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“Yeah. Fine. We can do that,” Trent finally says.
From the look on West’s face, he’s totally pissed off that Trent has relented. Reese, on the other hand, seems pleased.
“Alright, let’s get this thing rolling.” Scrubbing a hand through his golden brown hair, he leans over the packet Professor Sykes dropped off.
We sit there for the rest of class and hash things out. I’m trying to make direct eye contact with them so that they know I mean business; that I’m separating our outside lives from the time we spend together in this class. Despite my best efforts, the men are still darting thunderbolts into my eyes every time that I look at them. I focus on my breathing and try to keep myself as calm as possible. In the end, the struggle pays off, because by the time Professor Sykes releases us from class, we have a preliminary plan for how to undertake the project successfully.
I’m so relieved that I grab my backpack quickly and start to bolt for the door, eager to have lunch with Leslie and take my mind off things.
“In such a hurry,” I hear Trent mutter.
There’s an angry taunt to his voice, like he wants to make sure I know that the torture will begin again each day as soon as Professor Sykes lets us out of class—and it will probably be worse to make up for lost time.
I don’t respond to his words. I don’t stop or even look back.
Honestly, I am in a hurry, because I don’t want them to follow me. I just want to eat my damn lunch in peace.
&
nbsp; That’s my plan anyway, but as soon as I barge out into the hall, I almost collide with Peter, who’s walking past on his way toward the main entry doors.
“Oh, hey, Emma.” He grins brightly, catching my arms to keep us both steady.
“Hey,” I reply, turning around to see where the guys are.
Sure enough, they emerge from the room right behind me, brushing past me to enter the hall but making no move to walk away. Dammit. I’m not going to have any chance to escape.
“Got any plans for lunch?”
As Peter speaks, I see the boys circle around behind him, as though watching the whole thing go down like it’s a theatrical production. They all look just like they did at the party when they saw him with me, except now their emotions have multiplied tenfold.
And maybe that’s what goads me into action—the realization that as much power as they have over me, I have some power over them too.
I might not quite understand why, but this is getting to them. It’s getting under their skin, making them as unhinged as I feel so much of the time now.
A wave of anger washes over me as I see all three guys standing there, staring at me like they might just attack me. And for fuck’s sake, they have attacked me already, so I decide to fire back and hit them first this time.
Walking right up to Peter, I go up on my tiptoes and place my lips on his, giving him a soft kiss.
“Yeah, I do have plans for lunch. I was planning on having lunch with you,” I say with a smile after I pull away.
A look of pleasure blooms across Peter’s face, and I slip my arm through his, prompting him to lead me toward the quad. I don’t even need to turn back and see the guys at this point. Their stares burn into my back like lasers, and a laugh bubbles up in my throat. It’s probably nervous laughter, because nothing about this is funny but I do feel a little high.
“What’s up?” Peter asks with a smile.
“Nothing.” I clear my throat, relaxing my features. “Just excited for lunch. That was a long class.”
As we step out into the warm fall sunshine, I feel my phone buzz and reach into my backpack for it, figuring it’s probably Leslie asking where she can meet me.
UKNOWN: Well played. I could tell that was fake, tho. Are you always that bad at faking it?
There’s no name attached to the text, only a phone number. After moving to Seattle, I got a new phone and changed my number, because I was tired of the onslaught of cruel texts from all three of them. Since I don’t remember what any of their numbers are, I reason that it could be any one of them. From the tone, my guess is that it’s from Trent. But considering that West has a unique hold on me that the others don’t, I wonder if it’s him.
“Jesus,” I mutter. Refusing to respond, I stuff my phone into the side pocket of my backpack.
“What’s wrong?” Peter cocks his head.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just a sales text.”
