“I don’t really give a fuck, Sheep. Not about you, not about her. You’re interesting. She was… but now she isn’t.” He lifts one shoulder. “This isn’t personal.”
Oh, how I hate him.
I give him my best glare, but it ricochets off his armor.
“You’re lying,” I declare. I’m bluffing, but the surprise on his face makes me think I might be on the right track. “You do care. You love the mind game and you love seeing how people react. Is that it? My reaction?”
He lazily starts walking. “Your reaction? Perhaps you’re onto something there. Everything I do is because of you. Oh, please, Margo, forgive me. All I wanted was to get a reaction from the high and mighty Margo Wolfe.”
He sneers, and I feel like I just walked myself into a spiderweb.
“Is that what you wanted me to say?”
I stare straight ahead and follow him. He’s in my next class, anyway. What choice do I have?
“Ooh, the silent treatment.” He stops and turns around, using his body to back me against the lockers.
It happens too fast for me to avoid it. One minute we’re walking, the next he’s looming over me. Excitement races through me. We’re in the middle of school—between two classrooms, for God’s sake. What’s the worst he can do?
“Answer my question,” he demands.
He’s giving me whiplash.
Everything about him is hot and cold.
I look at his throat and say, “I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer,” he growls. His hand trails up my arm, the column of my throat, and pinches my chin between his fingers. He jerks my head up and down, then side to side. “Yes or no, Sheep. You should’ve learned that in kindergarten.”
“If I didn’t, it was because you were too damn busy distracting me—”
His fingers tighten, and I suppress a yelp of pain.
He leans in close. “What did you say?”
“We used to be friends,” I say to his ear. It’s all I can bear to look at. And once this word-vomit starts, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. “You used to be nice. I was taken from my family, and you turned into—”
“Taken away?” he asks, his voice incredulous. “Is that what you call it?”
I meet his stare. “What would you call it?”
“I’d say you threw a goddamn grenade into our lives, Margo. And you never thought about the casualties.”
He releases me, stepping back like I’m on fire. I can’t even move as he walks away from me, down the hall and around the corner.
I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my legs. I want to yell at him: I was ten! Had I known the ripple effect that was going to be set off, I wouldn’t have— Please don’t, his voice whispers.
I hang my head, the answer for his anger finally in front of me.
It’s my fault. It’s always been my fault.
9
Caleb
Arrogant bitch.
She comes into class late, wiping tears from her eyes. Liam throws me a questioning glance, and I glare at him. It’s enough to get him to leave me alone for a minute, and I can go back to watching her.
The teacher gives her grief—and extra homework—and sends her to her seat.
When she sits, she hunkers down low. There’s a cheerleader behind her and one to her left, and they both shift away from her like she’s poison.
Good.
I was actually starting to like her for a second there. A spark of the old Margo had come through, and ten-year-old Caleb had risen to her call. We used to be friends. More than friends. I had our whole life mapped out.
For a while, we were happy, carefree kids.
Inseparable.
I spend the rest of class staring at the back of her head, imagining what’s going on in that little brain of hers. Wondering about the next bomb she’ll drop.
A game. Playing games with her is almost as fun as lacrosse. Kiss her and see when she’ll give in to me. Kiss her enemy and wait for her flinch. Fuck her where— “Dude,” Liam whispers, elbowing me. “Class is over.”
I shake my head, banishing thoughts. Margo is gone, as is half the class. My best friend is staring at me like I did something fucking wrong, so I grab my bag and stand, leading the way out. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because…”
I raise my eyebrow. “Spit it out, why don’t you.”
He groans. “Don’t punch me for that shit, okay? But what’s your issue?”
“With Margo?”
“See? You’re on a first-name basis with her. That’s fucked up, man. You won’t even tell us why you hate her so much.”
I throw back my shoulders. “I don’t need to tell you why.”
He sighs. We clash sometimes, like two idiots playing chicken. Most of the time, neither of us move. Crash.
“What?” I square up to him. We’re a pretty even match. Coach often puts us on opposite teams for practice to even things out. Because as much as we fight, when we’re on the same page? Magic.
He’s the same height as me. Around the same build. If not for the wildly different features, people might think we’re related.
“Oh, you asshole.” He shoves me back. “Get out of my fucking face.”
I crack my neck, grinning. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”
His eyebrows rise, but he grins back. “Fuck you, man.”
I lunge for him, getting the first punch. His head snaps back, eyes wide as the blood flows from his nose. It’s like a little switch flips in him. Game on.
Kids make space for us, some jeering while girls down the hall screams. It makes my blood hotter. He gets a hit in, his knuckles glancing off my cheekbone. I dive for him, a tackle better made for a football player than me, and we go down. I’m mid-attack when a teacher hauls me back, slamming me face-first into a locker.
Fuck.
Only one person in the school is strong enough to do that.
“Sorry, coach,” I say against the metal.
Coach’s grip on my neck doesn’t soften. “You think a sorry will cover this mess? In my office after school. Both of you.”