Sweet Retribution (Rydeville High Elite #3)(112)

The honest truth is, if I’d had a crystal ball—if I’d known what was going to happen—I still wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Because I would’ve missed those high points. Those happy memories that are the only thing keeping me alive right now.

If that’s what you can call my current existence.

And that makes me the most selfish, conceited liar on the planet.





PART I


Senior Year of High School





CHAPTER ONE


Angelina





Tap. Tap. Tap.

I emit a high-pitched shriek, almost jumping out of my skin. Blood rushes to my head as I spin around in my bedroom. Devin has his face pressed into the glass of the French doors, peering in. His nose is all smushed up, and he’s wearing his trademark shit-eating grin. Dropping my book bag on the floor beside my bed, I walk over, flinging the doors open with gusto. “Dev, what the hell? Are you trying to give me a coronary?”

He saunters into my room, flopping down on the bed like he owns it, his customary grin still planted firmly on his lips. “Hey, baby doll. Come sit.” He pats the bed, stretching out his long, sculptured torso before propping up on his side.

I perch on the edge of the mattress, slapping his leg. “Don’t call me that. I’m not one of your conquests.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a faithful pet.” He smirks, attempting to smother his laughter as he watches the scowl appear on my face.

“Don’t push your luck, asshole.”

“Ange.” He pats the bed alongside him again. “Come here.” He looks at me through hooded lashes, and his green eyes smolder in that intense way of his. Strands of his black hair fall over his forehead as his gaze bores a hole deep inside me.

Devin defines drop-dead gorgeous. With his sinful good looks, ripped body, and dark brooding intensity, it’s no wonder every girl in town hangs off his every word.

Lost under the magnetism of his penetrating focus, I forget how to breathe. “Come. Here,” he mouths this time, failing to hide his knowing smirk.

Yeah. Dev’s well aware of the effect he has on the female population, myself included.

I sigh but give up fighting the inevitable. Toeing off my shoes, I crawl up the bed, dropping down beside him. He reaches out, twirling strands of my long, dark hair around his finger. His eyes hold mine as his fingers weave in and out of my hair, and I zone out, like I’ve been drugged. Clamping my lips shut, I stifle the blissful moan building at the back of my throat. His hands feel so good in my hair. My blood pressure soars, butterflies go crazy in the pit of my stomach, and a familiar ache throbs between my legs.

I shouldn’t have these feelings for Devin, but I’ve been harboring them for years, and I’m sure I’m going to spontaneously combust one of these days. Pent-up frustration and potent longing are my constant companions. An incessant reminder of all that is denied to me.

He’s oblivious, of course.

I’m in an exclusive ten percent club—that minuscule pool of girls in senior class who have yet to sample the Devin experience.

Although I know all about it.

The girls at school can’t keep their legs or their mouths shut.

I’ve heard all the stories these last couple of years, and I wish I could wash my ears out and scrub my brain free of the heartbreaking knowledge. Devin is gaining quite the rep around town. And not just for his man-whore ways.

“What are you doing home on a Saturday night anyway?” I ask, while he continues threading his fingers through my hair. I’m pleased that I manage to sound semi-coherent, and it’s good to know he hasn’t nuked all my brain cells.

Devin is hardly ever at home anymore. Especially not on a weekend night. There are copious parties to attend and numerous willing girls to fuck. Getting laid and drunk appears to take precedence over our friendship these days, and I’ve had to sit back and watch it happen with a heavy heart. Most times, I only see him at school, and then it’s sporadic and fleeting. Occasionally, he’ll drop into the diner where I work, but those visits are becoming few and far between. It’s the been the same these past few months, ever since we started our final year, and it hurts. Way more than I’ve let on to anyone.

I miss my best friend, and I hate that a rift has formed in our seemingly unbreakable bond. Worse is I don’t understand how this has happened or why.

My other best friend and neighbor, Ayden, has been more vocal and less concerned about rocking the boat. His impatience with Devin is growing by the day, and the cracks are splintering in our friendship. I never thought I’d see the day when we were anything but joined at the hip.

Things are changing, and I don’t like it.

“I wanted to see you more than I wanted to go out,” he admits, startling me with his honesty.

The romantic, nostalgic, girly-girl part of my brain is ready to throw a party, but the more logical, guarded side of my brain kicks in, cautioning me to chill the fuck out. I narrow my eyes as I scrutinize his face. “Are you high or drunk right now?”

He frowns, and his hand stalls in my hair. “Of course not.”

I snort. “You say that like it’s outside the realm of possibility you’d be either of those things.”

He removes his hand from my hair, and I feel bereft. “We both know who I am, Ange, but I’m surprised you think I’d turn up here like that. Not with you. Never with you.”