The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,85
to mankind or something.”
“Who, Jake?”
“Of course Jake. Who else has an ego the size of the State of Texas? And who else would show up to a party wearing a fucking MVP medal. Doesn’t he know the season ended two months ago?”
The guy in question is standing by the beer pong table, laughing and carousing with Sam Hawthorne and Cillian Dupris; sure enough, the ‘most valuable player’ medal Coach Quentin awarded him at the end of the football season is hanging around his neck, resting on top of his perfectly tailored Armani blue button down shirt. He glances my way, his smile broadening when we make eye contact, and my nerves jangle like a set of wind chimes.
“Yeah, Jake loves Jake like Kanye loves Kanye. He is cute, though.”
Planting her hands on top of the table, leaning toward me, Kacey dons her ‘do not mess with me' face. “Listen, bitch. If you don't pound that beer, I'm going to walk over there and tell him just how wet he makes your pussy. And then I'm going to tell him that you're still a virgin, and you've been saving yourself for him since fifth grade.”
I glare at her, the skin behind my ears and down the back of my neck beginning to prickle. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Kacey pouts, running her hand over her long, dark hair; it's knife-edge straight and shining like she conditioned it seven times before she came out tonight. As always, she looks incredible in a little black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places and accentuates them in others. There's a reason why she's the most lusted-after girl at Raleigh. “Try me,” she says airily.
I know that look on her face. I've seen it countless times before. Usually before she decides to pull the trigger on a particularly cruel plan designed to embarrass or humiliate one of Raleigh's lesser, mere mortal students. Hastily, I tip back the cup of beer, and I chug. My throat’s stinging from the cold, carbonated liquid when I slam the cup down on the table, gasping for breath. A cheer goes up around me, and Zen appears at my side, winding her arm around my waist. Her hair's braided back into cornrows, bleached blonde with pink tips. Her bubblegum pink dress is almost as revealing as Kacey's.
“Nicely done, Parisi,” she says, planting a kiss on my cheek. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for you.”
Kacey answers the question before I can. “Guitar lesson.” She says the words with the same level of disgust she might say ‘Forever 21 discount rack.’ Kacey’s of the firm belief that an item of clothing isn’t worth shit if it isn’t worth over four hundred dollars. “I don’t get why you don’t just quit doing that, Silly. Your parents give you an allowance, right?”
“Yeah. But I like teaching.” We’ve been through this a thousand times. It would suit Kacey down to the ground if I didn’t have to teach my lessons every night of the week. That way, I’d be able to go over to her place after school and we could hang out, ruthlessly criticizing the cast of The Bold and the Beautiful.
“Whatever. You’re ruining your hands. They look like you do manual labor for a living.”
“They’re callouses, Kacey. I can’t play without them.”
She groans. Zen takes my hand and turns it over, inspecting said callouses. “They feel worse,” she adds disapprovingly.
“Exactly. And how do you think Jacob Weaving’s gonna feel about them when you wrap that grubby little mitt around his cock and you sand his foreskin off? I’ve heard he’s uncut.” She waggles her eyebrows, using her fingers to mimic snipping a pair of scissors. Zen explodes into a fit of scandalized giggles, while I look for the nearest deep hole to go bury myself in.
“You can stop now. I don’t care about Jacob Weaving. I don’t care what he thinks of my calluses, and I’m certainly not gonna be wrapping my hand around his cock any time soon.”
“That’s a shame,” a voice says behind Kacey. The three of us whip around, and the chicken alfredo I ate for dinner suddenly tries to make a reappearance, rising up in my throat.
Jacob.
Standing two feet away.
Holding a glass filled with burned amber liquid.
Arching a blond, perfect eyebrow in my direction.
The amused twist of his mouth says it all.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Parisi,” he says. His head tips back, and he studies me down the bridge of his nose in