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Chapter Thirteen
Emory Underwood smells like fresh laundry and a little like citrus. Like something clean when in reality he’s not clean at all. I hate that I recognize his scent the moment it hits me in the hallway.
“What’s the rush, Iz-la Rush?”
“Ha,” I say, keeping my focus on the backs of the students in front of me. “Did you think of that pun all by yourself?”
“Of course I did. It’s one of my many talents.”
I give him a sardonic smile. “Next to breaking hearts?”
He nods. “If you want to call that a talent. But I’m here to talk about you. Seems like you had more to say back there.”
I shake my head and look forward again. “I’ve shared enough embarrassing moments with you, thanks.”
To my right, Emory’s presence is a force of nature. People get out of his way as we walk. He must know this because he steps a little in front of me and guides us down the main corridor of the school where the hallway gets too narrow to accompany so many students. He doesn’t say anything else, and I have this weird mixture of emotions rise up inside of me. I want him to talk to me, but I also want him to just go away.
We make a left, toward the science wing of the school. My class is on the very top floor, up four flights of stairs. Emory either knows this, or he has a class up here too, because he stays beside me when I head to my favorite staircase on the south side of the building. Silence settles over us once we’ve reached this part of the school, and soon the only sound is our footsteps climbing up the stairs. At the first bend, I slow down, hoping he’ll take the opportunity to scale the rest of the stairs out of step with me.
He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “You tired already, Iz-la? We still have three flights of stairs to go.”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know where my class is?”
He shrugs. “Fifth-period physics is right across the hall from fifth-period anatomy.”
“Don’t you have some girl to swap spit with or something?” I ask, taking a step backward just to lessen the tension in the air. I fold my arms across my chest. “Why are you walking with me? We’re not even friends.”
Emory nods, peering at me through the hair in his eyes. “Sure we are. We’re in the same support group.”
“That’s not funny,” I snap. I turn and start walking up the next flight of stairs.
“It’s a little funny,” Emory says quietly as he joins me. “Bastian is all about being friends and confidants and all of that shit.” He nudges me with his shoulder, and I stumble to the left. “So you could say we’re friends.”
I shake my head. “I would never be friends with a guy like you.”
“Ouch.”
I look over, and he gives me
a wry smile. He doesn’t look the least bit offended by my comment. I draw in a deep breath at the top of the second floor and turn around the bend in the stairs, heading for the third floor quicker than before. “You’re not hurt,” I mutter, stomping up each step now. “You’re just another asshole of a guy who uses girls for his selfish carnal needs and then throws them away when he’s done with them.”
He shifts his backpack onto his other shoulder. “Okay, that would have been a little hurtful if there was any truth in it.”
I stop dead in the middle of the staircase. Emory gets to the third-floor landing and then turns around, looking for me. He lifts an eyebrow. “What?”
I shake my head, holding back a thousand insults. Hysterically telling him to go to hell wouldn’t solve anything. “I get what Mrs. Gertie was doing with you by sending you to the support group. But she has too much faith in you. You’re clearly a lost cause.”
There he goes with that piercing gaze again. He puts a hand on the handrail and takes five steps down until he’s one stair above me. My stomach twists but my jaw stays rigid, my glare as harsh as I can make it. I talk just to break the silence. “You can get away with it now, but one day your sins will come back to you, Emory. Someone will hurt you, and I hope I’m here to see you get what you deserve.”
“What exactly am I getting away with?” he asks, taking the final step down to my stair. I inch backward toward the wall, and he steps closer, his eyes predatory and painfully gorgeous. My stomach flutters at his nearness, and I hate myself for it.
When I remember it’s my turn to talk, I’ve almost forgotten his question. My breathing is shaky, and I play it off as being tired from walking up all the stairs. My finger touches his chest, and I almost expect him to back away. He doesn’t. I swallow. “You hurt girls, and you get away with it. For whatever reason, there’s always a new girl in line after you’ve tossed the previous one away. That won’t last forever.”
His hand wraps around my finger, and slowly, my finger is moved down and away from his chest. Chills race across my skin at his touch. “Like I said before, Isla. I don’t hurt girls on purpose.” He shakes his head and releases my finger. I pull my hand close to my body, and he steps closer, sending a tornado of butterflies on a rampage through my stomach. “Is it my fault that girls give me attention? And when they do, I tell them I have no interest in a real relationship. That’s being honest, right? How is it all on me when they get mad after all I’ve done is tell them the truth?”
“It’s your fault because you know you’re hurting people and you just keep doing it.”
His tongue slides across his bottom lip. “Is that so?”
