Page 12 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“I just need to get the paint, and then we should go.”

We do that, and I practically drag Riley to her car. He’s probably still lording over the food court, but I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. My wrist is bright red, but my pride hurts worse.

“Hey, Applebottom.”

Riley turns instinctively, her face shuttering when she sees Eli. Her grip on me is tight, her skin clammy.

“Where you running off to?”

“Just leave us alone,” I say to him.

He’s sinfully handsome, the ying to Caleb’s yang. Dark eyes, light hair, pale skin. He’s shorter than Caleb, bulkier. I wonder what position he must play, if he’s as fast as—

Stop thinking about him.

“Come with me,” Eli orders.

Riley casts a scared, wide-eyed look in my direction.

“Just you, Applebottom. I don’t really care about your friend.”

I scowl at him, but surprise radiates through me when Riley releases my arm.

“I’ll be okay.” Riley follows Eli around the corner of the building. She doesn’t even leave me her keys.

I drop my bags next to her car, leaning against the bumper.

When she returns, her eyes are red and glassy. Her hair is a little messed up.

I straighten, going straight for her. “What happened?”

“N-nothing. He just wanted to t-talk.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “What’d he want to talk about?”

“Nothing.” She straightens her shoulders. “Let’s go home.”

I sigh. I get it. I don’t want to talk about my encounters with Caleb after they happen, because sometimes it just hurts too much to relive it. Maybe in a few days she’ll spill. But until then, I’m not going to mess with her. Or our friendship.

4

Robert suggests I switch into one of his classes. Since I’m still in a smooth-everything-over mode, I readily agree. I don’t necessarily think I’d be good at it, but painting is better than doing homework in a study hall.

Monday morning, bright and early, he slides a wrapped box across the kitchen island. “For you.”

I unwrap it slowly, savoring the pull and release of tape. I can count on one hand how many presents I’ve gotten from people other than my social worker’s obligatory Christmas present. When it’s revealed, I can’t stop the wide smile from spreading. It’s the set of paints I had bought for him the other day, plus brushes.

“Everything you’ll need,” he explains.

“You were planning on me saying yes,” I accuse.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. Some art will be therapeutic for you.”

“Even if I suck at it?” I ask.

He smiles, holding the front door open for me. “Yeah, even if you suck at it. But honestly, I don’t think you will.”

I follow him to the office, relieved to not have to stand around in the courtyard. If Savannah is back, I don’t want to talk to her. Or be confronted by her. Or look at her.

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