Page 23 of Forget Me Twice

I’m only disappointed for a moment before I manage to get a good look at my desk neighbor and a small, victorious smile cracks my lips.

Finally, something is going my way this morning.

The seat directly to my right is occupied by a slight figure, currently hunched over his books and face hidden by a swath of platinum blond hair so light it’s practically white. Elegant neck, broad shoulders, long fingers.

From the little skin I can see showing at the end of his blazer sleeves, his forearms are wrapped in heavy, swirling patterns of ink. He’s tense, tapping a pen aggressively across the back of the knuckles of one hand.

Wren Michael Jacobs, 17. Born and raised in Roxborough, eldest of four children, academic scholarship student.

But the part that really fascinates me?

Budding forger.

Wren’s counterfeits have been popping up all over the state in the last twelve months. And they are good.Reallygood. In fact, if wasn’t for my stupid brain’s hyper-fixation with cataloguing details, I would never have been able to track and trace his work.

He’d be a major boon for The Gray Men.

Or to us,I think slyly. There was always going to be some potential assets that I’d be loath to share with Sebastian, knowing that Jax will need every advantage in the days and months to come.

This kid’s one of them.

Suddenly, I now have the attention of a glittering set of brown eyes so dark and intense they’re almost black. His face is unreadable as he takes his time to openly scrutinize mine. I gaze back, noticing he has an adorable smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that wasn’t as apparent in his photo.

A frown tugs briefly at his brow as he takes in my scar, before his expression smoothes back over. Eventually his eyes lift to my hair. A strained smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Nice victory curls,” he says in a throaty but detached sort of voice, before directing his attention back to the front.

His pen continues tapping.

“You have a good eye,” I chuckle with a soft, impressed laugh. His mother is a hard-working, middle-class woman who trained in hairdressing before becoming a stay at home mother full-time. I wonder if that’s where he got his random knowledge of 1940’s patriotic pin up hairdos.

I can’t outright ask him that though, of course. Instead, I pass my hand over for a friendly handshake. “Sabine.”

He blinks when he hears my name and again that frown appears. He looks down at my offering for a solid three seconds before sliding a cold hand into my palm. “You’re on Sloane Walker’s shit-list, you know,” he informs me bluntly.

I retrieve my hand on a sigh and blow a raspberry. “Is that the hot, angry red-head? Yeah, I was kind of hoping to make it a full week before incurring the wrath of any of the head BICs. But guess I’m kind of an overachiever when it comes to pissing people off.”

I cover the small inward cringe that always follows thoughts of Sebastian with a casual shoulder lift. Turning more fully towards him, I prop one elbow on my desk so I can rest a cheek on one fist. “So.”

“So.” He’s still not giving me much of anything with his body language. Just a lot of tension.

“You gonna tell me your name?” I wave a hand between us. “That’s usually how these sorts of social exchanges tend to go. Me Sabine and you…?”

He side-eyes me. “Wren,” he says slowly, almost as if he’s wondering if he should be guarding against my small-talk slash distraction tactics.

Baby, you have no idea.

His defensiveness makes me wonder where in the Academy totem pole Wren Jacobs fits. Is he a victim of these same girls? Or does he prefer to fly under the radar? Is he worried being seen with me might garner him unwanted attention?

“Nice to meet you,Wren,” I drawl. “No need to get your back up, I’m just trying to scope out some potentially friendly faces before I go out there and get eaten alive by the Roxborough elite.”

He’s quiet for a beat before he asks, “Where are you from?”

“Lexington. Moved here over the summer.”

His mouth pulls down at the corners. “So…you’renotfrom Rox City?” He almost sounds confused. Hesitant.

“Nope, why?” He must have assumed I was transferring over from one of the public high schools.

Those dark eyes search my face again before he shakes his head. “Never mind, I just thought…” He doesn’t finish that sentence though. I’m a little weirded out, but more intrigued than anything.

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