Cruel Prince (Royal Hearts Academy, #1)(42)

For now. “Yeah.”

“What about Dylan? Are you done fucking with her yet?”

I smirk as I rev the engine. “If you really don’t want to be caught in the cross-fire, I suggest you stop asking me questions you won’t like the answers to.”

With that, I take off.





Chapter 20





Dylan





“Are you sure I look okay?” Sawyer tugs on the long turquoise sweater she’s wearing. “It’s still the first week of September, maybe the sweater is a bad idea.”

I twirl the last strand of her hair around the barrel of the curling iron. I almost squealed when she agreed to nix the headband and let me do her hair.

Sawyer might not think so, but she’s gorgeous. And with her new silky waves, she’s not just going to turn heads tonight.

She’s going to break necks.

Her outfit, on the other hand? Needs a little work. Usually I’m all for retro and vintage pieces, but the purple skirt she has on is higher than her waist and longer than her legs. The sweater is cute though and it’s just low enough that it gives a hint of her generous rack.

I chew my lip, pondering how I should answer. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I wasn’t honest with her, but I also don’t want her to hate me and feel insecure.

“Do you want the honest truth? Or a little white lie?”

She raises one freshly tweezed eyebrow. “Is that a trick question? I’ll take the truth for five-hundred, Alex.”

I place the curling iron down and pick up a tube of raspberry lip gloss. It’s perfect for her complexion.

“The truth is you’re beautiful.” I begin applying some to her lips. “You don’t need makeup or any of this stuff.” I blot the excess with a tissue. “But that skirt does nothing for your figure. It would be better utilized as kindling for my aunt’s fireplace.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dart around the room. “I didn’t bring any other clothes, I thought—”

Holding up a finger, I open my dresser drawer and take out a pair of leggings. “No worries. Try these.”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. I appreciate the offer, but you’re like a size two. I’m a fourteen on a good day. There’s no way these will fit.”

Suppressing a groan, I throw them at her. “Leggings are designed to fit almost everyone. Try them on before you complain.”

She pouts. “Fine, but if they don’t fit, we’re stopping by my house on the way to Christian’s so I can grab another skirt.”

I turn around to give her some privacy. “Deal.”

“Have you figured out what you’re going to wear yet?” she calls out from behind me.

“Nope.”

I’m not going there to impress anyone; I’m strictly offering moral support to Sawyer.

I start combing through a stack of concert t-shirts. “Probably the usual. Jeans and a t-shirt.”

Why would I dip my dick in some dry, mediocre meatloaf when I already have a nice piece of filet mignon waiting for me whenever I want it?

I close my eyes as the cruel words I overheard Jace tell Oakley shoots through my skull like an arrow piercing its target.

I’ve struggled with normal hang-ups about my body and looks from time to time, just like most teenage girls. But for the most part, I’m pretty secure with myself.

However, Jace’s statement? It hurt.

It still does.

And while the rational part of my brain knows I shouldn’t put much stock in it…

The other part? Wants to make him choke on his words.

I throw the Rob Zombie shirt I was going to wear on the bed. “I’m not motherfucking meatloaf.”

“The singer or food?” Sawyer questions.

I spin around to face her. As predicted, the leggings fit. Paired with the teal sweater, and her long flowy hair, she looks awesome.

“The food. Although I prefer the singer. But never mind all that. You look hot.”

Her nose crinkles. “Are you sure? If I bend over, everyone is going to get an ass full of cellulite.”

“Sawyer.” I grab her by the shoulders. “Your ass is fine. The only ugly part about you is your self-esteem. Swear on my life, you’re classically beautiful. Like the love child of Adele and Sophia Loren. Anyone who thinks differently is either blind, jealous, or stupid and can go fuck themselves.”

“Holy crap.” For the first time tonight, she smiles. “Thanks. If managing indie rock bands doesn’t work out, you should seriously consider motivational speaking.” Her smile falters. “Now what were you saying before about meatloaf?”

I gave her the Cliff’s Notes version of my history with Jace when she picked me up from work, so she’s pretty much caught up on all the current drama. However, I never told her what I overheard the other night when Oakley gave me a ride home after my shift.

“Jace compared me to meatloaf.” When she looks confused I add, “The other night at my job, I overheard him tell Oakley that Britney was filet mignon…and I was mediocre meatloaf.”

She’s visibly outraged. “That pompous asswipe needs a lobotomy with an ice pick.”

I pick up the t-shirt off my bed and scrutinize it. “I know I should let it roll off my back…but…”