The Deal

A wry smile tugs on my lips as I watch him go, his silver and black hockey jacket plastering to his chest as he walks into the wind. I’m not the only one looking—several females also swing their heads in his direction, and I can practically see their panties melt away as he flashes that rogue grin around.

Rolling my eyes, I head off in the opposite direction. I don’t want to be late for rehearsal, especially since Cass and I still haven’t reached an agreement about his ludicrous choir idea.

But when I walk into the music room, Cass is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” I greet MJ, who’s at the piano studying sheets of music.

Her blond head pops up, a strained smile on her face. “Oh, hey.” She pauses. “Cass isn’t coming today.”

Annoyance erupts in my belly. “What do you mean he’s not coming?”

“He texted me a few minutes ago. He has a migraine.”

Yeah right. I know for a fact that a bunch of our classmates, Cass included, went out for drinks last night, because one of them texted me an invite when Garrett and I were watching Breaking Bad. It’s easy to put two and two together—Cass is hung-over and that’s why he bailed.

“We can still rehearse, though,” MJ says. This time her smile reaches her eyes. “It might be nice to run through the song without stopping to argue every five seconds.”

“Yeah, except whatever we do today, he’ll just veto tomorrow.” I plop into a chair near the piano and pin her down with a hard look. “The choir idea is bullshit, MJ. You know it is.”

She nods in defeat. “I know.”

“Then why didn’t you back me up?” I demand, unable to mask my resentment.

A blush appears on her pale cheeks. “I…” She gulps visibly. “Can you keep a secret?”

Shit. I don’t like where this is going. “Sure…”

“Cass asked me out.”

“Oh.” I try not to sound surprised, but it’s hard to hide it. MJ is a sweet girl, and she’s certainly not unattractive, but she’s also the last person I’d consider Cass Donovan’s type.

As much as I loathe him, Cass is drop dead gorgeous. He’s got the kind of album-cover-friendly face that will sell a lot of records one day, no doubt about that. And look, I’m not saying the plain girl can’t get the hot guy. I’m sure it happens all the time. But Cass is a pompous, image-obsessed jerk. Someone that superficial would never be caught dead with a mousy thing like Mary Jane, no matter how sweet she is.

“It’s okay,” she says with a laugh. “I know you’re surprised. I was too. He asked me before rehearsal that day.” She sighs. “You know, the choir day.”

Annnnd all the puzzle pieces swiftly slide together. I know exactly what Cass is up to, and it takes some serious effort to swallow my anger. It’s one thing to coax MJ into backing him up during our fights, it’s another to lead the poor girl on.

But what am I supposed to say to her? He only asked you out so you’d support all his crazy ideas for the showcase?

I refuse to be an asshole, so I paste on the most polite smile I can muster and ask, “Do you want to go out with him?”

Her cheeks go even redder, and then she nods.

“Really?” I say skeptically. “But he’s such a diva. Like, giving Mariah Carey a run for her money diva. You know that, right?”

“I know.” She looks embarrassed now. “But that’s only because he’s so passionate about singing. He’s actually a nice guy when he wants to be.”

When he wants to be? She says it like it’s the endorsement of the year, but the way I see it, people should be nice because they are, not because it’s a calculated move on their part.

But I keep that opinion to myself, too.

I adopt a tactful tone. “Are you afraid that if you disagree with his ideas, he’ll renege on the date?”

She winces. “It sounds pathetic when you phrase it like that.”

Um, how else does she want me to phrase it?

“I just don’t want to make any waves, you know?” she mumbles, looking uncomfortable.

No, I don’t know. At all.

“This is your song, MJ. And you shouldn’t have to censor your opinions just to make Cass happy. If you hate the choir idea as much as I do, then tell him. Trust me, men appreciate a woman who speaks her mind.”

Yet even as I say the words, I know Mary Jane Harper is not that woman. She’s shy and awkward and spends most of her time hiding behind a piano or curled up in her dorm room writing love songs about boys who don’t return the sentiment.

Oh shit. Something suddenly occurs to me. Is our song about Cass?

I’m icked out at the thought that the emotional lyrics I’ve been singing for months might actually be about a guy I loathe.

“I don’t hate the choir idea,” she hedges. “I don’t love it, either, but I don’t think it’s terrible.”

And in that moment, I know without a doubt there’s going to be a three-tiered fucking choir standing behind Cass and me at the winter showcase.





13




Garrett