Page 22 of Forget Me Twice

“Maybe you just need to get in some practice time with saidhigh school boys, Wifey.”

I hear a sharpsnickand glance down to see that he’s idly flipping a Zippo open and shut, running his other hand suggestively over his crotch as he does.

“Wifey?” I ask with a snort.

“Don’t play with your food, Lake,” Tristan drawls, appearing just behind his best friend’s shoulder like a silent ghost. He’d been leaning directly against my assigned locker earlier. I didn’t even see him move.

“Yeah Lake, I already havelunch plans,” I say pointedly.

Lake’s grin just grows wider.

“Sharing is caring, ya know? Who’s your squeeze? I’m sure he agrees that three’salwaysbetter than two.”

The funny thing is he’s not far off the mark. Rhett would not evenhesitate to take Lake Miller to bed.

So tempting. So very tempting.

“He’d ruin you, pretty boy,” I smirk instead, shaking my head wryly, like there’s no way I’m even contemplating the idea of a threesome with the two disgustingly attractive blonds.

He leans in and purrs, without skipping a beat, “And who says I don’twantto be ruined?” A warm breath skitters across my cheek. He smells like board wax and sunshine. A warm breath skitters across my cheek. He smells like board wax and sunshine.

Fuck.I’m going to have to really keep my wits around this one.

Before I can even formulate a response, he darts in, licking a hot trail from under my jaw, across my cheek and up over my temple.

“I licked it, now it’s mine,” he growls playfully and then he’s shoving off the locker and darting away. “See around, Wifey.” The incessant click of the Zippo follows him down the hall.

I blink, and with something akin to shock, I reach up and gingerly touch my temple.

There’s a fine tremor in my finger.

He licked my scar. He licked my scar?

Jesus Christ.

Why was that so oddly…erotic?

As my headache madly rushes back in, I realize that my head had not hurt at all during that entire encounter. I guess the stress of having to be soonaround the Rox Boys was enough for a quick dump of nonsense adrenaline.

Maybe having to constantly deal with them during school hours won’t be such a horrible thing if it means more sporadic bouts of drug-free reprieves?

With another blink to clear my sudden boy-induced stupor, I finally notice that I’m the only one left in the hallway, and Istillhaven’t dropped off my textbooks.

I also never even managed to catch more than a glimpse of the rest of Tristan’s ruling cohorts.

Something tells me that encounter didn’t exactly come outentirelyin my favor.

I manageto slip into English Lit right as the final bell reverberates overhead. I’m early enough that I barely register on Mr Moorebrook’s radar as he writes out his lesson plan—but too late to get a decent seat.

Taking in the short, harried teacher, I do a quick pull from my mental rolodex.Peter Moorebrook, 42. Married, two children. Penchant for horse racing. No known affiliations.

He’s not exactly a priority of mine, but I haven’t completely written off his usefulness just yet. Family men with gambling predilections are notoriously easy to bribe.

With a surreptitious glance over the rest of the assembled students, I also file away the seating plan, before sliding into the only vacant chair in the room.

According to the class roster I memorized beforehand, and as confirmed by my quick sweep, there are no Rox Boys or their girls in this particular period.

What’s unfortunate however, is that my seat is closest to the door, which means I don’t have a great viewpoint for observing the rest of my fellow classmates during the lesson.

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