Besides, I’d made my own plans to meet my parents at an Italian joint in downtown Todos Santos this evening.
I did pass by the game on my way to Target that afternoon, taking the long way just so I could catch a glimpse of the game. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t about Jaime. Football was a big deal at All Saints High. But no matter how you looked at it, when I stopped at the red light and glanced across the road to the field, I was looking for number four. For Jaime Followhill. For the HotHole who always made my stomach dip like I’d just gotten on a rollercoaster. For the boy who felt too much like a man. And, sadly, for the guy who filled the void in me with more than just his arousal and hot flesh.
I found him standing on the sidelines, chewing on his mouthguard with his hands on his waist while nodding at something coach said to him. He looked distracted, and if I had the courage, I’d want to believe it was me he was thinking about.
His body looked cut and perfect, even through his jersey.
It was worrisome. I should have known right there. The way I smiled to myself, like I owned him in some way. Like this perfect creature, that was now yelling to his friends from the sideline, looking animated, looking perfect, was under my spell.
I kept on staring until someone behind me honked and I had to speed away, hitting the gas pedal too hard. Just then, Jaime twisted his head in my direction, as if he heard it too.
It was ridiculous. There was no way he could know I was watching him. The place was crowded as hell and the parents and students of All Saints High were very vocal about their local team.
But that didn’t soothe the blush that crept up my neck and spread through my cheeks.
Nothing did. For the remainder of the day.
My parents and I had dinner, during which they asked about when my contract with the school would be renewed (probably never?), when I might find a man (ditto, but hey, I found a hot boy who knows how to go down on a woman thirteen different ways), and why my cheeks were so flushed (see the answer to question number two).
It wasn’t bad, per se. The food was great. The company…well, made me feel like the biggest letdown humanity had to face.
That was the thing about being Celia and Stewart Greene’s daughter. The minute my dream of becoming a ballerina died, so did their pride in me. I was never quite good at anything else, and I guess they knew that.
They made sure I remembered it, too.
It wasn’t an excuse for why I was like this. Unmotivated and sarcastic, but it definitely didn’t help.
The three of us walked back to our cars and passed by the central fountain in downtown Todos Santos across from Liberty Park, the home to a semi-famous lake and alarmingly aggressive swans. Teenagers were always roaming there on weekends, playing loud, shitty music. (Guess that was one reason why the swans were prone to attacking.) Not that night, though. That night, it was worryingly quiet.
My parents and I were about to round a corner and head to the parking lot when I saw Vicious’s silver Mercedes-Benz McLaren slicing past us. I couldn’t miss the 500K vehicle because HE WAS DRIVING ON THE FUCKING SIDEWALK opposite from us.
The kid was honking his horn at people like his daddy owned this town. Unfortunately, his daddy did own this town. Vicious’s father was so rich he hit lists like Forbes and shit every single year.
Maybe that’s why his son felt entitled to hit everything and everyone else, I thought bitterly.
Pedestrians made way and let him pass through, accepting his behavior with bent heads. Everybody knew who he was, and more importantly, who he was going to be—a powerful, lawless cretin and the heir to a huge portion of the business interests in Todos Santos.
My parents and I skidded to a halt, our mouths shaping into stunned Os. We stared as my student parked on the grass, got out of his car, and strode toward a row of kids on their knees near the lake.
Well, fuck me sideways scissor-style. The older jocks were standing above the teenagers on the ground, yelling animatedly and pushing each other, on the verge of breaking into a huge fight.
I saw Jaime there. My eyes were drawn to him immediately, on instinct, before my mind even processed what I was staring at. He was leaning against the gazebo, exchanging hushed words with Dean Cole and Trent Rexroth, the former captain of the football team, who had his leg in a fresh-looking cast. Shit. He’d broken it again? What happened at the game today?
Jaime, Trent, and Dean kept to themselves, furrowed brows and brooding expressions on their faces. I recognized some of the kids on their knees, their heads down in surrender and their arms behind their backs. All failed, aspiring, or younger football players at All Saints High.
The Four HotHoles were up to something, I knew. And it didn’t look like this was a voluntary game, like Defy.
It looked serious.
Vicious unrolled the sleeve of his white tee and took his soft Camel pack out of it, lighting a cigarette and squatting down, blowing smoke into the face of one of the kids who sat on their knees, awaiting the verdict. The guy gasped and choked on a cough but didn’t dare move an inch. It looked like an ISIS execution line, and I knew I had to do something. The police chief was a kiss-ass friend of Baron Spencer Senior, Vicious’s father, so calling the cops would have gotten me nowhere. But I couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen. Right?
Right?
Vicious walked slowly along the row of suspects, his arms behind his back. “Listen up, fuckers. I know the Kings weren’t the dickbags who greased the floor under Trent’s locker. That’s twice someone targeted him. The captain of your fucking team, you sorry-ass bitches.”
He was so mad, he spat as he spoke. I watched the saliva flying out of his mouth, illuminated by the Victorian lamppost.
“Last time I figured this was an attack from a rival team to keep him from playing. Eliminate the competition.” Vicious took another drag and spat near one of the meatheads on the end with a red varsity jacket and a baseball cap turned backwards. “But Trent’s graduating. No reason for another team to take him out now.”
Some of the teens were crying as they looked down to the dewy grass, and some were moaning in pain. They weren’t bleeding, they didn’t look beaten up. Well, not physically, anyway. But Jesus, this kid was as fucking intimidating as Satan himself.
“I. Will. Find the fucker who greased the floor!” he shouted.
The jocks on their feet behind him roared, pumping their fists in the air. Jaime, Dean, and Trent were still deep in conversation. Luckily, they weren’t feeding the troll.
“I WILL punish the motherfucker,” Vicious screamed maniacally, thumbing his chest and looking around for support.
“Fuck yeah!” The jocks raised their hands, slurring into the night.
“And by the time we’re done with him, he will be sorry his whore of a mother ever gave birth to him!”