Page 2 of Top Scorer
“Ligaya Torres. What a pleasure to see you again,” he mumbles in a similarly pinched tone. Tristan holds out his hand for a shake. I give it a brusque tug. His warmth crawls up my arm, so I yank my hand away, no longer able to control my reddened cheeks.
“Let’s show how much we appreciate the esteemed alumni of Centerstone High School!” At the principal’s order, the auditorium releases its tepid applause. It’s just loud enough to cover Tristan’s snide remarks from other people. But he’s hovering by my side so, unfortunately, I hear him.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Torres the Terror. Still making young lives miserable?”
I haven’t heard that nickname, the “Terror,” in ages. It floods me with memories of irritation. But humor, too. Oh, to be eighteenagain, when my biggest problem was figuring out how to squirt shaving cream into Tristan’s skates.
I snicker. “At least I’m not Tristan Brian Thornethe Turd.”
We’re looking at the audience instead of each other, but his presence is so annoying, it’s as if no one else is around.
“As always, you are as sharp as a skate blade.” The familiarity of his tone is almost welcoming. Almost.
“Wish I could say the same,” I mutter smugly. “Unfortunately, you’re about as sharp as a knife at a toddler’s tea party.”
Tristan makes a chortling sound.
I look up to find his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. Our eyes catch again, and something tugs at the corner of my lips.
It isn’t a smile. That would be ridiculous.
CHAPTER 2
TRISTAN
A woman walks across the stage in black boots, black leggings, a black sweater dress, and black-rimmed glasses, as if she’s the star of the goth-themed stage. As a Filipina, Ligaya easily stands out in this ordinary suburb of Southwest Ohio. With her full lips, doe eyes, supple skin, and take-no-prisoners attitude, she’s a freaking knockout.
A knockout ready to rip my head off.
She shakes my hand. Making contact with her soft palm zings awareness through my body. The principal’s mouth is moving, and the audience seems to be applauding, but all I can register isher.
Ligaya Torres went from an infuriatingly pretty girl to a stunningly beautiful and undeniably sexy woman. A glance downward reveals how well she fills out her dress. I look away, focusing on a spot over the high school crowd’s heads. Another glimpse of Ligaya’s curves will turn this public service presentation into my involuntary gawking fest. Not that I can admit how gorgeous she is out loud. Trading insults comes more naturally than offering praise.
“As always, you are as sharp as a skate blade,” I whisper for her ears only.
“Wish I could say the same, Turd,” she mutters like a ventriloquist. How does she do that? Her mouth barely shifts from her stiff smile. After a beat, Ligaya adds, “Unfortunately, you’re about as sharp as a knife at a toddler’s tea party.”
I snort in amusement, covering my mouth to hold back a laugh. She looks up at me, her nose crinkling slightly and her lips tilting at the corners. I lean in, getting a whiff of her scent, feminine but not flowery. Herbal, almost. The aroma tickles my memory of graduation night when we found ourselves alone, while the rest of the party had passed out or gone home.
And that kiss. Christ, that kiss was hot.
My straying mind failed to notice when the auditorium was dismissed.
What pulls me to the present is a blur of black.
One second Ligaya is beside me, the next she’s ten feet away heading to another hallway.
“Excuse me,” I say to Principal Reinbacher.
My long strides make up ground with little effort because Ligaya is all of five feet two. No taller than she was as a freshman but with the hourglass curves of a woman.
Tiny enough to pick up with one hand, but vicious enough to kick me if I tried.
Ligaya slips into a room. I follow her and close the door behind me. When she realizes what I’ve done, her mouth opens in shock.
Or anger.
It’s too dark in here to be sure.
