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“You thought Peter wanted you, didn’t you?” he whispered.
I dared a peak over his shoulder, knowing no one would come because they never did. “Why does it matter?” I asked.
He chuckled, clutching my forearm; he jerked me even closer to him. “No one wants you, Lee. No one ever will. Remember that the next time you smile at some guy you think likes you.” He whispered, “They don’t.”
Maverick pulled me toward him and shoved me out of the alcove. I gained my footing and staggered away from him. The mean snarl on his face made my heart race. Again, like always, I tried to fathom what I did to him.
No matter how many times I’d tried to remember, I couldn’t. I didn’t know why Maverick hated me.
I wasn’t sure I ever would.
“I don’t think he likes me,” I said to India. “More like hates me.”
India gathered her food. “What’s that saying? There is a fine line between love and hate?”
I gave her a halfhearted smile and followed her out into the Louisiana heat. “Hey,” she said when we descended the stairs. “You into art? There is an exhibit in the courtyard at six, and I’d love for you to come watch me paint.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds fun.”
“Great, I’ll see you then.”
I watched her walk off, feeling his eyes on the back of my head. I didn’t bother glancing at him, even if I couldn’t stop thinking about our kiss and the way that hate for him slowly turned to something deeper.
***
Frankie sat at the kitchen table with a sandwich and Coke when I got home. I’d never known Maverick to have a brother, or much about his home life for that matter. By the look of them, I’d guess they were half-brothers.
Frankie’s dark hair looked shaggy, unkempt, and his stature stood different from Mavericks. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” I slung my backpack onto the seat across from him. “Not that it’s my business, but don’t you have school?”
Frankie’s gaze dropped to his plate. “Yeah, well, I’m just staying a couple of nights before I have to go back home.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “You don’t seem too happy about that.”
He shrugged, biting his bottom lip. “I don’t like being there.”
I didn’t push him. He ate while I made myself some pasta before the art exhibit. We sat in comfortable silence for a while, until he glanced over at my bag and noticed colored pencils sticking out of the front pocket.
They stayed hidden in my room growing up since my parents—my mom mostly—didn’t think I needed towaste my timewith them. Now my time was my own.
“You draw?” he asked.
I shrugged, swiping the crumbs from the table onto my empty plate. “Yeah. Mostly graffiti art. Just in my spare time, ya know.”
“That’s awesome. Can I see some?”
I bite my lower lip, wondering why this kid seemed so different from his brother. Reluctantly, I walked toward my room and dug around for my ancient sketchbook, running my finger over my initials at the bottom.
Frankie sat on the edge of his seat when I handed it to him. His mouth dropped open as he turned page after page of brightly colored graffiti. I’d never shown anyone this, not even my parents, and here I was showing my enemy's little brother.
“This is amazing,” he said. “Please tell me you’re an art major?”
I chuckled. “Nah, my parents don’t think it’ll be worth it. I won’t be able to afford to live on an art career. So, I’m just trying different things until I can find something else I like.”
Frankie frowned.
“I am going to an art exhibit this evening at the quad.”
