When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,15
deep eyes far in my rearview.
Yet it bothered the piss outta me that I didn’t know his name.
Why? So what? Who cares?
All valid questions.
Near the edge of the quad, I pulled aside a pretty girl.
“See that guy in the white T-shirt back there? Dark hair? Looks like he stepped out of a Hollister ad?”
The girl gave me a funny look. “Um, yeah?”
“What’s his name?”
“That’s River Whitmore. Senior. Quarterback and captain of the football team.”
“Much obliged.”
I started to go but the girl touched my arm, her eyes raking me up and down unapologetically. “Hey, hold up. You’re new, right? I’m Leah. Do you want to—?”
“Nope, I’m gay, thanks.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that…?”
“I said, I’m good, thanks. Appreciate the help.”
“Oh. Okay.”
River Whitmore, I told myself, heading to my locker. There. You know his name. Happy now?
Happy wasn’t on my horizon and knowing River’s name didn’t assuage my curiosity. Just the opposite—my cracked mind seized on it, tasted it, turned it over and over. Whitmore did nothing for me, but River would sound sexy as fuck whispered right before a kiss…
“Nope. We’re done here.”
I deposited my uneaten lunch in my locker and slammed the door. Slammed it on Beatriz’s sack lunch and River’s sad eyes and on the weak flickering spark in my chest that wanted to make something out of both.
Chapter Three
The new guy sauntered away, releasing me from his piercing gaze.
Good.
I wasn’t supposed to be noticing things like the intensity of his eyes or how they were the purest green. Clear and hard, like peridot.
I wasn’t supposed to notice that under all that expensive clothing, his body was built. Not as big as me but lean muscle on a tall frame.
I wasn’t supposed to be paying attention to how fucking perfect this guy’s face was, angular and sharp, as if he were sculpted out of ice. Icy hair, icy attitude but with a fire burning underneath…
“He’s dressed like it’s winter,” muttered Frankie Dowd, the skater punk who tagged along with my crowd, mostly because we’d all gone to school together since kindergarten. “What a fucking weirdo.”
Inexplicably, my hackles went up; I had to clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him to shut his damn mouth.
“Do you ever stop being a jackass?” Violet demanded.
Against my will, my gaze lingered where Holden had gone, the scents of clove cigarettes and expensive cologne trailing after him. I inhaled deep, catching a few remnants. They went straight through me like an illicit drug, making my skin shiver.
What the hell…?
Frankie said something dickish to Violet and I whirled on him. “Get lost, asshole.”
“Touchy, touchy, Whitmore. Later, my dudes,” he said and slunk away.
“You’re coming to the party, right, Vi?” I asked.
Violet looked lost in her own thoughts for a moment before shaking her head. “Uh yes, I’ll be there.”
“Great. I’ll see you then,” I said and turned away without another word.
Because I’m the coward…
I could see it unfold so clearly. At the party, I’d ask her to Homecoming. We’d date and I’d make it through the year without having to confront any feelings I didn’t feel like confronting. Violet was an overachiever like me. We wouldn’t have time to get serious. I wouldn’t break her heart. She couldn’t touch mine. It was perfect.
Bitterness flooded my mouth.
“Hey, man. Wait up,” Chance called. The beefy linebacker lumbered after me. “You’re going to come over early on Saturday for party prep, right?”
“I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“Good, since Evelyn’s invited half the school. Including weird rich fuckers who smoke on campus, apparently.”
My teeth clenched. I felt Chance watching me as we strode across the quad, his wide face scrunched up in confusion.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said tightly. “Just…worried about my mom.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“It’s all good. I gotta go. I’ll be late to Calc.”
He chuckled. “Dude, I don’t get it. It’s our senior year. You don’t even need math.”
“I like it. And I’ll need a shit ton of math to balance the books on the auto body business.”
“Maybe in like, twenty years. Once you’ve racked up a Super Bowl or two, you can pay someone to do all that shit for you.”
I glanced at Chance Blaylock, a guy I’d known since we were kids, friends since grade school, teammates on Pee Wee football and beyond. His position as center was to pass me the ball so that I could be the hero while he took the brutal hits from any D-line that wanted to rip my head off. A thankless job he performed with