I need more than that.
I stand abruptly and cross the room. I ignore Jack completely and grab Violet’s arm. She lets out a squeak of protest, but I don’t give her much choice. She can either stand and come with me or she can be dragged.
Lucky for her, she chooses to come—albeit not as quietly as a library would usually dictate. I pull her down one of the aisles, between the stacks, and find an abandoned corner. I box her against the shelves and brace my hands on either side of her.
“What do you want?” she snaps.
So fearless… until she’s not.
“I’m craving another taste of your pussy,” I tell her.
Not particularly true, but whatever. Now that I think about it, blood rushes to my cock. I don’t have a public sex kink. But by the way Violet’s gaze drops to my pants, then back up, I think this girl might be darker than she lets on.
Interesting.
I add that to my mental file about her.
“Or maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do if I interrupted you and what’s his face.”
“Jack,” she replies hotly. “Which, if you’ll excuse me…”
I tsk, not moving. “Not how this works.”
“How does it work?”
I look her up and down, frowning. “I want to see it.”
“See what?”
“What I did to you. The damage.” The reason she limps.
Her gaze goes frigid. “So you admit it?”
I lift one shoulder. “Admit what?”
“That you hit me.” She’s too pale. “And then will you admit that you snuck into my room?”
This is the second time she’s mentioned it, and I haven’t gone near her fucking room. It’s on my to-do list to find out where she lives, but I’ve been a little preoccupied trying not to obsess over her. Clearly, my plan is going so well.
I sneer. “If I wanted to sneak into your room, I’d do it when you were asleep. I’d put my hands around your pretty little throat and squeeze until you woke up, and then I’d squeeze some more…” I can imagine the flush of her cheeks, how her whole face would slowly turn redder. How she’d gasp and gape like a fish out of water. How pretty she’d look, struggling for breath. “Something tells me you’d be into that, though.”
“Not quite.”
“Okay.” I look away, then back to her. “Tell you what. I’ll say whatever the fuck you want me to if you meet me after the game. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
Her eyes narrow. I’m just now realizing they’re so blue, they’re almost violet. Like her.
And I’m all shades of gray. No color, no personality except what I want people to see. I wonder how she’d react if she realizes every smile, every laugh line and crease in my eyes, the things people search for to indicate genuine happiness, is all fake.
If she’d run from me.
I hope she’ll run.
“Tonight,” I prod.
She glowers at me, considering. I see the thought process. I see her weighing the pros and cons.
“I suppose I’ll go to the game. But I’ll only meet you after if you win,” she says.
I smile, and I run my hand down her side. She immediately tenses, but I find what I’m looking for in her back pocket. Her cell phone. I swipe it open, mildly irritated to discover it isn’t even password protected. I shoot myself a text, then close out of it and tuck it back into her pocket. She doesn’t try to stop me.
Choosing her battles?
I step back, ignoring the urge to carry her away now. That caveman instinct is going to get me in trouble. I’ve got to be patient.
“We’ll win,” I promise.
“Otherwise, you leave me alone.”
I’m already turning away, walking back to my table, when her last condition reaches me. But I don’t pause. I don’t even fucking acknowledge it, because there’s no way we’re losing. Not with what I have planned riding on it.
I always do better under pressure.
9
VIOLET
We’re going all out for this. The whole dance team is going to the game, and half of them are in our apartment. While Greyson was whispering in my ear to come to the game, Knox was inviting the whole damn team via Willow. What started as Knox innocently asking if Willow and I were interested—which she responded, maybe—turned into him trying harder. More persuasive of an argument, I would assume. Based on Willow’s pink cheeks anyway.
Amanda and Jess are in Willow’s room, applying their makeup on the floor using one of those cheap wall mirrors. Paris has planted herself beside me in the bathroom, using our curling iron. The rest of the girls are in the living room.
“You’re wearing that?” Paris asks, wrinkling her nose.
I look down at my blue tank top. It has the Hawks mascot in white across the chest. Underneath it, I have a lacy black bra that’s visible on the sides. I fully plan on layering it with a black jacket and scarf, because the stadium will be cold. And in that case, it’s the thought that counts when it comes to school spirit.
“Um… yes.” I lean closer to the mirror and run my nail under my lower lip to perfect the line of dark-blue lipstick. My eyeliner is blue, and so is the obnoxious eye shadow. It’s a remnant from our dance team competitions and performances during the football and basketball halftimes.
She’s got similar makeup anyway. Her winged eyeliner is sharper, and she went with a red lip instead of the blue. But that’s fine. She’s a good three inches taller than me.
“It’s cute,” she offers.
I don’t know why she came. She doesn’t like me and has never made that a secret.
“Thanks.” I can’t help how flat my voice is. “When do your parents come into town?”
She smiles. “In two weeks. They’re actually attending a charity event with Senator Devereux, so it might turn into a whole thing.”
A whole thing? I nod dumbly, not sure what she means. It doesn’t really matter anyway. The last thing I need is to get caught up in Greyson’s web. I don’t need to be his victim again.
And yet, I’ve been pondering what the fuck he wants with me. Why he made me come on his fingers… on the street, no less. Where anyone could’ve seen us.
I get the uncomfortable feeling that he did it on purpose. There. For an audience.
I let out a sigh and cap my lipstick, tucking it into the little clutch I’m taking with me. “We need to leave soon.”
She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, posing in the mirror for a moment. “I’m done anyway.”
She stalks out and almost crashes into Willow in the hallway. My best friend wears a white long-sleeved shirt with the Hawks logo in dark blue. It was a craft project last year, where she carefully cut the sides and retied them. It looks like ribbons up either side, exposing slices of her tanned skin. Her hair is up in a crown braid with a few loose curls.
“Cute,” I say, and unlike Paris, I mean it.
She grins. “You’re going to be freezing.”
I shrug. “Layers.”
“Let’s go round up the cats,” she says. In the living room, she pulls on her jacket. She claps to get everyone’s attention. “We’re leaving in two minutes. Y’all ready?”