Hostile(13)

“So?”

I shrug, trying to play nonchalant, knowing he prefers that. “Just an observation.”

“They changed their last names when Blair and Rhys adopted them. I didn’t. It’s no big deal.”

I nod, trying to fight my smile because he’s actually talking to me. After years of watching him like a creeper—hoping for an actual conversation—he’s talking to me. “Yeah. I get it.”

I don’t. But I don’t pry. He looks at me, his eyes that beautiful emerald color. “It felt like a betrayal to my parents—my birth parents.” He huffs out a humorless laugh as he looks away. “Even though they didn’t fucking want me, it still felt wrong.”

My heart actually aches for him, and I’m starting to realize there’s so much more to the beautiful broken boy who seems bored with life as he sketches in his notebook during class. He’s hurt. From a deep-seated pain going back to his childhood, one I can’t even begin to fathom.

I decide to change the subject. “So those kids . . .”

His eyes snap to mine again. “What about them?”

“Do they need anything? Maybe I could talk to my father—”

“No,” he snaps instantly. “They don’t need handouts from you or your family.”

That’s said with some serious malice, but I try not to take offense. “Not a handout. I just noticed that Laney’s shoes were a little tattered and—”

Again, with the blazing anger in his eyes. “Don’t you dare judge her. Or any of them.”

I hold up a hand in silent surrender. “I’m not.” Today was way more fun than I ever thought volunteering would be. Laney—the sweet, quiet, twelve-year-old—actually opened up to me and told me about her new foster parents. She said they seemed nice, and their house was decent.

She said it in a way that made it seem like she’s been through so many things that my brain could barely process, and she’s six years younger than me. It made me truly look around that room at kids—cool, smart, funny kids—who weren’t being taken care of.

It broke me. “I just want to help.”

“No.” He opens the car door. The rain has finally started to die down.

“No?”

He climbs out of the car but doesn’t slam the door like I expected. He crouches down to look at me. “Go back to your fancy house in your way too expensive, ridiculous car, and forget I live here.”

My eyes narrow in his direction. “Now who’s being judgmental?”

His gaze seems to soften only slightly. “Like I said, Grayson. We aren’t friends.”

With that, he closes the door, and I watch him climb the stairs up to his apartment. Then, I smile.

Because yeah. Yeah, we are.





TEN





My hands are dirty from the lead as I sketch along the creamy paper in front of me. I’m totally, blissfully lost in my own world until I hear a familiar annoying, deep, rumbly voice from behind me. “Not bad.”

Fuck.

I sigh as my hand stops moving along the paper. “No. This is not a thing.” I drop the pencil and turn to face my new stalker, apparently.

He smiles at me with his big, dumb handsome face, standing there with his imposing body and then studies what I was working on alone in the art room before first period starts. I like getting here early.

Or I did before I found out my new friend apparently does too.

“Go back to your part of the school.”

His grin only widens. “Aw, now. Why can’t we just get along? Huh?” His blue eyes sparkle with annoying mischief. “I’ll gladly share my part of the school with you.”

I shift uncomfortably on the stool I’m sitting on, not sure how he makes me squirm like he does. I don’t know him. I don’t know much about him. And yet . . . I can’t seem to stop thinking about him since he gave me a ride a few days ago. “Go. Away.”

“You say that a lot. It’s going to start hurting my feelings.”

I roll my eyes at his over-the-top ridiculousness. “Yeah. I do that.”

“Come on. Admit I’m totally growing on you.” I try to ignore his handsome face and the way his blue eyes shine with a contentedness that unnerves me.

“You’re a pest.”

He’s about to say something I’m sure will irritate me, judging by the playful look on his face, but he’s interrupted.

“Grayson?” We both quickly look toward the door as Ms. Holler, the art teacher, walks into the room, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “That is you, sweetie. How are you?”

I cock an eyebrow in his direction, mouthing, “Sweetie?”

He grins and walks toward my favorite teacher. “Yeah. Long time, no see, huh?”

She looks saddened by that as she nods her head. “It has been. I’ve missed you around here.”

What? Around here? The art room? He’s smiling, but it doesn’t seem as real as it did a moment ago. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Football. Basketball. Honor Society. All that shit.”

She should scold him for his language like she does me and everyone else, but she doesn’t. Her face falls even further instead. “I know.”