Page 27 of Forget Me Twice

His hard, flat stomach flexes as he sits up slowly, emphasizing the prominent lines of his Adonis belt as they disappear into his dark gray slacks. His eyes are gleaming and he almost looks half-feral.

Jesus wept.

Look, I’m not colorblind. Despite having by far the best home life of the four of them, the boy’s got red flags for fuckingdays. I have a very raw memory of his tongue slashing a heated path along the length of my scar. Two minutes after we met.

I’m sure his warning label comes with words likefuckboy,poor impulse controlandboundary issues.

But I also really, reallywant to lick him back. I wonder what the flavorThe One Your Mother Always Warned You Aboutwould taste like?

My money’s on long, sweaty nights and stolen orgasms.

Seated to his immediate left is Tristan, his uniform still immaculate. The embodiment of a Prefect-Captain. His face is once again masked with an expression of cool superiority.

Those eyes are something else though.

Intense and blazing with an emotion I can’t quite read, pinned to the spot as he stares me down. Blue and dangerously alluring, like the hottest part of a flame. He leans forward, hands clasped on the table next to Lake’s hip. A muscle pops along his jaw.

What’s got his boxers in a twist?

For now though, I’m more interested in the table’s other two occupants.

Loomingbehind Tristan like a guard dog, isCallum Patrick Jameson, 18.Former foster child. Mother deceased. Father not listed on birth certificate. Works part time in local garage. Interests in health and physical sciences. On scholarship, sponsored by the Sinclairs.

According to the records we pulled, his mother OD’d three years ago on a dirty batch of coke. We don’tthinkit was any of ourshit, but we can’t be sure. She had loose ties to the Aces when she was younger, with some time spent as a hardbody living in one of their clubhouses.

Callum then had a year bouncing around group homes and couch surfing before Tristan convinced his father to pull some strings and secure Callum a spot in the Academy. Evidently all four boys have been close since childhood. The underlying connection seems to be some rec center that they all met at.

Now if Tristan has perfected the look of icy disdain, Callum is 100% glower and rage. Topping out at 6’3, he is a broad, tense, hulking beast of a man. Rippling, olive-skinned muscles and acres of tattoos. Passion and violence given form.

Colorful ink covers every surface of skin visible below his harsh, defined jawline. His straight, auburn hair is shaved in a fade around the sides and back, left long on top and swept back away from his forehead. I know from his files that those eyes are honey-brown. A silver ring glints from his left nostril.

His poor shirt truly has its work cut out for it, struggling to contain a set of massive shoulders and arms. It looks like he must have abandoned all ideas of wearing a blazer. He’s even larger than Rhett, though not as big as Knox. I can definitely see him as Tristan’s Enforcer. I swear those biceps must be the size of my head.

And finally, sitting directly across from Callum is the fourth member of their crew.

Atlas Orion Rhodes, 18. Single mother, father unknown. Only child. Interests include economics and political sciences. Stock market prodigy.

His mother, who evidently has a love for mythology, has only lived in this country for a little over two decades. There is zero record of Atlas’s father—he wasn’t even listed on the birth certificate.

Like both his mother and closest friends, Atlas is strikingly beautiful. Warm, bronzed skin like caramel. Full pouty lips and darkly lashed, slightly upturned eyes that I know will be a dark blue-gray. An elegant neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. Long, unruly hair in a brown so dark it’s almost black, and swept back into a high, messy bun.

Gathered together in one place, it’d be hard for anyone not to recognize the popularity and influence they wield; the haze of it surrounds their group like a living entity.

Their leader, Tristan, exudes an easy fog of dominance. Callum radiates waves of strength and violence. Lake pulses with a spiky aura of mayhem. Atlas, on the other hand, seems to fold his aura around himself like a blast shield – one crafted from pure, undiluted hostility.

His knee is bouncing rapidly, his hands fisted tightly on his thighs. It’s like his discomfort and obvious desire for personal space is so intense, it’s damn near becoming a tangible thing.

He also has a dark look on his face that’s putting Callum’s scowl to shame. That dead zone around the popular tables is making a lot more sense now.

The last thing I need is to be caught staring, however, so I slide my gaze away from the middle and pretend to cast my interest out elsewhere like a net.

It’s hard to concentrate however. I can still feel the weight of their full, unerring focus, no matter where I’m looking. It’s heavy, like a pair of hands pressing down on my shoulders.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the senior class is also still silently staring, waiting for my next move. At this rate, I’m just going to have to scrap my plans to profile the lunch crowd today.

Not when I’m the one still being given the petri dish treatment.

The smallest tingle of adrenaline sweeps up my spine, gently caressing the base of my skull. Coupled with the quarter flask of gin I just downed in the bathroom, and I’m left with a pleasant warmth in my stomach and a small but welcome reduction in brain noise.

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