The Help (Kings of Linwood Academy, #1)(18)

Dammit. I really wish he would’ve finished that sentence. I want to know what this guy’s problem is with me, although I’m not quite sure why it matters. Maybe it’s because sometimes it seems like he’s forcing himself to dislike me, holding that antagonism up like an armor around himself. And I can admit, I’m curious what’s behind that armor.

I’m about to press a little harder when he speaks again.

“I’m sorry about your mom’s car.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise—that’s just about the last thing I expected him to say.

“Did you do it?”

“What?” He shoots me an irritated glance. “No. I said I was fucking sorry it happened, not that I was the one who did it.”

“Are you just mad someone else thought of it before you?” I ask with a snort.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Forget it. Just change the damn station, this song is making me want to drive into a brick wall.”

I reach forward tentatively and spin the knob. This time, I actually try to find a song we’ll both like. I watch Lincoln’s face as I move through stations, and when it lands on a song by Post Malone, the muscles around his mouth relax slightly. So I let that one play and turn it up, drowning out the possibility of more conversation, and we don’t talk any more the rest of the way to school.

We’re late for first period, and Lincoln doesn’t say a word as we step through the white front doors of Linwood Academy and split up to head to our separate classes.

Mr. Becker stares at me over his glasses as I walk into Political Science ten minutes after the bell, but he doesn’t comment as I slink toward a seat in the back.

I was too busy trying to fuck with Lincoln to remember to eat breakfast, so by the time lunch rolls around, I’m starving. I grab two pieces of pizza from the serving staff and am carrying my tray over to the corner I usually sit in when someone sticks a leg out in front of me. At the exact same moment, a pair of hands push me hard from behind, and I fly forward.

The tray falls from my hands, sending my pizza and drink sliding across the floor, as I land hard. Pain shoots through my wrists, and my right knee smacks against the floor. I let out an involuntary cry, hissing a breath through my teeth. Laughter rings out around me, and I clench my jaw in anger.

Right. I almost forgot how many assholes there are at this school. Guess my mom’s little chat with Principal Osterhaut didn’t do shit.

But as I press up to my hands and knees, four pairs of feet come to stand in front of me. My gaze follows the legs up to find Lincoln, Dax, Chase, and River scowling at someone behind me.

“What the fuck are you doing, Savannah?”

I crane my neck to look at her as she answers.

“What? I didn’t do anything. She fell.” When their irate expressions don’t budge, she scoffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “What the hell do you care? She’s just your maid.”

“Yeah,” Lincoln answers, his voice low. “My maid. So don’t fucking break her. Unless you want to come clean my house?”

The red-headed cheerleader scowls, apparently incensed at being compared to the help. And even though it’s all still kind of an insult to me, I can’t help but enjoy the look on her face.

“I wouldn’t—that’s not—” she huffs. “I don’t do that.”

“Didn’t think so.” Lincoln smirks. “So maybe back the fuck off the girl who does.”

Savannah gasps and sputters for a few seconds, and honestly, I can’t really blame her. I mean, Lincoln and his stupid friends are the ones who got this ball rolling. They made damn sure on the first day of classes that everyone in the fucking school knew who I was and what I was. And now they’re, what—sticking up for me?

I can’t quite process it, and neither can the cheerleader.

Her jaw snaps shut as her pink lips curl. “You’re an asshole, Lincoln Black.”

“Noted.”

The kid whose leg I tripped over—a sophomore girl who just joined the cheer squad and hangs on every word Savannah says—tucks her feet under the table in front of her, staring down at her food like she’s trying to make herself invisible.

But Lincoln ignores her, turning back to me and jerking his chin at the puddle of pizza and Diet Coke. “Better clean that shit up.”

He and his friends turn to walk away, and Chase shoots a glance over his shoulder, grinning at me.

What the fuck?

I’m torn between gratitude and annoyance. Lincoln just publicly shamed Savannah for fucking with me and obliquely called her out for the car thing, which I’m pretty sure she instigated. But of course, he couldn’t do something nice without immediately being an asshole to make up for it.

That guy drives me fucking crazy.

I do an extremely half-assed job of cleaning up the spilled food and drink, then grab another couple slices, wrap them in a napkin, and leave the cafeteria. I don’t really feel like being around people right now.

I head outside into the mild fall air, and make my way to the bleachers surrounding the track. I don’t sit on the benches but duck underneath the bleachers themselves, finding a quiet, shady spot. After scarfing down my food quickly, I roll my wrists tentatively, sucking in a breath at the pain that still lingers. Not sprained, I don’t think. Just jarred and bruised.