a million different ways.
Tristan’s tongue sweeps my lower lip, pulls it between his teeth, and then claims me completely and wholly, in a way I’ve always dreamed of. My hands come up to grab onto his shirt, but he grabs both wrists in one of his own and holds them in place between us, making it look like I’m begging for more of him. Maybe I am, I can’t tell.
He kisses me until the door to the kitchen opens and our waiter appears.
When he releases me, the sudden break between us leaves me ice-cold, and I slump back in my seat.
Tristan storms out of The Mess, slams the door, and abandons me with a salad, a thumping heart, and a whole tornado of emotions that wreck me from the inside out.
Crap.
Revenge is best served cold, right? This feels steaming hot, and I’m not sure if I hate it … or love it.
During my tutoring sessions with Creed, I make sure that we talk about things other than work. I even accept a few invites from Miranda to hang out in their apartment. Slowly, Creed starts to come around, and even though he ignores me in the halls, he’s very close to the same guy I remember from last year when we’re in private.
We’re back to watching movies on his couch, and it’s not a rare occurrence for me to come over and find him in nothing but sweats, a towel around his neck, a glass of water in his hand as he takes me in with a sweep of those cold, blue eyes.
Oddly enough, I’m having the most trouble getting Zayd to talk me.
A week out from spring break, I get tired of it and track him down in the music room while he’s playing guitar. He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right next to him, humming some song under his breath that I’m surprised to find I actually like. I’ve never been much for contemporary music, so that’s a huge thing for me.
“Whoa, Charity, what are you doing here?” he asks, blinking his green eyes at me and looking almost sheepish about being caught with his hands on an instrument. I cross my arms over my chest and watch him as he sets it aside and turns to stare me down. He looks too tired to pull the full rockstar asshole routine.
“I’m here because you’re avoiding me.” Zayd’s nostrils flares, but he has nowhere to hide, so he’s forced to sit there and deal with me. “Why? You told me about Tristan’s plan with the essay and the test, and then you came to my room to tell me about the bet the girls made. You must care a little, or you wouldn’t have bothered. Besides, for guys who claim they hate my guts, Creed and Tristan seem willing to hang out.”
Zayd’s shoulders stiffen, and he grits his teeth. He rubs one inked hand up his other equally tattooed arm. His sleeves are rolled up, his red tie completely undone and hanging over his mostly unbuttoned shirt.
“Fuck off, Charity,” he says, but there’s no heat left. I wonder what else is going on behind the scenes with the boys that I don’t know about. “You shouldn’t have come back here, you know? Like, didn’t we make it obvious that you don’t belong here?”
“Why?” I challenge, stepping forward and getting into his space. My pulse is racing so fast that I’m starting to feel dizzy. “Because I’m poor? Or because you don’t want me to get hurt?”
“Both? Neither? I don’t fucking know.” He stands up, and I’m forced to take a small step back to keep us from brushing together. I’d forgotten how tall he was, how beautiful, his hair freshly dyed with that same sea green from last year. It’s hard to look away from his lip rings when he starts to tease them with his tongue. “Look, you took my music career away from me. What more do you want?”
“I want us to be friends again,” I blurt without meaning to. I’m actually starting to wonder if I’m straying from my chosen path here, if there’s more going on between us than just revenge and hormones.
“Yeah, well, we were never friends,” he says, but when he tries to walk away, I grab his hand and squeeze it. Our eyes meet, and I refuse to look away first.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on your ghostwriter,” I say, and he blinks confusedly at me. “That song, the one you