Page 19 of Forget Me Twice

The problem is, while I’m not exactly short, they’re being partially obscured by the press of gossiping students. Experimentally, I try to move in through the excited crowd, but the mass of bodies simply continue to push and undulate, not giving way at all.

I grunt in frustration.Awesome.

Not wanting to spend my morning in a locker bay mosh pit, I place my thumb and finger in my mouth and let out a sharp whistle.

The chatter of the excited group in front of me dies abruptly as all attention instantly swings to me.

If I was someone prone to feelings of embarrassment, I’m sure my face would be lava-hot right now. I suppose I can thank the repeated scrambling and reprogramming of my brain for that small miracle, even as I feel the dull beginnings of a headache pressing in.

As it is, I just feel mildly annoyed that my nuanced undercover operation is already in damage control. Before the first bell of the day has even rung.

Rhett would be on the floor in a fit of laughter at my piss poor spy efforts right now.

Eyes wide at the audacity of my intrusion, the crowd parts violently and shuffles back, as if just being in my proximity might infect them with a fatal dose ofSocialOutcast.

I’m now in the direct path of the narrowed, frosty blue-eyed gaze of their leader. Leaning directly againstmylocker and surveying his gathering of minions coolly, is the subject of my previous Rox Boy encounter.

He still looks like he just stepped off a photoshoot.

Sexy, sportyandacademic.

Yes, Tristan Sinclair is deadly hot. He reminds me a little bit of Jax. A goddamn wet dream, and only one amongst a veritable bouquet of Rox Boy eye candy.

“Hey Adonis, you’re blocking my locker,” I say as I tip my chin, indicating where I want to be. “Much obliged if you’d just slide to your left there for me.”

The silence that answers me isabsolutein its shock.

Then a loud scoff. Pushing forward from Tristan’s side is a tall, fiery-haired bombshell.

Fuuuuck.Lady Fortuna is really getting her licks inthismorning.

Sloane Imogen Walker, 18. Head cheerleader, track star and Queen Bee of Roxborough Academy. On again, off again girlfriend of Tristan.

Nowhereis a prime example of one of a few surprises we uncovered during our clandestine deep dive into the Academy. I wonder blithely how many of her lemmings know that their perfect teen idol is actually oneSloane Imogen O’Sullivan, daughter of Michael ‘Smiley’ O’Sullivan—all around bastard and head of a prominent Irish mob family with significant holdings across parts of the Southern Underworld.

Pretty, poised pep rally Sloane is actually a bonafide mobster princess.

That,of course, makes her nearly impossible to turn as an asset. I have a strong feeling I’ll be needing to find a different way to cross her off my list by the end of the year.

Permanently.

“Desperate’s not a good look on you,” she scowls, her plump lips turned down tightly. Crossing her arms up tightly beneath her breasts, she tilts her head at me.

She’s gone straight into mean girl mode. I wonder if she saw my encounter with Tristan this morning and has concluded I must be on the prowl for a Rox Boy.

If only she knew.

Amusingly, she looks and sounds just like Cheryl Blossom.

“Only desperate to drop off my books,Riverdale.” I say with an artificially wide smile and a light shrug of my book bag. “Your boy here is blocking my locker.”

This time my snark isn’t met with silence, but gasps and low jeers as the crowd ripples around us with its bloodlust. There’s fresh meat, and it doesn’t know its place.

I guess that means they’re…off again?

Sloane’s eyes darken. “What’s with the cutesy fucking nicknames?” she asks with a sneer.

What the hell?Cutesy fucking nicknames are my love language, thankyouverymuch.

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