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He was beautiful. Stunning. A lesser word wouldn’t describe him. Dark eyes scrutinized me, and he reached up with fingers covered in tattoos and heavy, thick rings to rub the pad of his thumb over his pierced, bottom lip. A shiver raced down my spine.
Holy guacamole.
“Spencer, this is Logan Barefield,” Mrs. Wright introduced as she walked around her desk to take a seat. “Logan, this is Spencer Wreath. He’s your new tutor.”
Logan scoffed and ripped his eyes from me, turning to look at Mrs. Wright. “He’s pretty to look at, but I don’t need a fucking tutor.” I blinked in surprise. Christ, he was blunt.
“Language,” she scolded, pointing her finger at him. He rolled his eyes. “You will allow him to tutor you, Logan. You need his help to graduate, or you’ll be stuck here another year. Is that something you want?” she asked, arching a perfectly drawn-on eyebrow at him.
He clenched his jaw before standing to his feet and snatching his bag from the floor. He towered over me by a few inches, making me crane my neck back to look up at him. He was already freakishly tall, but those boots made him even taller. “Let’s go, twink,” he said, gesturing to the door. I clenched my jaw.
Twink. Jesus. What a douchebag.
“I expect a progress report,” Mrs. Wright told me as Logan held the door propped open, his booted foot tapping impatiently on the floor. “He needs to stick with this.”
“Okay,” I said quietly before letting Mr. Impatient lead me out of her office. I frowned at him once we were in the middle of the hallway. “Are you always such a douchebag?” I demanded, my hand gripping the strap of my bag with a white-knuckled grip.
Logan snickered. “I like it when you cuss, pretty boy.”
I wasn’t all that sure if pretty boy was better than twink, honestly.
I glared at him, trying my best to not let him ruffle my feathers. Or get me all hot and bothered. Why did the two guys I’d agreed to tutor have to be so damn good-looking? “I’m not here to flirt with you, Logan.”
He hummed and leaned into me. I backed up, internally cursing myself when I met the wall. His smirk widened, a dark, primal look appeared in his eyes, and his tongue came out to flick over one of the piercings in his bottom lip as he planted his hand on the wall next to my head. Warmth spread through my belly, and I prayed he didn’t notice my dick perking up in my jeans.
“Say my name again, pretty boy,” he rumbled, pressing his other hand against the wall on the other side of my head so I was caged in. I swallowed thickly, my heart hammering in my chest, slamming against my breastbone. No doubt, he could see my pulse fluttering at the base of my throat.
I pressed my hands to his chest—holy shit, his very solid chest—and shoved, though that didn’t budge him an inch. He snickered and pushed off the wall, giving me some space. I readjusted my backpack, narrowing my eyes at him. “Which works best for you—Monday and Wednesday or Wednesday and Friday?” I demanded to know, just wanting to get some space from him.
How I got paired up to tutor not one but two either gay or bisexual, arrogant guys, I’d never know. But it was doing my head in, and I wasn’t sure how to handle either of them. My experience with guys was very slim. Only random hookups in dark rooms at parties. Definitely nothing of this caliber. I was out of my depth.
Logan grinned and handed me his phone. “Put your number in.” I scowled but knew it was inevitable. I had to be able to get in touch with him. And just to make sure I could, once I put my number in his phone, I texted myself. Because he seemed like the kind of guy who would flake on me. “And we can do Mondays and Wednesdays.”
I handed his phone back to him once my back pocket vibrated with the text message I’d sent myself. “Good. We’ll start Wednesday. I expect you in the library that afternoon at four. Not a minute later.”
With that, I spun on my heel, heading toward the bathroom since the bell was about to ring for class exchange. “I like a bossy twink, pretty boy!” Logan called after me.
I just gritted my teeth.
And willed my dick to go the fuck back down.
CHAPTER 5
Spencer
THE WEEKEND
“Spencer,” Dad called from the living room. I quickly walked out of the kitchen, where I’d been scrounging for something to eat. We’d been lazy and hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet, and I was starving. I mean, we had food, but it wasn’t what I wanted. And that was a bit of a problem, especially when my stomach was rumbling but nothing was appealing.
Dad was sitting on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table when I walked into the living room. “Yeah?” I asked.
He held out his debit card to me as he informed me, “I called in an order to Emiliano’s for two pizzas, but their delivery driver just got into an accident. You mind going to pick it up?”
I shook my head, my stomach rumbling loudly at the thought of pizza. Now that was something I could get on board with. “No. Of course not. I’m starving.”
He chuckled, not seeming surprised in the slightest. Guessed he’d heard me banging around in the kitchen. I took his debit card from his outstretched hand. “Pizza is already paid for, but go ahead and fill up your gas tank while you’re out,” he commanded.
I saluted him, making him snicker. “Sir, yes, sir.” Who was I to turn down free gas?
