Page 48 of Wicked Dreams

I give him my best glare, but it ricochets off his armor.

“You do give a fuck,” I say quietly, going in another direction. “About me.”

“About your mouth, certainly.” He smirks. “Tell me… how wet were you after I left?”

I open and close my mouth. I amnotgoing down that road with him—no way. But he doesn’t seem to care at my lack of an answer. He knows something I don’t, judging by his smug expression.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing.”

“And how did you get my number?”

He grins. “Ah, youdidget my text. I got it from your friend.”

“Riley?”

We’re still just standing in the middle of the empty hall. He seems to register it at the same time I do, because we both jump into motion. I keep glancing at him, waiting for his answer, but it doesn’t come. And when I lag, he reaches for me. His fingers slide under my hair, to the back of my neck.

I shiver, but I don’t fight him off.

After Savannah, and arguing…

Maybe I should keep fighting or pushing for answers. Or ask if Riley really gave him my number, knowing what she knows.

We reach my classroom door, and he stops just before it.

“What are you doing?”

Quick as a snake, he uses his body to back me against the wall. From where we stand, no one in the classroom can see us. The window in the door is useless, and it happens too fast for me to avoid it.

One minute… walking. The next, pressed to the wall, a hair’s breadth from touching him. It’s a wonder I don’t get freaking whiplash.

“Answer my question,” he demands.

I focus on his throat instead of his eyes. I can’t even remember the question. Instead of admitting that, though, I remain silent.

His hand trails up my arm, the column of my throat, and captures my chin between his fingers. He jerks my head up and down, then side to side. “Yes or no. You should’ve learned that in kindergarten.”

“If I didn’t, it was because you were too damn busy distracting me?—”

His fingers tighten, and I suppress a yelp of pain.

He leans in close. “What did you say?”

“We used to be friends,” I say to his ear. It’s all I can bear to look at. And once this word vomit starts, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. “You used to be nice. I was taken from my family, and you turned into?—”

“Taken away?” he asks, his voice incredulous. “Is that what you call it?”

I meet his stare. “What would you call it?”

“I’d say you threw a goddamn grenade into our lives, Margo. And you never thought about the casualties.”

He releases me, stepping back like I’m on fire. I can’t even move as he takes three long strides to the classroom door—my classroom door—and yanks it open. He disappears inside, and it clicks closed softly behind him.

Now he’s in another of my classes?

And he thinks… No, of course he blames me.

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