“Your prom date’s watching,” he says.
“He sent me,” I reply. “He seems to think you’ll let me bring you to one of his parties.”
I hear a few mumbles around the table, while Masen simply looks amused. We both know what Trey has in store, and I can feel my own friends watching us.
“You don’t want your friends thinking you’re a chicken, do you?” I play.
Masen’s smile widens, and he glances to his side, probably seeing if Trey is paying attention.
Not that either of us probably care. I kind of like this game. No one would believe we’re actually into each other. I can play them as long as we’re not playing each other.
He looks up at me and slides his hands under my knees, pulling me off the table and slowly lowering me into his lap, straddling him. Quiet laughter sounds off around the table and a need is suddenly building between my legs.
Leaning into him, chest to chest, I whisper in his ear. “I don’t want you to go,” I admit. “He won’t be alone.”
“Why do you care?” he speaks low, keeping his tone flat. “You’re still taking Machismo-Dick to prom, aren’t you?”
“Has anyone else asked me?”
“Would you say yes?”
I brush his ear with my nose, feeling his soft skin there. “Ask and find out.”
“Trevarrow!”
I jerk, hearing my name called. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s the principal. Great. I move to get off his lap, but he presses his hands down on my thighs, keeping me there.
“Masen,” I urge. He’s going to get me in trouble. In public.
“Get off his lap,” Principal Burrowes orders me. “Now.”
I put my hands on Masen’s shoulders, moving to get up, but he grips my hips again, keeping me down.
“She gets off my dick when I tell her to get off,” he tells the principal.
My mouth falls open, and I widen my eyes. What the fuck?
Burrowes’ expression turns furious, and I hear various laughs and snorts around the table behind me.
“I beg your pardon?” she exclaims.
But Masen just leans into my ear. “I’ll see you later.”
And then he stands, carefully letting me slide off his lap and onto my feet.
He doesn’t spare anyone a second glance and walks out of the lunchroom with Burrowes’ heels clacking after him.
Somehow, though, I doubt she’s going to be able to stop him.
I’m going to hell. I’m pretty sure she’s going to drag me there herself.
Ryen has a nasty temper, and it’s the one thing about her I didn’t know but was happy to find out.
It excites me.
I tilt the flower pot and pluck out the key that’s hidden underneath. Unlocking her front door, I replace the key and enter the house as the grandfather clock chimes to indicate it’s five a.m. Hopefully, everyone is still asleep.
I’ll tell her tomorrow. I’ll take her to my father’s house—my house—and show her…
No, I should write her a letter. Something where I can get my words out right.
No.
Fuck! She won’t accept it. She won’t be able to get past it. She’ll hate me and cut me off, and my life will be empty without her. I have to tell her, or I have to leave.
And the possibility that I’ll do just that, punk out and cut and run, is the only reason I don’t claim her. The only reason I don’t knock Trey’s fucking hands off her and put a dent in his stomach.
I can’t rob her of prom and friends when I know I won’t be here to pick up the pieces. I’ll either be gone or she’ll make me go.
How do you tell your friend—your best friend—that you’ve been right here, under her nose, playing with her like a puppet? That she had no idea the guy who was fucking her Friday night was the boy she grew up with?
It all just got so out of hand.
I close the door, gently releasing the knob to keep from alerting anyone who might be awake that someone’s breaking into their house.
Looking around the downstairs, I don’t see or hear anyone, so I jog upstairs, careful to keep my steps light and quick. Veering to the right, I twist the knob to Ryen’s bedroom and open the door.
But I hear a gasp and look up to see her scrambling on the bed, pulling the sheet over her chest as she sits up.
I narrow my eyes, shocked she’s awake already as I close and lock the door. I was just planning on lying down next to her, savoring the feel of her for a little while.
Our days might be numbered.