Page 21 of Forget Me Twice

I slip my phone back into my blazer, my attention back on Sloane. She’s quiet, lips pursed and her dark amber eyes simmering hotly with the beginnings of a year long vendetta.

“So, thanks for the concern, but as you can see, I’m doing okay in that department.”

I raise my eyebrows as if to sayyour move.

I wait for a catty retort that doesn’t come. It seems she realizes her little stunt has fallen short and she’s refusing to double down.

Smart girl.

There was no question I was going to land myself on her blacklist at some point, but this may be a record, even for me. What I really need to do now is a one-two-punch; give her a reason to think twice about how she retaliates. She needs a warning.

So I tilt my face to hers, gently brushing a fiery lock back over her shoulder as I erase the small space between us. This time my words are for her and her alone. “Cat got your tongue,mo rós fiáin?” I breathe against her ear.

I lean back so I can catch the moment the color spills from Sloane’s face like a kicked paint bucket.

It’s truly a thing of beauty.

I guess that answers my earlier question—her true roots are a well kept secret, and by the look of horror now crowding her features, it seems Daddy wouldn’t appreciate that kind of information getting out.

The warning bell for the first period finally sounds out from above. The upperclassman who had previously been standing frozen, watching our arch-nemesis origin story play out, now thaw out and quickly disperse.

I shoulder Sloane’s little squad aside and I move towards my locker with a sigh. My skull gives one tight, vicious squeeze, heralding an oncoming headache.Great.I’m going to have to visit a bathroom so I can medicate again before first period.

Not a great start at all.

I’ve barely finished putting in my combination when I hear an exaggerated, masculine groan from somewhere behind me.

“Be still my beating groin.”

Knowing the owner of the flirty curveball is most likely one of the remaining three Rox Boys, I stop myself from turning and engaging directly. It’s a fucking struggle—Ireallywant to lay eyes on them, and that voice is arguably as playful and honeyed as Rhett’s.

It’s the voice of someone you could find yourself in a lot of trouble with.

ButI’ve got to set the tone here. They aren’t going to be calling all the shots this year. I won’t let them.

So instead, I open my locker door, effectively creating a barrier between me and their avid attention. “High school boys, remember?” I call out in a sing-song voice, biting down on my lip to tame the treacherous smile that’s trying to make a break for it.

Damn it, I love flirting.

The answering chuckle is just as musical, and in the same bedroom voice I hear, “Meow.New girl’s got some claws.”

There’s a blur of movement to my left and then Mr Beating Groin is there, slumping one shoulder noisily against my neighbor’s locker door. I snap my own door shut in surprise, turning and raising my eyebrows at his theatrics.

The demi-god I’m greeted with shoots me a heartbreaker of a grin, his teeth a shock of bright white against tanned skin. His eyes are bright with mischief, as he rolls his head of wild bronzed curls dramatically back and forth against the metal door behind him.

There’s an air of barely-repressed, frenetic energy and chaos surrounding him like a messy sort of aura.

Lake.

I should have guessed.

Lake Ezekiel Miller, 17. Adoptive parents still married. Three younger siblings; youngest sister, deceased. Bipolar I disorder, diagnosed at age 15. Avid surfer. Proficient in computer sciences and information technologies.

A jokester with limited boundaries and the ability to procure intelligence from just about any source.

A dangerous foe.

Something akin to excitement bubbles in my chest. From this close, I can see the dark freckle in his right eye, the color of the irises otherwise a mesmerizing hazel.

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