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20
Willow
Oh, shit. I caught a delicious case of amnesia in Camdyn’s arms, and I forgot the literal task again. The warning signs blaring all around me faded. My mission was to kiss him and deliver the same vampiric bite to his lip he’d given me the night on the yacht after we shared a moment on the deck. Next, I think—I know—I’m swept away by a dark storm.
“Wait . . .” I say as his cock drives into the side of my thigh, and my spine jams against the cold locker.
Deceptively attentive, he whispers, “Is it the audience?”
“No shit. Yes, it’s the audience. It’s me. It’s you. Please stop, Camdyn.”
He ignores my pleading, melting the ice around my heart with hot, searing kisses. The soft nibbling along my lip sends a sharp ache over the walls of my pussy.
“Listen to your instincts, Lo. We’re drawn to each other. Give me that sweet, little cherry. I’m the best distraction ye’ll ever have.”
The sides of my pleated skirt inch upward as my thighs anchor around his narrowed hips. Heart walloping in my ears, I struggle for resolve. “We’re so bad for each other, it physically hurts . . . Put me down, Cam. You cost me my relationship with my only friend.”
“Feck,” his fist torpedoes into the locker, “your friend.”
“Would you rather that’ve been my face?” As my voice cracks, I fight off tears.
Camdyn groans, his nose and mouth prodding the curve of my collarbone. “I’d never.”
“And I’ll never believe a word you say, Camdyn” It’s difficult to hear myself over the round of applause.
People chant for us to screw, and it’s almost as unnerving as being chained to Camdyn. I shake with rage in his arms. “I hate everyone at this shitty ass school.” And I hate the Judas between my thighs.
With a sigh of defeat, Camdyn places me onto my own two feet, and I scurry to my next class. Where the hell are the adults at this school? Hiding behind their desks, tossing back water bottles of vodka?
* * *
Ilied. Not every single individual at DuPont Academy is on my shit list. Camdyn, yup. He was foul for sending Christian the text. The general population. Sure. Jamie the Reject, no.
He’d taken meticulous Cornell-style notes all of last week and slid them on my table on Monday without a word. He’s the only person with whom I’ve crossed paths that doesn’t expect anything from me. Now, the teacher’s monotonic about a class project. Whoopee.
“Energy conservation of two dimensions . . .” He begins to prattle about physics. Aw shit, Londyn was the science buff.
I slink over to Jamie’s desk while others chatter and collaborate.
“Hey . . .” I begin since, we’ve had two conversations. One of which he could hardly breathe, the other he simply said hey and handed me notes.
I ask, “You have a partner?”
My sweet, Eeyore rambles, “Partners are optional.”
Well, I must be honey-less Pooh then. Dejected, my shoulders slump, and I turn.
“Wait.”
I turn back around. Pure torture slices Jamie’s face. His dark blond hair streaks across familiar yet disarming blue-green eyes I hadn’t caught sight of in the past. We lock gazes. After a moment, Jamie’s eyes fall, and he nibbles nervously at his bottom lip.
Um, was I supposed to say something or him? He asked me to wait.
“I’m sorry, Jamie, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.” And not just because they remind me of the sickness I can’t release myself from. He can’t be related to Cam. “They . . . just look kind. I’m not, uh, buttering you up or anything. Your notes were extremely helpful, but I’d make a great teammate.”
I realize his nervousness has influenced my demeanor.
Dammit, I recall being shy in my pre-track and field days. Dad is in my ears, telling me how shy I looked when he ordered me to talk to another girl during my first track tryout ever. I was five. I shook my head profusely. He took my hand and started through the grass toward the parking lot. I ran. Fast. I spoke even faster to the other girl, who turned out to be Londyn.
Over the next few years, my dad was more insistent until I picked up the reins of confidence.
Pounding the pavement had catapulted my self-esteem. The chin-up, give-a-shit mask I once wore has faded, though.
Silent, Jamie slides out the chair next to him. When I sit down, two words emit in a low frequency from his mouth. “Thank you.”
If I hadn’t been this close, I wouldn’t have heard his appreciation of my compliment.
I hide a small smile. I tore down my last bridge on Sunday morning with the help of someone bad. Now, a new one is created. Nobody can take this bridge from me. Not even that MacKenzie asshole.
