Page 4 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part One

“Language,” Professor Michaels warns as the bell sounds. Riggs’ laugh is smug, shaking his head as he taps his finger on my notebook, the paper empty. I didn’t write a single thing during class.

“I trust you’ll copy them word for word, Rusty Crotch. Give them back tomorrow.” I grimace at the name I called one of the scholarship students last year in the middle of the lunchroom for everyone to hear when she asked out a billionaire’s son to the junior prom. A flush races up my chest, soaking into my ears with an unforgivable heat. Not my best moment. The poor girl struggled to show her face in school again. That’s when I realized I was not acting like myself and more like the person my money and status requires me to be. I have apologized in so many ways, but she won’t respond. I don’t blame her for wanting no part of it. Nothing I can do can make up for that. Pushing it out of my mind has worked until Riggs’ reminder that makes me want to drown myself in a pool of pity.

Without looking at him, I slide his notebook over onto his empty desk.

“I don’t need it, but thank you for the offer. I’m sure you’ll need them to study with.”

He shakes his head, giving me a look that tells me he thinks I’m pathetic. “Photographic memory.” He winks, tapping his head, and I wonder if he is leading on to the fact that he saw other things I’m not proud of from my endeavors last year.

“I don’t need your notebook.” I face him head on, daring him to say something. The icy blue staring back at me has me melting in a good way. Apparently, I can add masochist to my list ofwhat the fuck am I thinkingmoments. I square my shoulders and lift my chin, dropping my tone to the lowest I can. Treating me like shit because of who I am or the mistakes I’ve made will not fly. “You can either take your notebook, or it will stay here and end up in someone else’s hands.”

A couple of students hang around to see the showdown, a show I won’t give them. I can’t help an internal smile when he places his palm down on the red notebook, lifts it from the table, tosses it in his backpack, and exits the room as calmly as he did when he walked in late.

Foxy’s eyebrows raise as she drinks him in, giving him a good once over before turning to me with a surprised look on her face. I give her a firm shake of my head to shut that shit down before it even comes out of her mouth. We file out of the room into the hallway, where I’m finally able to take a breath. Gym is next, and I share it with my crass best friend who is going to get a talking to if she doesn’t wipe the look off her face. I’m looking forward to working out, working Riggs and this encounter out of my system.

CHAPTER3

Classes flyby for the first week, and when I finally feel I’m hitting a routine, Friday is here. I stuff sweaty hockey gear into my bag, then hoist it over my shoulder. I thread the end of the stick under my arm and through the handles of the bag, heading for the door. Practice or pre-try-outs at the Academy always suck. We try so much to integrate the hopefuls in with the team of veterans. I have a while before college try-outs start, so Coach asked me to help with the team this year. I try to direct them as much as possible because I remember how nerve-wracking it was to be in that position, but some shouldn’t be skating, let alone trying out for the hockey team.

My bag is heavy over my shoulder as I navigate the hallways and out the side entrance to the student lot. The Academy and University are on the same campus, so moving my SUV from the spot I parked this morning isn’t necessary. I need to take the old dirty clothes out that are weighing my bag down. The trip to the parking lot might be short, but gear is heavy enough without dirty clothes. My shit would smell better as well.

The heat of the dwindling summer slaps me in the face when I swing the door open. The smell of cut grass still hangs in the air. Of course, the Academy would never let landscaping fall to the wayside, even if there is now grass all over my Wrangler. I guess that’s what I get for staying late to chat with Coach about the recruits this year. He trusts my judgment, but now I’m going to have grass stuck to already sweaty skin when I take off.Great. I can’t wait for a shower.

The sound of laughter coming from someone’s phone catches my attention as I cross through the threshold of the front doors. The scent of a grape flavored blunt tickles my nostrils, and I turn my head over my shoulder ready to tell someone that they need to take that elsewhere because Principal Brooks is inside when my eyes land on the frame that has been taunting me all week with his silence.

Riggs fucking Sutton.

Leave it to me, I can’t help myself when I say, “You’re not supposed to be doing that.” Riggs grunts, not bothering to acknowledge me or even give me a look that tells me I’m a moron as he takes a long drag and the cherry on the end blazes. He likes that expression a lot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that’s how his face is.

His silence irks my damn nerves. Again, I’m not sure why I care, but I do.

“What are you still doing here?” My watch tells me it’s almost dinner time. Practice with Coach ran longer than I thought, and I’ve probably pissed my parents off at this point. I’m sure my phone is going to have a ton of messages asking where I’m at. Oh well, never said I was leaving school, so if I were them, I would assume I had never left. Too bad they don’t see it that way. I should be grateful that I have people to care for me, but sometimes they can be a bit much.

What about Riggs? What is his story? Does he have anyone waiting for him at home? I don’t want to be one to judge and again, not sure why I give a shit, he’s an insufferable bastard, but I know a lot of students like him have terrible home lives.

“What don’t you get about my continued silence that makes you think I want to talk?” he snaps, clicking off his phone as he pushes off the wall to face me. His scowl deepens, and he looks at me like he’s decided he doesn’t like what I’ve got going on one bit. Get in line buddy, there are many people who don’t like me after last year. It’s something I have to live with, even so, just because I made some stupid mistakes last year that doesn’t mean that’s who I am. I’m a good person, and for whatever reason, not because he’s likely the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, I want him to see me for me and not the things I’ve done. I’m sure, at some point in his life, he’s felt that way.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask, disregarding his asshole question. Ignoring him when he’s acting like this is only going to piss him off more, and I’m in the mood to piss him off some.

Dark amusement glitters in his eyes, and he pulls in his bottom lip to lick it as he studies me. My brazen attitude falters a hair under his scrutiny, causing me to shift uncomfortably.

“I’m waiting for a ride,” he finally admits, unreadable, like maybe he realized he gave in and said something that wasn’t a total dick thing to say, and he now regrets it.

“Will they be here soon, or can I give you a lift?”

My offer hangs so heavy in the silence it makes the southern, humid summer air feel even more dense. I’m left here standing, still giving this jerk my time, my hockey bag heavy on my shoulder, when his phone chimes. Pulling it out to check it, surprised eyes flick back to me, like he was expecting me to be gone. He snubs out the ash of his blunt and tiny pieces of weed and tobacco fall out, fluttering to the ground. Once the unsmoked half is in his pocket, he shifts.

“So?”

“So?” he mocks, jutting an expectant ear forward.

“Jesus, dude, what is your problem? Why are you such a jackass?” Dropping my bag down to the ground because my attitude has decided we need to talk about this now, I cross my arms over my chest, guarding myself against whatever he is going to say.

“My problem is you can’t seem to take a hint and leave me the hell alone,” he growls, body tense.

“Why do I need to take a hint? What did I ever do to you?” He clenches his jaw and flexes his fingers. “Because I don’t seem to remember ever saying anything other than ‘hi’ to you in passing. So please, enlighten me on what I’m missing. Do you hate rich people?”

Instead of hashing it out, the infuriating bastard drops his back to the cement wall once again, brings up a boot to create a triangle with his leg, and pulls his phone back out. I huff, refusing to be dismissed. “So that’s what it is. You hate rich people?”

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