Page 18 of Wicked Dreams

“She’s one of the lucky ones.” Riley sighs. “Trust me, if my parents could donate a building to the school, I’m sure they’d let me go for weeks at a time, too. She does half of her coursework online. Just watch, she’ll be here maybe four days of the five, every other week. And she’s not the only one who gets special treatment.”

“Why doesn’t Caleb do that?” I can’t help but twist around and watch them again. “It’d certainly make our lives easier.”

He’s talking in Savannah’s ear. She’s dressed exactly how I would imagine her to be. As a kid, her outfits were chosen by her parents. And now that she’s seventeen—maybe eighteen at this rate—she seems to have inherited their style. A pink cardigan over a white-collar shirt, a pleated skirt, and tights. White high-top tennis shoes. Her makeup is flawless, cheeks painted a pale shade of pink.

She puts her hand on his chest, her lips parting as if she’s surprised by what he’s saying.

Her eyes flash to me, hatred so blinding that I drop my fork. It clatters across the tile, and the noise draws eyes. Not for the first time, I get the urge to melt into the floor.

“Fuck,” I mutter, diving for my lost utensil. I reach for it, but once it’s in my grasp I just… pause. Take a breath.

I shouldn’t care that Savannah now seems to hate my guts. It could’ve just been a misunderstanding, or she was directing her ire at Caleb’s words and just happened to look at me.

Who’s to say she even recognized me?

“Margo,” Riley murmurs. She nudges my leg with her foot, narrowly missing my face.

Point taken, though. I can’t hide down here forever.

When I sit up, Caleb is at the head of our table. Closer to me than Riley, leaning forward and looming over me.

I have to crane my head back, he’s so close. He doesn’t touch me, just stares. I can’t decide if it’s better or worse.

“What?” I finally ask.

He grabs my wrist, squeezing so tight my bones grind together. “This is how you hold on to something, butterfingers. Go ahead. Try to break free.”

I tug on my arm, but his fingers hold fast.

“This isn’t funny.”

“We’re in agreement,” he replies.

I stand and yank, but he doesn’t let go. He jerks me forward, off balance, and then backward. He twists my arm behind my back easily, folding me like a piece of paper. A twinge of pain travels up my arm, and I bend to relieve it. Bend and bend and bend until I’m staring at the floor and his shoes.

“Caleb—”

“Beg.”

My stomach knots, and I glare up at him. “Are you serious?”

“You want it to stop? You want me to let you go? It’s clear you can’t do it on your own.”

I shake my head. Helplessness crawls along my skin. My face is level with his groin, and a sudden shot of fear bleeds through me.

We’re in a crowded mall—but what if this was happening in private?

As it is, no one tries to stop him.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please let me go.”

He drops my wrist, stepping back and grunting in disgust. Something flashes in his eyes—like he’s angrier that I’ve given in to him. And yeah, maybe I should’ve stayed strong. Maybe I should fight the bully next time and make an even bigger scene.

I straighten slowly, smoothing my shirt and ignoring the pulse in my wrist.

The whole food court is staring at us.

They’re not going to reprimand him, though. He’s Caleb Asher, heir to a Rose Hill fortune. If his business up and moved out of the county, how many jobs would be lost? How many people would that devastate?

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