10
VIOLET
My heels dig into the black pavement on campus when I recognize him. Jagger freaking Harden. By some miracle, I escaped Econ without us interacting, but I should know better than to assume my luck would last. Two hours later, and here he is. Blocking my literal path. He’s talking to some girl with long black hair who puts most models to shame. With a laugh, she shifts her designer bag a little higher on her shoulder, looking up at him like he hung the moon. When a group of guys calls out to him, Jagger lifts his chin in response and a football arches through the air, landing right in his waiting hands. As they make their way toward him, he throws it back, starting a little game of toss in the middle of the quad like they own the entire plot of ground. Then again, Jagger’s family probably does. The reminder makes my nose wrinkle.
You know how you don’t notice something until you notice it, and then you can’t not notice it? Well, it’s official. Ever since I crashed Jagger’s party, it’s like I can’t escape the guy, no matter what I do or where I go.
I could always turn around. Get out of here without being noticed. But my next class is on the opposite side of the quad,and if I turn around, I’ll be late on the first day of class, which is the last thing I need.
Come on, Vi. Time to put on your big girl pants.
Keeping my head down, I start toward the group blocking the path, veering into the grass so I don’t draw too much attention when a football nearly hits my head.
“Shit,” someone mumbles before calling out, “Sorry!”
I give the group a blind wave but don’t look back in hopes of flying under the radar.
Please don’t notice me. Please don’t notice me.
It doesn’t work.
The sound of footsteps echoes from behind. My spine straightens, and I peek over my shoulder, finding the one and only Jagger Harden jogging toward me across the grass. Now that he’s closer than when we were in class, I can really take in the damage from last week’s fight. Ouch. His left eyebrow is taped together, sealing a cut from a particularly ruthless blow. His eye is still swollen, too. A dark purple bruise spreads beneath it, though it doesn’t look like he’s bothered to cover it with makeup or anything. Why would he? He looks…annoyingly attractive like this. All rugged and hardened and…like he knows how to take a hit. I’d be sure of it even if I hadn’t witnessed his fight with Ethan. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself. Maybe it’s the bruises and split brow. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. The man is still burrowed under my skin, which is annoying on so many levels.
My jumbled nerves rise with every step he takes toward me, and I shake my head slightly, forcing myself to focus on whether or not I should get the hell out of here. Part of me wants to ask if he’s okay. If his eye hurts. It’s a dumb question. It looks absolutely excruciating.
Realizing I’m still standing like a deer caught in headlights, I start to turn, but his cold, lethal voice stops me.
“Hey, Little Thief,” he says while scooping up the football at my feet and throwing it to one of his friends. “I’ll catch up,” he tells them.
Wait. Did he call me Little Thief?
Turning on my heel, I face him again. “Excuse me?”
“I said, hey, Little Thief.”
Yup. I most definitely heard the bastard correctly the first time.
I paste on a fake smile, grateful for the reminder that I do not like this man. “Goodbye, Jag Off.”
“Jag Off?” He laughs, but it’s low and threatening more than light, without any kind of amusement. Yeah, I pissed him off. Which is what I wanted. Or at least, what I thought I wanted by tossing out Ethan’s nickname for the bastard, but now? Now, I’m not so sure. It’s not like I have a death wish, and with the angry glare he’s currently pinning me with? Yeah, maybe I went too far.
“Seems you’ve been hanging out with your friend’s older brother too much,” he finally says.
Despite how little I know Ethan Morgan, the idea of spending any time with him after how cocky he was last weekend is about as appealing as a colonoscopy without anesthesia. Even so, I smash my lips together, keeping that particular tidbit of information to myself.
“What are you doing here?” Jagger demands.
“Leaving,” I offer dryly. I step to one side, but he mirrors my movements. Yup. He’s just as stubborn as I remember, and I’m not in the mood to replay this song and dance. Not after the morning I’ve had. “Seriously?” I ask.
“Answer the question.”
Standing a little taller, I reply, “I go to school here. Obviously.”
“Since when?”
“Since this year. In person, anyway,” I clarify, but I’m not sure why.
He tilts his head, his unspoken question loud and clear.
