietly, reaching a timid finger out and touching my lip piercing.

I groan, challenging her. “You tell me.”

She locks eyes with me as if scared, but then her gaze falls again to the piercing. Opening her mouth just slightly, she darts out her tongue and

flicks the ring.

I groan again, unable to keep my eyes from falling shut. The wet heat from that small spot filters across my face, down my neck, and swoops low in my stomach, making my fingers dig into the leather seats.

Her breath hits my skin again, and I open my eyes to see hers watching me intently as she goes back for more. Her tongue slowly traces a trail over the ring before she darts out and bites my lip around it, pulling the whole thing in her mouth.

My skin burns and tingles everywhere, and I nearly lose the fucking strength to hold myself up. Her eyes stay open, watching me pant and groan at everything she’s doing. She sucks and bites and licks and tugs as I just hover there, not moving and not kissing back as I let her explore.

A horn honks, but I barely register it.

“Masen,” she whispers, running her lips over the ring, again and again, and snaking a hand around the back of my neck.

Masen.

I reach out and splay a hand across her stomach, finally taking her in my hands. I want her to say my name, dammit. I want to hear my name from her lips right now.

“Yo, idiot!” A car horn honks again, and I blink, realizing someone is here. “Where’s my girl at?”

Oh, shit.

Ryen pulls away, hearing Trey’s voice, too, and stares up at me, a hint of fear in her eyes.

I glance out the window, seeing the blue blur of his Camaro sitting in front of the bay. I can’t see him, though, so he can’t see us through the water. If he could, I’m sure I would’ve felt him before I saw him.

I look down at Ryen, still feeling the desire roll off her.

“She’s right here, Burrowes.” My voice is low so only Ryen can hear me as I run my hand across her stomach. “And she feels really good.”

Ryen bites her bottom lip and shakes her head, pleading.

“Hello! Wake up, asshole!” Trey barks again.

I stare down at Ryen. “Are you wet now?” And I climb off her and out of the truck, shooting her a smirk. “Stay down.”

Slamming the door closed, I see Trey sitting in his car with his window down. The rain is still pouring and the clouds have grown darker.

I grab the hose and shut it off, hanging it up. “She bailed,” I bark.

“Walked home. Now fuck off.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, man. You can have her all you want after our baseball game against Thunder Bay next week. I like a little pussy after I win, so until then, you wait your turn.”

What the fuck did he just say? I watch as he speeds off and disappears down the road, curling my fists.

I will not wait my turn.

He can’t have her.

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I lick my lips, feeling the warm metal graze my tongue.

Misha.

But then I blink awake, my room coming into view and the fog in my head slowly clearing. Misha? I was kissing Masen in my dream. Why did I call him Misha?

Damn. I take my pillow out from under my head and cover my face with it. I’m a mess. I’d fantasized about Misha before, in one of my kinky alternate realities where he writes me dirty letters and finally sneaks into my room, and that’s the first time I meet him, when he’s sliding into me.

But he never has a face. I always got the impression he was tall and dark, though, but I never knew for sure. I guess after everything last night, and how this new guy is in my head now, my brain made a connection.

My fantasies finally found Misha a face.

Taking the pillow off my head, I drop it to the side, yesterday’s events playing in my mind. I bring up my hand, twisting it around to see the

remnants of his Sharpie on the inside of my finger. I glance at my chalk wall ahead and see where I added Shame to the bottom of the list.

 

Alone

Empty

Fraud

Shame

 

The words hurt, but last night I realized something. There’s more I’m not seeing. The first word, Alone, was written in his bunk at the Cove.

That’s not about me. It has to do with something else. These words mean something else.

And then the car and the fight… I’d walked out to the parking lot after school, immediately spotting Masen putting something in my Jeep. I’d charged down the steps, ready to tell him off, especially after what he did to my scarf, but when I saw what was sitting on the seat of my car I paused.

Of course it was tacky to give me another woman’s scarf, but I was a little thrown off that he would feel guilty enough to want to make up for it in the first place. It was beautiful and soft and I wanted to keep it.

And then the car wash. How excited I felt when he stalked me like I was prey. How the smooth curve of the piercing felt when I slipped the tip of my tongue through the hoop. How he was so patient and not greedy or selfish, just letting me explore.

How his hand inched possessively up under my shirt, sending me reeling.

I bring my fingers up to my mouth, grazing the tip of one with my tongue. It tickles a little, but it’s teasing, too. Did he like it when I did that?

I wanted to feel good to him, even if I only admit it to myself.

I trail my hand across my cheek and down my neck, wishing it was his hands. Wishing I could go back to last night and not cut him off, making him take me back to school, so I could get my car and run away.

But the truth is…I’m starting to think about him. A lot, and I don’t know why. Especially when he’s constantly in my face, telling me what I’m doing wrong.

I’ve never been in danger of losing my heart to guys like Trey, but with Masen, I find him consuming my attention. I’m always aware of him.

And the closer I get to him, the further away from Misha I feel. It almost feels like I’m betraying him. Not that we’re romantic, but he has my heart, and I don’t want to give it to anyone else. I feel like Masen threatens that.

I said I would give Misha a few days, but I need to know. Is he safe? Is he alive? Has he just moved on?

Pulling off the covers, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the clock and see that it’s after nine.

It’s Saturday. I have the whole day free. I could just drive by.

Not like an obsessive stalker girl who just can’t take a hint. No, I can just drive by. Make sure the house hasn’t burned down or isn’t empty, because his father committed some gruesome murder and left town, on the run, with Misha and his sister in the middle of the night.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a young guy pulling into the driveway and entering the house, and I’ll be able to tell that it’s him, and then I’ll know that he’s alive and well. I don’t have to have any more answers than that, do I?

Standing up, I throw on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, and a fleece jacket. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I’m not going to worry

about how I look. If I go shower and fix my hair and make-up, I’ll be tempted to knock on his door. If I look like shit, then I won’t leave my car.

After I brush my teeth, I jog down the stairs and swing around the bannister, heading into the kitchen.

“Morning,” my mom says.

I look up to see her and Carson sitting at the table, looking through a magazine together. Probably some home renovation thing, because Mom wants to expand the garage. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. “Morning,” I reply.

“The principal called last night,” my sister’s voice rings out.

I falter, slowly closing the fridge door and not looking at her. Shit.

That’s right.

Did she tell them about what I did to Masen’s truck? Or what I told her I did?

Dammit!

But no. My mom would’ve reamed me last night when I got home. She wouldn’t have waited until this morning.

Plus, I doubt the principal really believed me, but there was little she could do.

“She said you’re going to prom with Trey,” my mom says, walking over to me in her bathrobe and her hair up in a bun. She empties her coffee cup into the sink. “She wanted to know your favorite color for the corsage. Why didn’t you tell us he’d asked you?”

“I forgot.” I shrug, relaxing a little. “You were gone, and I’ve been busy.”

Actually, I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. Popular girl is going to prom with popular guy. My place in the yearbook is secure.

But I care so little all of a sudden. I wonder how that happened.

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She nods, her blue eyes smiling at me as she brushes a fly-away off my cheek. “You’re too busy. You leave for college soon. I want to see you.”

I kiss her on the cheek and grab an apple out of the bowl on the center island. “I’ll be home later.”

“Well, where are you going now?”

“To see a friend,” I tell her, turning and walking for the foyer. “I’ll be back.”

“Ryen?” my mom protests.

“Oh, just let her go,” my sister grumbles, standing up and carrying her plate to the sink. “Ryen is so busy and important now. We should be grateful when she graces us with her presence.”

I grab my wallet and keys off the entryway table, clenching my jaw. I don’t remember the last time my sister said anything nice to me. Or me to her, for that matter.

“Carson,” my mom warns.

“What?” my sister says. “I’m happy for her. At least it’s not grade school when she had no friends, and I had to take her everywhere with me so she wouldn’t be alone.”

I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, not looking at her. She always knows what to say to make me feel small again. The smile I can usually force for my mother’s sake is pressed down deep in my stomach, contained under a pile of bricks, and the agreeable words I can always spit out don’t want to play this time. I’m tired.

I walk out the front door and hop in my Jeep before she says anything else. I don’t care if it’s just his town, just his house, or whatever. I need to see something that’s Misha.

I drive down the quiet, pristine lanes of Thunder Bay, the wind blowing through the open cab of my Jeep as loose strands of my hair fly wildly around me. The sun flickers through the leaves in the trees above, and the sea air wafts all around, filling my lungs with its fresh scent.

Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” plays on the radio, but I don’t sing along like I usually do. And I barely notice the slight wheezing coming up from my chest as I gape at the homes and lawns on both sides of me.

Holy shit. I’m way out of my league.

Two and three-story homes with gates and acres and circular driveways bigger than my house stand before me, and the cars that pass by probably cost just as much.

Jesus, Misha.

Not that my house is shabby, of course. It’s more than big enough, and my mother has done a beautiful job decorating it, but these houses are the high-life. For once, I’m really glad I’m driving a Jeep so I can blend in. It’s the only car on the market that doesn’t give away how much or how little you’re worth. There are rich and poor Jeep enthusiasts.

I continue driving, glancing at the map on my GPS and taking a right on Birch and then a left on Girard.

248 Girard. I’ve known his address by heart since I was eleven. At first I thought, with us being only a half hour away from each other, of course we’d see each other eventually. When we got our licenses and had more freedom.

But by the time that day came, we had lives, friends, and obligations, and it seemed to be enough to know we could see each other anytime we wanted to.

If we wanted to.

I pass the houses and read the numbers written on the columns, walls, and gates at their entrances. 212, 224, 236, and then…

I see it. On the left with a hedge of trees and two small rock columns featuring a walk-through gate and a drive-through gate, which is currently open. It’s a three-story, Tudor-style house, balancing the wood and rock beautifully, and I pull to a stop on the other side of the road to stare at it for a minute.

It’s quaint and picturesque but not as massive or pretentious as so many of the homes I saw on the way here.

But it does have a fountain in the front.

He grew up here. This is where my letters have been coming.

No wonder he complains so much, I laugh to myself. It’s a great house, but it isn’t him at all. Misha, who got suspended for fighting twice, plays the guitar, and thinks that beef jerky and Monster energy drinks make for a healthy breakfast lives in a house that looks like it could have a butler.

I feel my lungs growing heavy and thick, and I take out the extra inhaler I keep in a secret compartment in the console. Spring is here, and my allergies are going haywire.

I take two puffs, slowly feeling my lungs start to open up again.

I check my phone, seeing the time is nearly ten. I can’t sit here all day, can I? I look up, noticing a couple of women jogging toward me on the sidewalk, and I hear a kid yelling from somewhere in the neighborhood. I tap my foot against the pedal, suddenly torn.

I said I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but... Being this close, possibly only feet away from him, I miss him so much. I need to know what’s going on.

If I go up to that door, our relationship is over as I know it. Maybe it will go on in some other way, when I find out what’s wrong with him, but it

won’t be the same once I see his face. Things will change, and I will have broken what worked. It will be awkward, and he won’t have been prepared for me just to show up like this. What if we both just sit there, twiddling our thumbs and not saying anything, because I’m the crazy stalker who hunted him down, and now he feels weird?

“Screw it,” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself, but I don’t care.

I rely on him. I have a right to. We’ve had that commitment for seven years. If he doesn’t want me to show up, then he damn-well should’ve written back and told me it was over. I have a right to know what’s going on.

Pushing open my door, I hop out of my Jeep and slam it shut. With weak legs and shallow breaths, I jog across the street, pushing my fear out of my head.

Don’t think. Just go. He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just need to know.

Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back, readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.

I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.

No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.

I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.

Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.

I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.

It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.

Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?

I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.

“Yes?” someone says.

I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?

He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.

“Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”

I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,”

he replies quietly.

He isn’t. So he lives here. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.

And this guy must be his father.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”

His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.

“If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.

I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?

Maybe he knows who Ryen is. Maybe I should tell him who I am.

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“Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back and preparing to close the door.

“No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”

He nods and swings the door closed.

But I shoot my hand out, stopping him. “Sir?” He looks up, stopping.

“Is he okay?” I ask. “I just… I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

His father is silent for a moment, watching me, before answering with a resolute tone. “He’s fine.”

And then he closes the door, and I stand on the front step, frozen and confused.

What does that mean?

I guess I should be happy, right? He’s fine, isn’t he?

He lives here. His father says he’s not home right now, which means he’s home sometimes, so he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army.

But I don’t feel happy.

He’s fine. He lives here. He’s not home right now. Everything’s normal.

Nothing’s changed.

So if he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army, then why the hell isn’t he writing me anymore?

I spin around and charge for my Jeep, knowing what Ryen, Misha’s friend, would do. She’d never give up. She’d keep writing with undying loyalty, trusting that he has a good reason.

But the Ryen that Misha doesn’t know, the survivor, is taking hold right now, and she doesn’t like being played with.

You know my address, asshole. Use it or don’t.

I’m not holding my breath anymore.

“Can you believe Masen Laurent?” Lyla sneers, standing next to my locker as Ten texts on his phone beside her. She stares over her shoulder at Masen and a group of guys on the other side of the hallway. “He probably got kicked out of his last school for fighting, and Trey’s getting tons of shit on Facebook for that fight.” She narrows her eyes on Masen. “Definitely hot, but what an asshole. He should be arrested.”

Trey’s getting shit for that fight? I keep my smirk to myself. You mean for getting his ass kicked.

I glance over at Masen who’s surrounded by four other guys, all of them laughing and joking around as if they’ve been best friends forever. Masen smiles at one of them and shakes his head, sucking a straw between his lips as he takes a drink from a 7-Eleven cup.

I feel my cheeks warm. Those lips. I couldn’t get enough of them Friday night, and he didn’t even kiss me.

What if Lyla and Ten found out right now that he had me in the backseat of his car, and I didn’t want to stop?

He seems to sense me watching him, because he turns his head toward me, both of us locking gazes across the crowded hall. His green eyes pin me to my spot, something hot flashing in them, and I suddenly can’t move a step. I spin back around, throwing my books in my locker.

“Yeah, well,” I reply, forcing my voice flat and bored. “He seems to be finding his crowd.”

“Yeah, the bottom of the barrel,” Lyla jokes, looking at the guys Masen is standing with. “All those guys will be in jail in a year.”

They seem like the type. Masen has been here less than a week and already has a crowd of friends, all of whom seem to fit his style. A few piercings here, some tattoos there, and probably all of them well-versed on the bail process.

“So I heard you ditched him at the car wash?” Ten tosses his gum into the gray trash can against the wall between my locker and a classroom door.

“You’re so bad.”

“Yeah, well.” I pull out my phone, so I can take it to lunch. “My time is precious. He better get used to manual labor, anyway.”

Lyla and Ten snort, all of us shooting amused glances over at the delinquents.

Friday Masen didn’t have any friends, and now… I’ll bet anything they came to him, too. Not the other way around.

Now everyone knows him.

“He keeps looking at you,” Ten says.

I pretend disinterest as I cast a quick glance over to Masen.

My pulse starts to race.

He stands, leaning his back against the locker, and his eyes are on me.

Challenging, amused, hot…like he hasn’t forgotten where we left off at all.

“He can look all he wants,” I say, slamming my locker door and meeting his eyes as I speak to my friends. “He’s never gonna get it.”

The corner of Masen’s mouth lifts in a smile across the hall, like he knows I’m talking shit about him.

“But if he does,” Ten chimes in. “Make sure I’m the first to know, okay? I want details.”

“I’m going to prom with Trey.” I hood my eyes at Ten. “Masen Laurent can admire from afar and enjoy the view.”

Both of my friends laugh, but just then, something hits the garbage can and a stream of clear liquid shoots out and right for us. Soda splashes onto the floor, I gasp as it hits my legs and causes Lyla and Ten to jump back as sticky fluid hits their ankles and shoes.

“Asshole!” Lyla screams across the hallway.

Masen pushes off the lockers, still holding his straw as he chews on it, smirking. His friends follow, all of them chuckling.

He must’ve thrown his soda from over there, into the garbage can.

Prick.

“Sorry, Rocks.” Masen pulls the straw out of his mouth, a cocky look in his eyes as he stares at me. “Didn’t mean to make you dirty.”

His words are filled with innuendo, and his friends laugh louder around him. I flex my jaw, dying to slap that smile off his face as he and his new friends walk away, down the hall, and toward the lunchroom.

He never fails to make an impression, does he?

“Jerk,” Lyla grits out. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up.”

She brushes past me and Ten follows her, shaking his head with an amused smile. “We’ll meet you in the lunchroom,” he says as he passes.

I turn and reopen my locker, taking out the cashmere scarf Masen ruined. It’s already dirty, so what does it matter? I dry off my legs and ankles and throw it back in the locker, making a mental note to take it home tonight and get it cleaned.

The bell rings, and I head to the cafeteria, actually feeling hungry enough to leave my books in my locker today and eat something.

But when I pass the Physics lab, I see something dark come at me on my left, and I barely have time to realize it’s Masen before he shoves me through the door. I stumble into the empty classroom, sucking in a breath as he shuts the door and advances on me, backing me up into the wall.

My heart pounds in my chest, and butterflies flutter in my stomach. But I stamp it down. I look at him with my hands on my hips and my chin up, forcing myself to look calm.

He stares down at me, not saying anything as his chest touches mine.

The room is dark, except for the dim light coming through the windows,

and muffled sounds of laughter and talking drift through the wall from the lunchroom.

He’s close.

Everything heats up under my skin, and his breath falls across my lips.

“This cheerleading outfit is fucking lame,” he says.

I cock my head. “Funny, ‘cause you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off me in it a minute ago.”

His eyes drop to my lips, and he leans in, both of our breaths turning shallow, and I can almost taste him.

I lick my lips.

And he loses it.

He reaches down, grabs the backs of my thighs and hauls me up, and I wrap my arms and legs around him, letting out a small whimper. Yes.

I part my lips, running them over the lip ring and savoring the feel as he groans and digs his fingers into my thighs. I tighten my legs around him, needing to feel him.

“Bitch,” he whispers.

“Loser.”

And when I dart out the tip of my tongue to lick the little piece of metal again, he’s done being patient.

Masen Laurent slams his lips down on mine, moving hard over my mouth and brushing his tongue with mine, the heat and taste sending my mind reeling. I stop breathing. I don’t care. I just go in for more and more.

He bites my bottom lip, moving his hands to my ass and squeezing, and I let out a little cry, the feel of him driving me mad. I don’t want people to hear us, but right now I don’t care about anything.

My eyes close as his lips and teeth move over my neck, sending shivers down my spine. Heat gathers low in my belly as I tighten my thighs around

him.

I want to be closer.

He presses his groin into me, and I come back down, taking his lips and dipping my tongue in, teasing him like that every time I come in for a kiss.

“Keep doing that,” he gasps.

I hear laughter outside and jump, twisting my head toward the door.

But he doesn’t let my head leave the game. He reaches over and twists the lock and then carries me over to a chair at a lab table and sits down, keeping me straddling him.

Grabbing my hips, he brings me chest to chest. “Did you think about me this weekend?” He bites my lip and lets go. “Hmm?”

The feel of his teeth sends my stomach flipping, but I bite out anyway,

“You wish.”

I press my body into him and sink my lips into his as he pulls my hips in again.

“You were talking shit to your dumb friends, weren’t you?” he pants, his kisses and nibbles quick and teasing. “I never wanted to teach someone a lesson as badly as I wanted to teach you one just now.” He pulls me again, my clit grinding against the bulge in his jeans. “I should’ve walked over, flipped up your skirt, and started going down on you right there, so they all know what you really like.”

I start rolling my hips, slow and taunting, but when he darts out and tries to catch my lips again, I pull away, teasing him. “You don’t know what I like.”

“I don’t think I’m going to disappoint.”

His threat lingers between us, and I look down, seeing the tip of a tattoo coming out of his shirt from his shoulder and drifting up just about an inch

onto his neck. I can’t tell what it is, but I lean down and kiss it, trailing my lips slowly up his neck, to his ear.

“Sorry to eat and run,” I whisper, “but my friends are waiting for me.”

I don’t want to leave, but I have to.

I move to get up, but he yanks me back down. “That’s not how this works, princess.”

His eyes challenge me, and I feel his fingers squeeze around my thighs.

My heart beats faster. “Someone could come in,” I warn.

“And what? Find out I’m your dirty little secret?”

“Mas—” But he leans up and snatches my lips, cutting me off. He kisses me deep, and all of a sudden I just want to wrap my arms around him again.

“Don’t call me that when we’re like this,” he whispers against my lips.

Don’t call him Masen? “Why?” I ask.

“Just don’t.” He shrugs me off and stands up, forcing me to climb off his lap. “Now do me a favor and go in the lunchroom and sit in Trey’s lap, would you? I wanna look while your fucking prom date has no clue that I just had that ass grinding my cock a minute ago.”

He gives me a cruel smile, and I inhale a deep breath, raising my chin and trying to look unfazed.

But my heart pounds like a jackhammer. What an asshole.

Before I can reply with a witty, sarcastic, or utterly childish remark, he walks past me and out the door while the sound of the students in the lunchroom floods in.

An ache digs into the back of my throat, but I refuse to cry. Turning, I look out the window and see my reflection in the glass. I blink away the tears and check my face to make sure my mascara and lips aren’t smeared.

Checking that my hair is smooth and perfect again.

Making sure the girl who got out a few minutes ago is tucked back inside, down deep.

I take a deep breath and walk out the door, joining my friends in the cafeteria.

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Sitting in an empty Ferris wheel car, I tip my head back and close my eyes, letting the night wind blow across my face.

The ocean waves in the distance curl and crash ashore, filling the darkness with a steady presence at my back as a car above me creaks in the wind, the rest having been rusted silent a long time ago.

The camping lamp I’ve been using in the room sits under my propped-up legs, and I hold a pen in my hand and a notepad on my lap.

 

Fifty-seven times I didn’t call

Fifty-seven letters I didn’t send,

Fifty-seven stitches to breathe again, and then I fucking pretend.

 

I open my eyes and jot down the last two lines, barely able to see what I’m writing in the near darkness. Doesn’t matter, I guess. I can write it tonight and read it tomorrow.

I’ve been writing this song for two years, ever since Ryen started talking about “the cheerleader” in some of her letters. I got stuck half-way

through, because I wasn’t sure where the story was going, just that I needed to tell it. I had Ryen’s impression through her words, but I couldn’t get further than that.

But leaving school two days ago, after finally having her in my arms in the lab, I needed to write. I was feeling things.

She knows how to work me. How to drive me insane, acting like I’m dirt under her shoe in public but like she can’t get enough of me in private.

Her tongue and mouth, the little obsession she has with my lip ring, the way she grinded into me, and if it weren’t for a couple layers of clothes, I would’ve been inside her…

Yeah, that prissy little act drops like a bad habit, and she can get so hot, I want to take off everything except that lame-ass skirt and see how every inch of her feels.

If her whole stuck-up crew knew how their little princess melts for me…

But I look up, staring out at the theme park and realizing.

No. Not for me.

For Masen.

Damn, I can’t keep this up. I have to leave, or I have to tell her. She’ll never forgive me for betraying her like this. For being right under her nose and damn-near seducing her.

“I’m ashamed I didn’t guess you were here a long time ago!” a voice calls out, and I jerk, looking down at the ground.

Dane stands below with a flashlight in his hand.

I watch him start climbing the beams up to where I sit about five cars off the ground, and let out a sigh. I’m working. For the first time in months, I’m writing. Just my luck.

“You and your cousin loved this place as kids,” he yells up. “I should’ve known you’d be hiding here.”

He crawls up, past the empty cars, and heaves himself over the beam where my car sits. The wheel creaks with the extra weight, but it doesn’t budge. Years of rain and moist sea air have taken care of that.

He takes a seat, and I notice he’s wearing our band’s black T-shirt. Our name, Cipher Core, with some artwork Dane designed, is on the left side of the chest. I have a few at home. Even Annie has some, which she used to sleep in.

I see Dane’s eyes fall to my notepad, and then he raises them to me, the wheels in his head probably turning.

“You got something there for me?” he prods, meaning lyrics.

I laugh to myself, tossing him the book. What the hell? Let him tell me it sucks, so I can give up, and we can go to Sticks and get drunk instead.

He barely looks at the pad, though. He eyes me hesitantly, as if he’s searching for words.

“Your dad isn’t looking too good, man,” he says, keeping his tone even.

“The stores are closed, and no one sees him anymore. He misses you.”

“He misses Annie.”

“He still went to work after Annie,” he points out. “It was when you left that he retreated.”

I prop my arm up on the back of the seat and rub my forehead. He’s not going to the shops? To open up or anything?

Dane’s right. My father was in pain after Annie’s death, but he didn’t abandon his responsibilities. Other than me, of course. No, he gave me all the space I told him I wanted.

But he still took care of the house, ran the shops, did the paperwork, and went on his morning runs.

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He hasn’t called me, though.

If he’s hurting—if he needs me—would he tell me?

I stopped being able to talk to you. I stopped looking for a way to talk to you.

Guilt chips away at some of my anger. Annie loved him. She wouldn’t want him alone.

I look over at Dane and see him holding up the flashlight and reading the lyrics I wrote. His eyes move intently but slowly over the paper, and I can tell he’s reading every word.

He looks up and meets my eyes, nodding. “We’re ready to get back to work. You coming home?”

I don’t know. There were reasons I left, but now I worry that I have reasons to stay. And they’re not the reasons I came for. That’s the problem.

I should never have gotten this close to Ryen. It’s complicated now.

Either leave and keep my friend or stay and lose her forever.

“I still need to get one more thing,” I tell him. “And then I’ll be home.”

Coming up on the house, I slow to a stop and check the clock on my dash.

It’s after midnight, and the street is silent, all of the houses dark.

Except one.

I gaze out at the two-story brick home, a single light coming from the den and a figure moving inside. All the cars are in the driveway, Trey’s Camaro sitting in the middle.

What I need is in that house.

Something of mine—something of my family’s—and I’m getting it back. Fuckface has a baseball game Friday night, and the whole family will be there. I can do it then, and then I can get out of here.

The shadow passes in front of the large den window again, and I follow it with my eyes, the warm light from inside so inviting, making my chest ache. How nice to think your children are safe under your roof, warm and sleeping peacefully, surrounded with love in their perfect world.

That’s about to change.

I put the truck in gear and speed off, heading around the corner toward the school. Ryen’s house is on the way, and I want to see her all of a sudden.

I’ve wanted to talk to her for the past two days, but yeah… I’d just dig myself into a bigger hole, because that’s all I know how to do it seems. I want to crawl in through her window and just touch her and talk to her and see if she can make me see the end of this. Make me figure out how to rewind and start over, before I abandoned her all those months ago when I should’ve clung to her and let her know how much I need her.

But if I could go back—to before I met her in person—would I really want to?

No. I wouldn’t trade those minutes in the lab for anything. Or the ones in the back of my truck.

Eventually we all have to weigh what we want more: wanting back what we had or wanting what could be. To stay or to risk everything to move forward.

I pass her house. She has a temper, and I’m tired tonight.

Besides, I need a shower before I try to crawl into bed with her.

Parking on the other side of the street, in front of the school, I grab my duffel with a change of clean clothes and jog across the road, keeping an eye out for passersby. Not that it’s not dead as doornails at this hour, but you never know.

I run across the school parking lot, not seeing any cars, but I look around just in case. I heard they were going to start hiring security to do sweeps every so often, trying to catch the little vandal who’s decorating the walls, but I don’t see any security vehicles. And they’re still in the process of getting the cameras working, so for now, it’s safe.

Jumping the fence to the practice field, I hike up onto some old football equipment and lift up the loose screen leading into the men’s locker room.

Raising the window, I hop up and plant my ass on the sill and swing my legs over. I throw my duffel on the floor and jump down, turning around to close the window again.

I’ve only risked this a few times in the past couple of weeks, but I’m tired of mooching off Dane for his shower, too. And plus, I could take all night here if I wanted. Even the couches in the library are more comfortable than the Cove.

I grab a towel and strip, stepping into a stall and turning on the water.

The hot spray spreads chills down my body, and I damn near groan at the pleasure. This is definitely a perk of not living at the Cove. I miss my shower at home with my dry-erase marker I used to write on the wall and all the time alone I want.

I wash my hair and body, savoring the soothing temperature of the water probably longer than I should. As soon as I’m done, I dry off and dress in a clean pair of jeans and a black thermal, packing my dirty clothes back in my bag.

But suddenly I hear a beeping and then quick stutters of white noise. I freeze, training my ears.

“Yeah,” a male voice says. “I’ll sweep down here and meet you upstairs.”

“Shit!” I whisper. I stuff the rest of my clothes in the bag and jump behind a row of lockers just as the door opens.

Fuck. Okay, my car’s not in the school parking lot, I closed the window on the way in, I picked up all my shit, and … My eyes fall on the steam from my shower still floating around the ceiling.

Son of a bitch.

I peer around the corner, seeing the security guard flash his light into the shower. My fucking heart pounds in my chest, and I shoot a glance to the window, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out that way. Darting my eyes to him once again, I see him check out the steam hovering high and then immediately shoot his light around, looking for me. He knows someone’s here.

I bolt. Twisting on my heel, I dart down the row of lockers and swing open the door, a huge creak filling the quiet.

“Hey!” he shouts. And then I hear him getting on his radio, alerting the other one.

I bypass the nearest stairwell and race for the next one, skipping steps as I charge up to the main level, carrying my bag. I enter the hallway and glance in both directions, taking off left and jogging down the next hallway, keeping my eyes and ears peeled.

I pass exits chained shut, and I keep running, searching for a way out.

But then I pass the cafeteria and see something written on the windows looking in. I slow down, glancing around me to make sure the guards aren’t coming.

I read the message.

 

I see you, like pictures in a frame,

But I can’t touch, and I can’t be the same.

-Punk

 

I smile to myself. Looks like the little punk struck again.

The message is spray-painted in dark blue in two lines across all four of the large windows. Is he getting in the same way I have been? And even better, how is he getting out through the chains and without setting off the alarms?

I look around, trying to figure out which window I should try to slip out of, but then I hear another door swing open, and I take off. I run down the hallway from one door to another, twisting knobs to check for open classrooms.

The Physics lab Ryen and I were in two days ago opens, and I dart inside just as I see the glow of a flashlight bobbing up and down the floor from the other hallway.

Closing the door gently, I scan the room, seeing the supply closet.

Heading over, I open it and dart inside.

I hear a small gasp.

From right behind me.

Every hair on my arms stand on end, and I turn around, my mouth suddenly dry.

I’m not alone in here.

Reaching up, I grab the chain for the light, but a soft hand takes mine and pulls it down.

“No,” a female voice whispers. “They’ll see the light.”

Ryen?

I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she pulls me back, leading me around the partition of shelves to the other side, by the window. Moonlight streams through, and I see she’s wearing some black

shorts and her rash guard. She must’ve been teaching lessons tonight. Her hair hangs loose and kinky from air drying, and she clutches the loop of a black backpack in her hand.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her.

She stands close, her breathing shaky and nervous. “Nothing.”

“Ryen—”

“Shh!” She grabs my wrists and pulls me down, both of us squatting low as I notice the muffled sound of talking coming from the lab.

“No, I heard a door shut,” one of the guards says.

“This was the only door open,” another says. “You check it out. I’m going to search the cafeteria.”

I hear her shallow breathing as both of us look to the crack under the door, seeing the glow of a flashlight. Shit.

I look back to Ryen and suddenly drop my eyes, stopping. There’s something on her hands.

I shoot my eyes back up to her and then back down, taking one of her hands and turning it over.

Blue paint.

Or blue…spray paint.

I survey the smudges all over her fingers and palm as realization starts to hit.

Holy shit.

I look up again, locking eyes with her. Well, well, well…

“You just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Fear flashes in her eyes, and she pulls her hand away, her breaths sounding like she’s about to cry.

I smirk, and she shoots a glance to the door and then back to me.

“Please don’t say anything,” she begs in a whisper.

Why would I say anything? This is hilarious. Ryen Trevarrow, Queen Good Girl, sneaks into the school at night, breaking more than one law, to anonymously leave messages and air dirty secrets for the student body right under their noses.

Excellent.

I hear the guard’s radio beep and more muffled chatter, and I listen, hearing him talk, his voice moving away from the door.

I take my bag and inch toward the door, listening again.

His voice is farther away now, and I crack the door just a sliver and peek out. If we stay here, we’ll get caught. This isn’t the first time I’ve run from cops, and you don’t choose a hiding place without an out.

“What are you doing?” Ryen asks.

I look out, seeing the beam of his flashlight outside the classroom door as he talks on the radio. I glance across the lab, behind the teacher’s desk, and see the door to another classroom, connected to the lab. Grabbing her hand in mine, I pull her quickly across the room, hearing her suck in a breath as we tread softly and hurry into the next room.

Pulling her through the doorway, I whip around a tall set of file cabinets and back her into the dark corner, squatting down and hiding.

We hear him enter the other room again, a door creaks open and then shuts, and a grumbled “little shit” before he talks to the other guy on the radio again.

I stare at Ryen.

She’s Punk.

Oh, my God. She’s been sneaking around right under everyone’s noses, carrying on this secret life at night. And then watching everyone’s reactions in the morning as they scurry about, trying to find out which of their own it is. Never suspecting her.

Why would they, I guess? She’s never given the impression she’s any deeper than a teaspoon. The perfect cover.

How long has she been doing this?

“Stop looking at me,” she whispers, her tone finally finding its fight again.

“I’m going to head downstairs,” I hear the guy on the radio say.

“I’ll finish checking here and meet you down there,” replies the other one.

I keep still, our bodies close as I look down at her. “Why do you do this?”

She shoots her eyes up, her parted lips inches from mine. “You can’t tell anyone. No one will understand.”

“Who cares?” I shoot back. “Your friends are losers.”

“So are yours.”

“At least I don’t have to fake anything around them,” I grit out. But then I realize that’s not true. The guys I’ve been hanging out with don’t even know my real name, do they?

I push forward. “Why are you two different people, Ryen?”

“What do you care? You don’t know me.”

“Hey, who’s there?” one of the guards shouts.

Shit! I grab Ryen’s hand and we bolt for the classroom door.

“Hey!” he yells.

Ryen cries out as she struggles to keep up, and we rush into the hallway, turning left.

“Stop!” I hear him say, and I see the glow of his flashlight shining on us.

His radio crackles, and I hear him talking, but we’re already around the corner. Passing one of the exits, I notice it doesn’t have a chain, and I push

it open, hearing the alarm go off. But we don’t leave. I pull Ryen the other direction and bolt up the stairs.

“Masen,” she gasps, breathing hard.

We could’ve just run, I guess, but my truck is on the other side of the school, and I don’t know where her Jeep is. We might not make it without being recognized. Hopefully, with the alarm going off, they’ll think we bolted, though.

I pull her into the library and let the door close softly before rushing up the stairs, hearing her struggle behind me. We hurry to the back, hidden behind stacks and rows of books, near the couches and chairs. The library is dark, only the faint moonlight coming in from the windows high above. Our steps are soft, thanks to the carpeting, and I drag her behind a shelf, far, far above and away from the doors in the front.

We’re secluded.

The alarm still goes off, but it’s faint.

She collapses into me. “Masen…”

She breathes fast and hard, only able to take in shallow breaths, and I wrap my arms around her, feeling her go limp.

What the fuck?

Worry floods through me, and I cup her face as she fights for air. Her lids are hooded and she looks like she’s in pain.

“My bag,” she breathes out.

What? And then I widen my eyes, remembering. Oh, fuck. She has asthma. That’s right.

I shoot down to her backpack on the floor and dig in the front pocket, pulling out a red inhaler.

I stand back up, wrapping her in my arms and holding her up. “Here.”

She leans into me, her head resting on my chest as she takes a puff and waits a moment before inhaling another one.

Her chest rises and falls fast, and I lower one arm, wrapping it around her waist as I hold her to me.

Her weak body sinks into me as her breathing starts to slow down and she’s taking in deeper breaths.

Dammit. She tried to tell me as we raced through the school, and I didn’t listen to her.

What would I have done if she’d dropped her bag somewhere, and I couldn’t find her medicine?

I hug her close, feeling, for the first time, how small she is in my arms.

Ryen is always so large around me. Never backing down, her confidence always appearing larger than life.

I hold her head to my chest with the other hand and bury my nose in her hair.

“You’re okay,” I say gently. “I got you.”

“My heart won’t stop pounding,” she says, her fragile voice starting to come around.

“I know.” I smile. “I can feel it.”

The beat of her heart is hitting my chest, and I can feel her body slowly get stable as her breathing calms.

What am I going to do with this girl? Just when I think I have her figured out, she pulls at me a little more.

Just when I think I can’t stand her, and I can leave, never looking back, I turn right around and want to make sure nothing hurts her.

Her arms, hugged close to her body as I hold her, start to drop as she pulls away from me.

She raises her eyes, looking a little embarrassed and not saying anything as she kneels down, grabbing her backpack.

Standing up, she purses her lips and looks around.

The alarm stops, and I have no idea what’s happening out there—if they think we left out the door or what—but she’s not leaving yet.

“You don’t tell anyone about tonight, and I won’t tell anyone you were here, either,” she says. “Got it?”

She turns to leave, but I grab her hand. “I think people would enjoy this version of you.”

“My friends would hate me.”

“They already hate you. Everyone does.”

For a split-second, I see a frown cross her face, but it quickly disappears. She faces me, a light brown eyebrow arched in defiance.

“Why fake it?” I charge. “Why compete with people and play the games?”

She takes a step, trying to leave, but I pull her back. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“This is none of your business!” she whisper-yells, yanking her hand free and scowling at me. “You don’t know me.”

“Does anyone?”

She looks away, her eyes suddenly glistening. After a moment, she speaks, her voice low. “I don’t want to be alone,” she admits. “They may hate me, but they respect me. I can’t be invisible or laughed at or….” She trails off and then continues. “I don’t know why. I just never had the courage to stand apart. I always wanted to fit in.”

“Everyone wants to be accepted, Ryen.” Does she think no one’s ever had those same feelings? “Why do you write on the walls?”

She stands there, staring off and looking like she’s struggling to find words.

“Misha…” she says, trailing off again.

I tense, my heart picking up pace.

But then she shakes her head, letting the thought go. “It doesn’t matter. I just had ways to vent before, a way to be heard, and now I don’t. I just started doing it a couple of months ago.”

A couple of months ago. Shortly after I stopped writing her.

I blink long and hard.

The fake friends, the hovering parent, the worry and stress of wanting to fit in just like most any other person out there… I was her bouncing board.

I was so caught up in my own loss and anger, I never stopped to think how suddenly abandoning her after seven years would hurt her. Not that I’m responsible for her actions, but I am responsible for mine. She relied on me.

“Why are you here?” she asks, turning it around on me.

I look at the duffel bag in my hand, unashamed I needed a shower, but then that answer would lead to more questions. Why am I living at the Cove? Where are my parents?

“Mmmm,” she gloats, a fake smile on her pretty face. “So others have to own up to you, but not the other way around, huh?” She backs away toward the stairs. “My mom is only a phone call away. I’ll get taken straight home with a slap on the wrist. Hope you enjoy your long, hard night in a cold cell,” she taunts and then calls over her shoulder. “Oh, Mr. Security Guard? Help!”

She spins around, and I reach out and grab her, pulling her back into me. “Shut up!” I growl, clamping a hand over her mouth.

But she immediately slams her elbow into my stomach, trying to get away, and I stumble backward, pulling her with me. She loses her footing,

falls into me, and we both tumble to the floor.

I grunt, my back hitting the ground and my arms still around her struggling body. She lies on top of me, her back against my chest.

She squirms, trying to get away, the friction of her ass pressing into my groin. I tense, heat blanketing me.

Fuck.

She pulls my hand away, gritting under her breath. “Let me go.”

“Stop moving then.”

“You don’t get to judge me,” she goes on, turning her face to me, her breath falling on my cheek. “Or jerk me around or make demands. I’m none of your business.”

Her body struggles in my arm, and her ass rubs against me again, making me groan.

But then I hear something.

I take her jaw, forcing her still as I whisper against her ear. “Shhh.”

She suddenly stills, and we both stop breathing as the guards enter the library.

I catch a flash of light through the stacks and hear keys jingle. They’re talking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.

Ryen casts a worried look up to me, and I stare back, holding her gaze.

“What are you going to do?” I whisper low, for only us to hear as I search her eyes. “You gonna turn me in?”

She lies there, breathing in and out but not making a move. My arm around her waist tightens, and I can’t stop myself from moving my thumb over the skin of her jaw.

Her eyes—those blue eyes—have a dozen different emotions going on in them when she looks at me. She can say the nastiest things, but if I see fear or sadness in her eyes, I’m done for.

Her rash guard has ridden up in the struggle, and a few inches of skin is exposed. I slowly slide my fingers over her stomach, watching as her eyelids flutter closed.

“Yeah, I told you, man,” one of the guards calls out. “They bolted out the door. Let’s search the grounds.”

I graze my lips across her cheek, her neck arching up more and more until her lips are millimeters away from mine. I can taste her fucking breath.

“Pull up your shirt.”

She opens her eyes and shakes her head, looking scared.

I lean in, whispering against her mouth. “Come on. I think you like danger.”

My finger is sitting over the pulse in her neck, and I can feel it speed up as I grab her bottom lip between my teeth and drag it out gently.

Her ass slowly grinds into me and I keep my moan silent as I see the flashlights retreat and finally leave the library.

As soon as I see the two sets of boots disappear and the doors close behind them, I slide my hand down the front of her shorts and cover her mouth with mine, letting out the groan I’d been holding back.

Her pussy is soft and smooth, and I shudder at the heat as I dip my fingers inside of her, feeling how tight she is.

“You’re not my business, huh?” I challenge. “You’re so wet around my fingers. That is my business.” I slide in a second one.

“Oh, my God,” she whimpers. “Masen, no.”

“Why not?” I hold her jaw, trailing kisses across her cheek as I pump my fingers inside her. “You think your friends will hate you when they find out you’re a slut who loves getting finger-fucked on a floor.”

I slide my fingers all the way in and back out a few times in long, full strokes, before bringing them up and rubbing her clit.

She moans, arching her back, and my cock strains against my jeans, begging to grow.

“Yes.” She licks my lip ring, rubbing her ass into my dick. “I’m afraid they’ll find out I like it.”

Yes. I kiss her fast, moving over her mouth hard and strong, because I feel like eating, and she’s the only food I want.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I tell her. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

“Huh?”

But I dive back inside her, ignoring her and kissing her neck and jaw and pulling her ear lobe in between my teeth. I taste any bit of skin I can reach, never slowing my fingers down. Of course she doesn’t understand my comment, and I won’t explain. She has no idea that she’s been in my head and body for years instead of just days.

My fingers keep going, deep and steady, coming out to swirl around her clit every so often and feeling her shiver against me. She spreads her legs wider, and I bring my fingers out, covering her whole damn pussy in my hand, because I just want to savor the feel of her. All of her in my hands.

“Masen.” Her pant is wanton and filled with lust.

Masen. I want her to say my name. Not someone else’s.

“I can feel how hard I’m making you,” she whispers up at me, kissing my jaw. “What the hell’s happening?”

I don’t know, but I can’t stop it any more than you can.

“Pull up your shirt,” I demand again.

But she shakes her head.

“Now,” I growl, leaning into her cheek. “I want to look at you.”

Her whisper tickles my jaw. “But you won’t just look. You’ll touch.”

Hell, yes, I will. “You got a problem with that?” I ask. “Because your pussy is kind of in my hand already.”

She kisses me light and soft, biting and teasing. “But if I take off my top,” she teases “you’re going to want me to take off my bottoms, too.”

I groan, my cock swelling painfully. The thought of her naked has the room starting to tip on its side.

Please.

She covers my hand on her pussy with her hand and presses it into herself, grinding against it. “And then your hands won’t be enough, and you’ll want to fuck.” She moans, her body grinding against mine. “And my prom date won’t like that.”

I squeeze her waist, baring my teeth. God, she knows how to fuck with me.

“He doesn’t have to know,” I tell her “As long as you do what you’re told.”

I bring my hand slowly up to her neck, and an excited smile flashes across her face as she reaches down and lifts up her rash guard. I briefly let go as she pulls it over her head, revealing a peach-colored bikini top underneath. Her breasts rise well off her chest, the curves of her smooth, olive skin looking like hills in front of me, and her hard nipples poke through the fabric. My mouth is so dry. I want to taste her everywhere.

“Good girl,” I whisper. “Now take off the other top.”

She sucks in a quick breath, and she looks up, holding my eyes as she timidly reaches behind her neck and pulls the string in one long, fluid motion.

The straps fall loose at her side, and I come up, slowly peeling off one triangle of fabric, exposing her pretty flesh.

Christ. More than a solid handful.

She pulls away the other triangle, and I stare in awe at her. So stunning.

And not even her body so much as they way she plays me, saying just the

right thing to drive me insane and make me angry, turned on, possessive…

She suddenly brings up her arms, covering herself.

“Did I tell you to do that?”

She slowly lowers her arms, exposing her skin for me again.

“How long do you want to look at them?” she asks shyly.

I slip my hand back into her bottoms and slide my two fingers deep inside her again.

“Until you come,” I answer, pumping her and watching her tits bounce as her body sways back and forth.

She squeezes her eyes shut, moaning.

“You like it?” I taunt.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“I like it!” she cries out.

Her nipple stands up like a point, and I can’t take my eyes off her as I fuck her and kiss her lips.

“Come on, Rocks. Buy my silence,” I growl as she rolls her ass against me, dry-fucking my dick as I finger her. “Spread those legs and come on my fingers, and I won’t tell everyone you’re the little shit writing on the walls.”

She rests her head on my shoulder and reaches back with one hand, holding the back of my neck as she fucks my hand. Something builds low in my stomach, and the friction of her rubbing against my cock sends need rolling through me as we go harder and harder. Her tits are bouncing rough and fast, and I watch them, imagining my dick inside of her, fucking her.

“Don’t tell anyone. Please?” she begs, thrusting against me.

The blood rushes to my cock, and I feel cum drip out of my tip. Fuck, I need to be inside of her.

“Just a little more, baby,” I urge. “How good are you willing to give it to me to keep me quiet? Huh?”

“Ah,” she whimpers. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

She nods frantically, crying out. “Yes!” She moves faster and faster, chasing her orgasm, and then finally throws her head back and stills, moaning and shivering as she comes. “Oh, God!”

I push my fingers deep inside her, rubbing her spot and feeling her body’s little convulsions as the orgasm works through her.

She breathes hard and fast, her body tense, and my cock is hard and ready to go, aching in my jeans. I wouldn’t want to screw her for the first time in a library, but I didn’t expect to get myself this worked up, either.

Her orgasm ebbs away, and she calms, her chest rising and falling slower and slower. I look down at her body and her beautiful face, a wave of shit I don’t know what to do with washing over me.

Guilt, because she still doesn’t know who I am, and I’ve just dug myself in deeper.

Longing, because I miss her. I miss talking to her as me.

Lust greater than I’ve ever known, because when we’re like this, it’s the only time she softens and changes and gives me an inch, and it’s a need that’s in my head just as much as my body. It keeps me on my toes.

And something else growing that I don’t want to be there. Something that might make it very hard to leave her.

And impossible to forget her.

I watch her face, her body still and her eyes downcast, and a bad feeling creeps through me. She’s not looking at me.

After a few moments, she sits up and crawls off me, standing up and grabbing her clothes. I hesitate only a moment before I sit up, as well,

watching her warily. She dresses and pushes her hair behind her ear, looking anywhere but at me.

The moment is gone.

But I stare at her anyway, not letting her off the hook.

She picks up her backpack and finally looks at me. “You started it,” she snips, her guard back up, “so if you’re expecting a blow job, then—”

“Then I know where to get one,” I reply, cutting her off. “You’re not my first rodeo.”

A chill settles under my skin, and now I’m pissed. Her jaw flexes, and she arches an eyebrow.

How quickly she can go from hot to cold.

She puts on her backpack and twists around, heading down the stairs. I stand up and walk over to the railing, watching her leave the library.

Fine. She wants her jock prom date in order to live some lie for everyone else’s approval? I can understand that.

But it doesn’t mean she’s going to own every round we play.

Trey’s game is on Saturday, so I have a couple days to kill until then. If she wants to play, I can play.

Image 37

Image 38

 

 

I haven’t spoken to Masen in almost two days. Not since Wednesday night in the library, and now it’s Friday afternoon, and he wasn’t in our first class today again. How does he just come and go like it’s no big deal? Has he even turned in any work? I’ve never seen him with books, and I’m tempted to go to the Cove and check on him. Is he even still there?

I don’t know why I care. He’s constantly getting in my face, I know next to nothing about him, and he’s dangerous for me. I’m not looking to break the mold when the year’s almost over. I’ve come this far, and I don’t want any drama. He should stay away.

But I find myself looking for him. In class. In the cafeteria. In the parking lot. Even when I go home, this small hope lights up that he’ll ambush me in my room just like that first day last week.

I want to be alone with him again. Those few stolen moments—the car, the lab, the library—they’re like my letters from Misha. Something to look forward to.

I didn’t leave any graffiti last night after swim lessons, partly because I almost got caught the night before with him and it was a good idea to back off for a few days, but also because I suddenly didn’t want to.

Masen was the release now.

And I hated that.

When Misha disappeared, and I didn’t know if he was getting my words, I started leaving them at school for people to read. It’s stupid and childish, but one day a couple of months ago, when things got to be too much, I was afraid I’d start screaming. So that night, before locking up the pool, I made a snap-second decision and took out my Sharpie. I wrote on a locker—a special message for just that person.

It was a fluke. It wouldn’t happen again.

But the next morning when I saw him read it over and over before finally writing it down and taping it to the inside of his locker, before the janitor could clean it off, it became something I wanted to do again. The messages became more frequent, bigger and louder, but never personal.

Never with students’ names.

Not until last week with Lyla’s business aired on the front lawn. That wasn’t me, and it was all the more reason for me to stop. Others were following my lead now, and I didn’t want it to get any more out of hand.

They’d hired security, so it was only a matter of time before they got the cameras working and someone got caught.

Especially when I’d been using washable spray-paint and only using markers on things, like metal, that could be cleaned, and not damaged, with nail polish remover. But the lawn had to be cut, since whoever did it had used permanent spray-paint, and the pressure washer didn’t work. How long before it got really destructive?

Well, it won’t fall on me. I didn’t write anything last night, and I’m not going to sneak in tonight, either. We’re all going to the drive-in, and my mom will be holding me to my curfew.

But what would happen if Masen wasn’t around anymore? What if I decide it’s too risky to keep sneaking into the school at night? Will I act out some other way?

No. Weak people have vices. I don’t need Misha, Masen, or anything else to make it through the day.

But as I walk out to the parking lot at the end of school, I can’t help but look for him again. His tall form, his dark brown hair, his green eyes that always find me and send an electric current through my body…

I was mean the other night. Again.

On the floor, in the library, after the dirty talk and the name-calling and the touching and kissing…he’d turned gentle and held me. After he made me come, and I could feel his eyes eating me up, he didn’t push me farther than that. He didn’t try to take off the rest of my clothes or climb on top of me and rush me into something I might not be ready for. He just laid there, holding me.

And I pushed him off and ran away.

I’m attracted to Masen, excited by him, and intrigued by him, but he isn’t forever. I don’t want to go to the prom with Trey, but I want to go, and Masen hasn’t asked me. I don’t even know if he’s going to be here in a week.

I’m not risking Trey and my friends for someone who’s never given the impression he actually wants me.

No matter how much I’m starting to like him.

Lyla and Ten are already at my Jeep, waiting, since we were going to go get food after school today. She stands on the rear driver’s side tire, holding

on to the roll bar and yelling to someone farther away in the parking lot, while Ten sits in the back.

I toss my bag in beside him.

“Where have you been?” I hear a voice ask.

I turn around and see Trey standing in front of me. I would usually consider his navy blue T-shirt and white baseball cap attractive on him, but now I just see bare arms, void of tattoos, and boring blue eyes with boring pierced-less lips.

I want my delinquent.

Lyla hops down from the tire and stands next to me, too nosy for her own good.

“I’ve called, I’ve texted, and I don’t like being ignored,” he warns.

I look around me, lifting up my arms to see if I have anything on my clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have lost my dog tags,” I tell him. “You know the ones that say I’m your property, and I report to you.”

I can hear Ten’s quiet laugh off to the side. Trey’s eyes narrow to slits.

“You know,” he starts, “a little reciprocation from you wouldn’t be out of line. Especially when the whole school sees you and Laurent fucking around with each other.”

I stare at him, keeping my expression emotionless. Yeah, I’m sure the school has drawn several conclusions about Masen and me, given our arguments and the fact that they think I vandalized his truck. But Trey and I aren’t dating, and I don’t for one second think he’s not out there having a little fun of his own. I have no obligation to him, except to look nice for prom pictures.

A prom I agreed to go to when Masen wasn’t a factor.

“You can’t possibly be insecure,” I say, trying to work him. “You’re Trey Burrowes, and Masen Laurent will be walking your dogs someday.”

He stares at me for a moment and then he lets out a snort, visibly relaxing. Lyla laughs to herself, and I let out a breath.

“Did you get your dress?” he asks.

But Lyla nudges me, answering him, “We’re going shopping this weekend.”

“Good.” He comes in and takes my hips, pressing himself to me.

I don’t want him to kiss me, so I quickly turn my head, but his lips brush my forehead anyway.

I look up and see Masen.

He has his back to me, talking to J.D., but his head is turned, watching me over his shoulder. His eyes flash to Trey and then to me again, narrowing. My breathing hitches. Did he just get here? Or has he been around and I just missed him?

“I’ll see you at the drive-in tonight.” Trey’s thumb grazes my stomach, and then he gives me one last look before he leaves.

I feel crowded. Trey is demanding, Lyla’s in my business, and Masen is…everywhere. I feel his presence in the parking lot now, off to the right, like the sun burning on that side of my body.

“What’s the matter with you?” Lyla scolds. “If you don’t start being nicer, he’ll find someone who will.”

I shoot my eyes over to her, feeling them burn. “Nice, like you?” I ask.

“Doesn’t look like being nice did you any good.” And I gesture over to J.D.

who’s laughing with Masen.

Her boyfriend has barely spoken to her in days, probably because he knows what was written on the lawn last Friday was true—we all do—no matter how much Lyla denies it.

But then I do a double-take, it finally registering that J.D. is talking to Masen. When did they start being buddies?

“I can handle my boyfriend,” she says.

“And I can handle Trey. Thanks.”

I turn around and open the door, climbing into the Jeep. Lyla rounds the front of the car and slides into the passenger side, our little tiff still thick in the air. I wish she’d just go home. Every day is heavier and heavier with things I want to say to her, because I know she hates me. I want to call her on it, but I don’t know why. I can barely stand her, either, and there’s just as much bullshit to call me out on. Masen’s been doing it since he got here.

Lyla and I are both hypocrites.

“Y’all, look at Katelyn,” Ten says, leaning up and gesturing out the front windshield.

I put my key to ignition and stop, looking up. Katelyn is talking to Masen again.

J.D. is gone, and she’s standing close to him, smiling and typing something into a phone. She then hands it to him, and he slips it in his pocket, looking down at her with all of his attention.

What?

My heart pounds in my chest, and I curl my fingers around the steering wheel, wanting to take her by the hair and pull her ass away from him.

Really? Why is he looking at her like that? Why did he let her have his phone?

“Oh, God,” Lyla groans. “What is she doing?”

“She really is as dumb as a box of rocks.” Ten chuckles. “Five years from now, she’ll have four different baby-daddies. Just watch.”

My pulse rings in my ears as they laugh, but I blink, dropping my eyes.

Rocks.

Dumb. As. A. Box. Of. Rocks.

I raise my eyes, glaring at Masen Laurent. Motherfucker! That’s what he’s been calling me?

I turn my head away, so they can’t see me seething. Asshole.

Katelyn strolls away from him, looking all pleased with herself as she heads toward us.

“Did you just give him your phone number?” Lyla asks her, kneeling on the seat, one hand on a roll bar, another on the windshield.

Katelyn bites her bottom lip, trying to look coy as she holds my door and leans back playfully. “Well, I thought he might want it after last night.”

“Last night?” Ten presses.

“Yeah, I ran into him in the parking lot after cheer yesterday,” she admits, blushing as she drops her voice. “We were up late.”