RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,52

covering my ass, which was, until a second ago, on display for all the world to see. Of course. Of course I picked out my ugliest underwear this morning, and of course I walked straight into Wren and flashed him my dowdy granny panties.

Just fucking…great. Seriously. Just great.

Wren’s top lip curls upward; he looks disgusted as he steps over me. I get a close-up of the tread of his boots, three inches away from my nose, before I close my eyes, eaten alive by shame. “Looks like your phone’s just been decommissioned,” Wren grunts. “Too bad. Nearest repair place isn’t for fifty miles. Should’ve looked where you were going.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Propping myself up on my elbow, at last registering the dull ache in my side, I reach out for my iPhone and go to grab it before it can sustain any more damage, but Wren’s foot sweeps out, kicking the device across the floor. It comes to a stop at the base of a plinth, on which the copper bust of balding Victorian-looking gentleman angrily sneers down at me.

“God, Jacobi. Way to go. Didn’t think it was possible for you to be even more of an asshole, but you just keep on leveling up.” Carina arrives, dressed in a yellow and blue Wolf Hall tracksuit, her hair tied back in tight, neat braids. She grabs the phone first, presumably so Wren can’t stomp on the damn thing and grind the screen to dust under the heel of his boot. She comes for me next, giving me a hand and pulling me to my feet.

Fuuuuck. My phone is toast. The screen isn’t just cracked. It’s dark and the back light’s completely out. This is just typical. The moment I finally get back in touch with Levi and Ayala, boom! With my laptop still out of commission and it taking an excessive amount of time to be replaced by Harcourt, my only means of communication with the outside world just died a death right before my eyes.

“Shit,” Carina whispers, looking down at the defunct glass and metal; it’s nothing more than a paperweight now. “God, I don’t think that thing’s salvageable.”

“It’s gonna have to be. My father won’t let me put a new phone on my credit card. No way. He just gave me this one. He—”

Stupid fucking girl.

Careless…

Reckless…

Thoughtless…

I flinch away from each word, bracing for a fist that doesn’t come. When I look up, Wren’s cold veneer’s cracked a little, and I glimpse something else—something that looks like…concern? Hah. Yeah. Now I’m imagining things. I must have hit my head.

“I’d drive you to get it fixed tomorrow, Elle, but I promised I’d help organize a party in town. I can take you next weekend, though?”

“Elle? Doesn’t suit you,” Wren sneers.

“Mind your own business, Jacobi. Go on. Fuck off before I go tell Harcourt what you did.”

His coal-black eyebrows shoot up. “What I did? She ploughed into me. I was minding my own business, on my way to class.”

“Just go,” Carina snarls.

I want to look down at my phone. I instruct my nerves and muscles to obey, but they pointedly disregard the command. Instead, I stare at Wren as he shrugs, his gaze searing into my skin like a brand as he backs away down the corridor. Carina waits until he’s out of ear shot before she says anything else.

“Arrogant prick,” she seethes. “I fucking hate that guy. I’d rather contract herpes than have to spend another minute at this school with him roaming around the halls like he owns the fucking place.”

I snort out half-hearted laughter, slapping the busted phone into the palm of my hand and cringing mournfully when tiny fragments of glass rain down onto the floor at my feet. “Herpes? Wow. You really must hate him.”

Carina scowls. She takes me by the sleeve of my sweater and pulls me toward our science class, just as the bell announces our tardiness. “Like you wouldn’t believe, Stillwater. Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”

“Um…hey. Um…”

I glance up from my vegetable pesto pasta, surly and hostile. I must look hostile, too, the way I’m brandishing my fork like it’s a murder weapon and I’m about to sink it into the neck of an unsuspecting passerby. The pale guy with the grey eyes standing on the other side of the table quails when our eyes meet. He seems to grow even paler as the seconds tick by with neither of us saying anything. Poor guy.