The Punk and the Plaything (When Rivals Play #3) - B.B. Reid Page 0,1

teachers were handing out class schedules from behind tables pushed together. I was there maybe a minute or two before I felt gentle yet strong fingers grip my elbow.

Glancing up, I met eyes that could have been melted pools of gold and fanned by long lashes. They did nothing to soften the harshness of an impossibly hard jawline and pronounced chin dimple, but, man, was he still a pretty sight. His lips were so thick they formed a perpetual pout. I often felt their softness brush my forehead or cheek. Ever McNamara should have been on someone’s magazine cover. Unfortunately, he’d never welcome the attention. Unlike someone I once knew.

“Been here long?” he inquired.

“No. Just a few minutes before you.”

He nodded before groaning when he noticed the slow-moving line. It seemed like everyone had a list of questions to ask and waited until now to do it. “Fuck, this line is long. Why are you even standing back here?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?” Where else was I supposed to wait?

Gripping my elbow tighter, he wordlessly steered me toward the front of the line. Scorned gazes followed us as we blatantly cut the line, but no one dared protest, not even the whispers I was subjected to often.

Ever’s wrath was a motherfucker. Just last year, his new stepsister had learned that the hard way. Barely a month after she blew into town, Four Archer had been sent to some reform school in Europe. According to Vaughn, our best friend and Ever’s right hand, Ever had personally handed his father the pamphlet.

We reached the table just as a guy stepped away with his schedule in hand and another was ready to step forward. With one look from Ever, however, he stepped back in line.

“We need our schedules,” Ever told the woman waiting behind stacks of folders. He hadn’t even bothered offering our names. I didn’t recognize the woman whose name tag read Mrs. Thomas, so I assumed she was new. Still, if she wanted to survive this job, she’d learn ours and quickly.

“Young man—”

“I don’t have all day,” he said before she could finish reprimanding him.

Nervously, I began to tap my heel against the linoleum tile. I was sure everyone assumed it was with impatience. Most of what people knew or thought about me was based on assumptions, and nothing I did would ever change their accustomed view of me. I’d long ago decided they weren’t worth the effort. It’s not like any of them had ever bothered to know better.

Mrs. Thomas looked ready to try scolding again when Mr. Stalls, a freshman lit teacher, leaned over and whispered in her ear. After a few seconds, she searched through the stack marked M with pursed lips and pulled our schedules.

Ever accepted them without a word of thanks before pulling me behind him down the hall. Eventually, we stopped in front of the boys’ bathroom. “I gotta take a leak. Will you wait here? We need to talk,” he added at my questioning look.

“S-sure.”

My stomach turned and tightened, threatening to fold me in two at the wary smile he flashed me before disappearing inside.

Oh God…had he had enough? Was he ending this?

My mind began to race as I attempted to figure out what I would do. I hadn’t prepared for Ever breaking up with me. I knew him. He was loyal, almost to a fault, to those he cared about. And what’s more, he never gave me any reason to doubt him—until now.

Feeling like the walls were closing in on me, I looked around for an escape and realized my distress hadn’t gone unnoticed. The whispers were back.

Barbie. Bitch. Snake.

It was all true.

All around, people watched me as they gossiped to one another. I never understood the point of talking behind your hands if you were only going to stare. They made no secret that they were whispering about me. They wanted me to know.

I was a queen without a crown. A fraud. Alone.

Forgetting Ever’s request that I wait, I rushed for the front doors and straight into a thick cloud of smoke that sent me into a coughing fit. My eyes stung for a different reason now as I fought to clear my lungs. I was pretty sure it was from more than just cigarettes, too.

I turned toward the source—a crowd of four or five huddled in the corner enjoying their smokes despite the campus being a nonsmoking zone. I met each of their gazes, allowing them to feel my fury.

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