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There are three things I know for sure.
One, hot wax on the coochie ain’t for everybody.
Two, diamonds aren’t a girl’s best friend—tampons are.
And three, Tanner Morgan is an asshole.
I’m sure if I hadn’t spilled beer all over him and gave a subtle suggestion of where he could shove his best friend’s dick, perhaps we would have started out on a better note. How was I supposed to know that the dude was the captain of Bradford Private’s precious football team? I had just witnessed my boyfriend three inches deep inside some random girl. Surely you can't blame a girl for word vomit after such a traumatic experience.
King Jock meant nothing to me. He was just some self-important asshole I was never going to see again. At least, that’s what I thought.
When my mom came home and told me we were moving in with her rich-prick boyfriend and his perverted son, I was pissed.
When she enrolled me in Bradford Private and said there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, I was furious.
But when I found out that Tanner Morgan was my brand-new, motorcycle riding neighbor, I was screwed.
Nobody gets away with insulting the King of Bradford Private, and because of that, I just became Tanner Morgan’s most exhilarating game. He won’t stop until I’ve turned to ashes beneath his feet, but unfortunately for him, playing him at his own game just became my newest obsession.
