“Griff—”
I duck her outstretched hand and haul the picture and my book bag into the hallway. I have fifteen minutes before my next class, plenty of time to swing past the Dumpsters behind the school. I head down the lower staircase and push through the double doors into the rear parking lot, passing Jenna Maxwell and Matthew Bradford as I go.
Interesting. Jenna’s laughing so hard she’s leaning against Bradford, almost crying into his chest.
Glad someone’s having a good day.
I arc the painting into the first Dumpster, waiting to hear it hit the metal wall. It does, but the clang is less satisfying than it should be.
“Asshole!”
I stop dead. I know I’m tired, but I’m not tired enough to hallucinate the picture calling me an asshole. I loop around the corner, listening. The Dumpsters are lined against the wall and, sure enough, something’s rustling in the last one.
I ease closer, looking over the edge, and all my breath escapes when Wick glares up at me. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, spare me the astonishment. Like this never happened to you.”
I pause. “No. In all honesty, I can say that it hasn’t.” I reach down, opening my hand to her. She eyes me like I’m going to bite her. “What the hell did you say, and who’d you say it to?”
“Why does it always have to be my fault?”
I grin. “Because it’s you and your mouth.”
Wick’s eyes narrow—I’ve overstepped again—until she laughs, extending her hand toward mine as she eases across the swollen black garbage bags. One of them gives a bit and she stumbles, the fear of wearing lunch meat making her even faster.
“It’s nothing, really. Jenna Maxwell was just bitching about Tessa—” Wick seizes my hand, kicking her sneakers into the Dumpster’s wall and scrabbling for grip. I give her a tug and, briefly, she’s up, straddling the edge, and then she’s falling.
I don’t think; I just grab her.
Or maybe I do think, because now her body is sliding down mine. Her curves are pressed into me, dragging her heat against my chest and stomach.
Christ. Think about baseball . . . computers . . . slamming your hand in a car door.
“Graceful,” I mutter. Honestly, it’s all I can manage. My brain’s stuck on how she’s small, but she doesn’t feel like she would break.
“She was saying shit about Tessa,” Wick says and, immediately winces, looking like she wants to disappear.
Or take it back.
“About how she was going to go to hell,” Wick adds.
Because Tessa committed suicide. I stand as still as possible, letting her lean into me. The thing is . . . Wick’s never confided anything in me and I don’t really know what to do with it.
“What was she saying?” I ask, tucking stray hair from her eyes and hoping she doesn’t realize I’m also brushing away a bit of garbage. Too late. Her eyes widen with recognition and she shoves me away.
I retreat a step, force myself to breathe as Wick picks at her clothes. “She just said shit about how suicides will burn in hell and . . .”
Wick looks up at me and hesitates. I don’t know why. Once again, she’s light-years ahead of me and I’m tripping after her, but there’s something churning in her eyes, and the way she’s looking at me . . . it has my eyes dipping to her mouth. Would she let me kiss her? Stop it.
“So Jenna was being Jenna,” I prod. “And that got you into the Dumpster how?”
“It just got out of hand.” Wick’s swiping at her jeans again, then stops, eyes bugging. She extends one hand in front of her in horror, gaping like she doesn’t recognize it. Or doesn’t want to recognize it.
Gross. I don’t really blame her. Her palm’s covered in some sort of slime.
“Here.” I dig through my backpack and find my Windbreaker, hold it out to her. Wick stares at the jacket with that same something churning in her eyes. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or put my arms around her. It’s not like I’m proposing marriage, but this one thinks about everything before she does it.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I grab Wick’s wrist and use the jacket’s soft underside to clean her palm. The stuff’s disgusting and I have to turn the jacket twice to get her skin clean. Wick’s face never changes, never betrays anything she might be feeling.
Her pulse does though. It speeds under my fingertips.
“You must have cared a little,” I say, concentrating on her palm so I don’t have to pay attention to the heat spreading through my stomach. “Or you wouldn’t have started anything.”
“Oh, please.” My thumb presses into her lifeline and Wick jerks, snatching her hand away. “As if I ever needed an excuse to run my mouth.”
True. It’s one of the sexiest things about her . . . that and how she’s looking at me like I don’t affect her, like her heartbeat isn’t thumping. We’re so close I can see her pulse tapping at the thin skin of her throat.