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She inhales a shaky breath. “I think it’s a classical ending.”
“Bullshit,” I deadpan, enjoying the way she frowns at my choice of word.I pluck a clementine from the tree and start to peel it. I’m meticulous, taking my time to carefully peel off those little annoying strings from the fruit. I hate those.
“It’s a tragic love,” she defends. Riley acts personally attacked by my remarks, and I safely conclude that The Great Gatsby is probably her favorite book. Since she’s being so defensive about some stupid, fictional characters. “Of course, I don’t expect you to understand that.”
I scoff in response. “Love is always a tragedy.”
“So you think you’re different and special just because you think the book is bad, while everyone else is praising it for being a classic?”
I merely shrug, before popping a piece of clementine into my mouth. A burst of flavor fills my mouth, and fuck, this is good. Sweet and tangy — with a bit of entertainment on the side as I watch Riley Johnson mull over my words.
“I’ve seen your twin around.” Riley brings a hand up to her face, to find shade from the sunlight as she squints up at me. “Why are you here?”
“Why are you here?” I shoot back, but then chuckle. “Oh wait, I know.”
Her body tenses and I watch as her jaw clenches. She grips her book tighter. I chew on my clementine, hiding my smirk. “I was there that night, at the Christmas gala. I had a front-row seat to your downfall. I was practically disintegrating with boredom. But I have to say, you puking all over your father’s expensive shoes sure made my night more interesting.”
Riley sucks in a shocked breath, and I see the exact moment her composure changes. Her body jerks as if I slapped her, and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. I don’t miss the anxious twitch in her jaw, or the fact that her gaze slides away from me. I study her with quiet interest.
Riley Johnson is something for sure.
She was fierce a minute ago, but the moment I mentioned that night, she’s all meek now. Like a kicked puppy — small and easily spooked.
You see, I’m always drawn to broken things; it’s a peculiar interest. I’m not drawn to fix them — but to watch as desperation bleeds out of them, to see just how far they’ll go. And just how thin the veil of life and death is. One time, Cole and I found an injured bird. While he rushed to help, wanting to fix it — I, on the other hand, was simply captivated by the bird’s broken wing and its struggle to fly again.
And Riley Johnson?
She’s a broken pretty thing.
Her brokenness entices me; it feeds the venom in my soul.
She gets to her feet, taking her blanket and book with her. Riley tries to silently push past me, and I find that amusing. That’s all it took to shut her up? She’s making herself an easy target, and what she doesn’t realize is that boys like me — we see vulnerability and we pounce on it.
C’mon now, Riley Johnson. Where’s the fire in you, the one I saw just a minute ago? I know she’s more than this pathetic weakling.
My hand snakes out, and my fingers brush against her blonde hair. I wrap a silky strand around my index finger, before using it to tug her to me. Riley wobbles toward me, before standing her ground. But she’s still not looking me in the eyes.
I cock my head, feigning innocence before spewing venom that I know will hurt the princess even more. “Little Miss Popular got dethroned.”
Her lips part with a silent gasp, and she takes in a shuddering breath before her gaze finally darts up to mine. There are specks of gold in her brown eyes. “You find that amusing, don’t you? Laughing at someone’s downfall? Mocking their defeat? That’s very typical of you, Bennett. I’m not even surprised.”
“Are you though?
“Am I what?” She grits sharply.
I tug on her hair again, just because. “Defeated.”
“Weren’t you there?” Her exasperation bleeds through her words. “Didn’t you see what happened?”
I saw, alright. But that was only the outside shell of Riley Johnson. Because even pretty girls like my nemesis harbors dark and dirty secrets. So, what are hers? My eyes roam her face and her body, lingering longer over her tits and the sway of her hips. The yellow dress molds perfectly to all her curves.
“You know what you remind me of?” My lips twitch with a half-smile at the memory. “An injured bird I found once. The wing was broken.”
Her pink lips form a silent ‘O.’
“It died,” I tell her.
She jerks back, and her lips twist angrily. “I remind you of a dead bird? Let go of my hair, Colton.”
