Page 21 of Wicked Dreams

“Hey—” I stop when I see who the shoe belongs to.

Caleb. There’s darkness in his eyes, and I want to crawl away from him. How many times do I have to remind myself that he isn’t the boy I knew? That something changed him for the worse, leaving thismonsterin his place?

“Thought I told you to leave.”

I grimace. “Did you?”

I tug at my book, but it’s useless. He leans his weight on it, crushing the spine.

Maybe he’ll do that to you, Margo. If you don’t listen to him.

I bolt to my feet, finding myself inches away from him.

“What’s your problem?” I demand. “Why are you such an asshole?”

His laugh goes straight through my chest and decimates me from the inside out. His hand winds around the back of my neck, keeping me in place. But it isn’t like I have anywhere else to go, with the bench right behind me and him at my front. I’m trapped whether he touches me or not.

Logic, however, doesn’t stop the thrill that zips down my spine at the heat of his palm on my nape.

“Go run to Savannah,” I goad. “Take whatever your problem is out on her.”

His eyes flash.

“I have, little lamb. I broke her, and she still follows me like a wind-up doll.” He tilts his head. “I have a feeling if I broke you, you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?” He wants tobreakme?

“Let’s play a game.” He leans down, until we’re eye to eye. “First one to fold loses.”

“Caleb—”

He pulls me forward by my neck, slamming his lips to mine. I fight him for a second. I struggle against the unyielding pressure of his lips on mine, but he captures my wrists behind my back with his free hand.

Hate radiates through me. He’skissingme, but it’s all anger and fire. It’s hot and stupid. Honestly? I didn’t know kissing could feel this way. Desire and loathing rush through me in opposite directions—one to an unfamiliar pulse between my legs and the other straight to my head.

His lips slide against mine, soft and warm, and all I can picture is scratching his eyeballs out. Or tearing his clothes off.

What the hell is wrong with me?

His fingernails dig into the back of my neck, then relax.

He was the boy I used to love. I was ten and smitten. When we were torn apart, the thought of him was all that kept me afloat in the turbulent first few years of foster care. I wanted to get back to Rose Hill to see him, but it seemed like I could never get close enough. I’m strong enough to admit that I used to think about what grown-up Caleb would look like. What he would sound like. Sometimes I’d dream about him tracing my jaw, wrapping his arms around me and never letting go. Innocent touches for a preteen.

In my imagination, it was never anything like this bitter agony.

Here, now, he’s someone else. Someone meaner, angrier.

I just want my old friend back.

An irrational thought strikes me:He’s still in there. My friend is hiding inside this boy who loathes me—I just need to remind him who I am.

For an instant, I give in to the kiss. How could I not, with thoughts like these running through my brain?

My body softens, letting him mold me. It’s a relief for him to take over, for his lips to part mine. I wait for his tongue to sweep into my mouth, for the rest of the symphony to strike up in my mind. Him winning is bliss and sugar, and I’m drunk on it in less than a second.

And then he’s gone.

He releases me, and I sway. My eyes flutter open in time to spot his wince, but it’s quickly replaced by a smirk.

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