Page 26 of Picture Perfect

"Ew," Gen shoots back without missing a beat. "Just, ew."

Dre startles, his face crumpling with displeasure. I can't help the laugh that bubbles up, surprising even myself. It's a sound that feels foreign in the grim quietude of my life—a life where laughter often means ridicule or worse.

Saint watches the exchange, his posture relaxing slightly, though his expression remains unreadable. There's a gravity to him that seems to anchor the group, even as Gen's levity lifts the weight of my worries for a fleeting moment.

"Anyway," Gen said, standing up abruptly. "Crowding the girl in front of her ex is too cliché, even for you boys. Come on, Addy. We have better places to be."

With a nod to each of them, she saunters off with me in tow.

"I think we're going to be good friends," she tells me.

I've never had one of those. I wonder if it's true or if this is just another game.

??????

The clamor of locker doors slamming and the high-pitched laughter of my classmates ricochets off the polished floors as I shuffle through the halls, flanked by Sera and Penelope. Penelope is recounting some mundane story about her mother's latest antics, but her words blur into a distant hum in my ears.

"Did she really?" Sera's voice is tinged with amusement. "That's just like her."

"Totally," I murmur, feigning interest, but my mind is tangled elsewhere—the strange encounter with Saint and his boys and the equally strange encounter with his cousin.

"Addy, are you even listening?" Penelope nudges me, her brows knitting together in mock exasperation.

"Sorry, just thinking about the test in English," I reply, forcing a smile. A lie so smooth it might be mistaken for truth. They don't need to know that my thoughts are with three dangerous boys that may just be the end of me.

As we turn the corner, Preston appears before us like an unwelcome shadow stretching across our path. His blue letterman jacket is like a beacon of misplaced pride.

"Addy, we need to talk." His voice slices through the din of the hallway, commanding attention and obedience.

"Can it wait, Preston? We're on our way to class," I say, a hint of challenge lacing my tone. What has gotten into me?

Preston's gaze is locked on me, unyielding and cold.

"Now," he insists, his stare boring into me as if trying to unravel me right there, thread by thread.

"Ooh, Addy, you think he wants to get back together?" Penelope's voice is a bubblegum pop of excitement, her eyes sparkling with the kind of romantic notions that belong in teen movies, not the harsh corridors of our high school. Certainly not with Preston Montgomery III.

"Maybe he realizes what he lost," Sera chimes in, nudging me with a grin that doesn't quite meet her eyes. They're oblivious to the undercurrents, to the fact that Preston's demands are never coated in sugar but dipped in venom.

"Guys, it's not like that," I murmur, my gaze fixed on the scuffed floor tiles as we lag behind the throng of students rushing to their next class.

"Come on, don't be so dramatic," Penelope laughs, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "He's hot, and every girl here would kill to be in your shoes."

"Hot doesn't equate to good," I mumble, though my words seem to evaporate before they reach their ears. They see the surface—a charming pseudo-athlete with a killer smile and a whole lot of money, money, money. I see the riptides beneath, pulling me into depths where the light doesn't reach.

"Okay, Preston," I sigh, steeling myself against the flutter of anxiety in my chest. My friends shoot each other glances that hold words unsaid, their curiosity piqued by drama unfolding. "Let's talk."

"Damn right," he grunts, his grip firm on my arm as he steers me away from the crowd. My skin crawls where his fingers dig in. More bruises for me. I wonder what life with Preston will be like and imagine there are many, many more bruises in my future if I follow this path.

"Preston," I snap as his grip tightens, possessive and unyielding.

"Keep quiet," he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. We move through the halls, my protests silenced by his glare, the wallpaper of lockers blurring past us in a dizzying array of metal doors and combination locks.

"Where are we going?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel—it always does—but the question hangs in the air, unanswered.

"Somewhere private," is all he offers, the word 'private' echoes with a threat that sends a shiver down my spine.

The boys' locker room door looms ahead, its battered blue paint chipped and unwelcoming. I know better than to argue further, understanding that resisting Preston only fuels his anger.

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