The Secret Girl (Adamson All-Boys Academy #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,21
place, and I can hardly catch my breath. A few of the boys come in after me, but the librarian—this big, stern older dude that everyone calls Mr. Dave—steps in between them and me.
“No trouble in my library,” he says, his voice this rumbling bear growl that's impossible to ignore. The other boys scowl at me, but they leave, if a bit reluctantly, and I find myself sighing with intense relief. “That means you, too,” Mr. Dave says after a moment, and I glance up to find him staring at me with hard, dark eyes.
“I … no, I won't cause trouble.” I lift up my sketchbook in explanation, and after a moment, Mr. Dave sighs and disappears back behind the counter, leaving me to stand up and brush myself off. Pretty sure I skinned my knees when I fell, but I don't bother to lift up my pant legs and check. Instead, I find a table in plain view of the librarian's desk and put my stuff down.
Since art is my last class of the day, I ignore the ringing of the bell, and keep drawing until the assignment is finished. Now, tomorrow in class, I can read my book instead. I'm so into these reverse harem reads right now, it's ridiculous. It's practically an addiction. Ugh, don’t even get me started on how much I love The Royal Trials series by Tate James.
Although, going to school with so many boys makes me substantially less interested in having a harem of my own.
I tuck my stuff away and stand up, stretching my arms above my head. There are a few more boys in here now, studying quietly at the row of desks, or arranged in study groups around one of the tables. I ignore them, heading for the door, when a thought occurs to me.
I wonder if they have old yearbooks on hand? I'd love to know more about that girl I saw in the class photo. I was so mad at Dad this morning that I forgot to ask about her, but surely I can do my own research?
Mr. Dave shows me where to find the yearbooks, and while I wouldn't call him nice by any stretch of the imagination, he's at least professional. That is, until I tell him what I'm looking for.
“I'm interested in the graduating class from ten years ago,” I say, and I swear, something dark passes over his face.
“Why.” It's barely a question, more like an angry statement.
“Um, just because …” I start, because I really don't have to give him an explanation, now do I?
“Well, it's not here,” he says, pointing at the two yearbooks from the year before and the year after. “And you're not going to find it floating around the library.”
“Why not?” I ask as Mr. Dave turns and starts to move away with long, powerful strides. He ignores me, and I purse my lips, turning back to the shelf and looking through a few of the other yearbooks. There's nothing about a female student, not even in passing. Maybe they started her as a senior and she graduated or something?
But why was she the first and only female student?
Sighing, I put the other yearbooks back and lay the mystery to rest. For now.
Curiosity might've killed the cat, but I've got sharp claws; I'll be okay.
Or so I think.
Striding into the bathroom after midnight, I do not expect to find all five Student Council boys at the sinks, brushing their teeth. Ranger looks back at me with his toothbrush in his mouth, a blue towel draped over his head. His dark hair is wet and dripping into his face, drawing my attention to those sapphire eyes of his.
Crap.
My heart gives one, big, hard thump, and I feel this tingling sensation shoot through me. I'm crushing, hard. Not cool. I mean, physically crushing. He's a hottie, for sure, but his personality leaves a lot to be desired. My eyes scan across the other four boys, and I shiver when I find Church smiling at me. Part of me is convinced he's like, a psychopath or something. He acts all friendly and nice, but then this cold darkness just takes over him.
“You guys even coordinate brushing your teeth together? That's pathetic.” The words burst from my mouth before I can stop them, and I cringe. I don't mean to come across like a total jerk, but it's my only defense mechanism.