Page 2 of Racing Hearts

“Get out now,” I warn, grinding my jaw. I’m so fucking angry. How dare he look at me like that and mess with me? Does this stupid prick have no sense of self- preservation?

“What the fuck is your problem?” he asks, his eyes flashing as he glares at me. I bet he’s never been in a fight in his life, not to mention ever stood up to someone like me.

“You’re my problem, rich boy,” I snap as I stand, draining my cup. I throw extra bills down and smile tightly at Sandra, the middle-aged waitress working a double with twins at home.

“See you next time, Alek,” she calls.

I storm out of the diner, but I hear his soft, expensive shoes tap on the sidewalk behind me and I whirl.

“Alek,” he calls. “That’s your name?”

“What the fuck do you want, rich boy?” I seethe, stepping closer and towering over him. He might have muscle and be tall for his rich boy school, but I’m much bigger, and we both know it.

“You dropped this.” He hands over my worn wallet held together by tape, his eyes scanning me contemptuously before he turns and walks back inside.

He judged and dismissed me like they all do.

I fucking hate rich pricks.

TWO

Igape, still standing where the asshole just peeled from the lot in his muscle car, spraying me with gravel as he went. Okay, so it was a nice one, not that I know much about cars, but even I could tell it was a sleek, restored number with a huge exhaust. The leather inside looked hand-stitched, and the bodywork was clearly custom, but still.

Fuck Alek, if that’s even his name.

I mean, he was hot, but that doesn’t give him the right to be an asshole. Even if he has a scruffy jawline sharp enough to cut you, eyes dark enough to drown in, and black curls on his head. Shit, yeah, they would be good to pull. His hair was shaved on the sides, which I don’t usually like, but it worked on him. He was taller than me by a good few inches and so muscular I didn’t even know where to look. He also had more tattoos than I could count. His nails were covered in dirt, as if they were stained from a job, not to mention the grease stain he had on his cheek—a cheek pretty enough to kiss. The man was hot as hell, but he clearly has an attitude problem and didn’t like me checking him out or being here, but fuck him.

They make the best sandwiches here. I always stop by when I can on the way to my classes. Shaking my head, I head back inside, smiling brightly at the waitress as I place my order and wait. When she slides it over, she leans into me, her eyes twinkling like we’re sharing a secret. “He’s only an ass to certain people. He doesn’t even speak to most people at all.” She winks and turns away, leaving me staring after her with an arched eyebrow.

What does that even mean?

“Thanks,” I call. Leaving a hefty tip, I tuck the food into my work bag and head out, my hands shoved into my pockets as I walk. I ache to put my headphones on, but I’m trying this new thing where I don’t block out the world, even if they feel like a safety blanket.

The walk only takes about twenty minutes, but I soak up the summer rays and do some people watching until I get there. I picked this school since it was so far from home, far enough away from my small, judgmental hometown and family. Plus, it’s one of the best, and if I want to become a photographer, then I need to learn from the best.

The best teach at Pine Valley College.

Most people think it’s filled with rich folks, and yeah, there are a lot of well-off kids here since they can afford the high tuition, but there are scholarship kids, those who got in on talent, not because of their parents. I’m one of them. I didn’t use my parents’ money or their name to get in—not that they would have let me unless I picked a major of their choosing, like medicine or accounting . . . Oh, and stopped dating guys.

Yeah, they didn’t like that at all.

I cried when I found out I got a scholarship for photography, and that very same day, I had my suitcase packed and I left. They have nothing over me, no way to control me. This is my life, and I’ll live it how I want to. That didn’t sit well with them, and they haven’t spoken to me since. It hurts, even though we were never really that close, but they are still my parents. When I watched others moving their kids in and saying goodbye, I felt lonely.

Luckily, I managed to make some fast and loyal friends, like the pink-haired maniac skipping my way right now. Her bright eyes are enhanced by her thick-rimmed glasses, her wolf cut hair is styled to perfection, and her makeup makes me jealous. Wearing a short dress, fishnets, and boots, Laila, or Lally to her friends, is effortlessly cool—so cool I wanted to be friends with her when I saw her, and when she sat next to me in Introduction to Modern Art, I nearly cried. She looked at me and smiled and said we would be good friends, and I guess she was right.

We are joined at the hip, just two orphan kids who found one another.

“Evvie,” she calls happily, stopping before me with a bright smile. “Are you ready to rock profile taking?”

“Not even close,” I reply as I sling my arm around her, kissing the side of her head as we walk across the open campus to the art building. The grass is filled with people studying, eating, or playing. The trees on either side of the path blow in the breeze as we reach the giant, gothic-inspired building. It never fails to awe me with its beauty, and the fact I get to study here still makes me feel joy.

“Sorry.” I hear a soft squeak, and I stumble as a blur of dark hair shoots past me and into the building.

“Anders again,” Lally says. “She’s always late, but she’s nice.”

I nod as we head up the stairs.

“Yo, Evan, you coming to the party tonight?”

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