The Help (Kings of Linwood Academy, #1)(21)

The last words are almost a hiss, but then she screeches as she’s physically hauled away from him. Dax releases her so fast she stumbles in her heels and almost goes down on her ass, but she flings her arms out to steady herself as all three of the guys converge around River, facing off against Iris. Savannah rushes forward to grab the elbow of her on-again, off-again friend, glaring at the four boys, who glare right back.

Holy shit. They’re fucking pissed.

When Lincoln stood up for me in the cafeteria, there was an air of bored nonchalance in his challenge of Savannah. But now, I swear he’s practically growling.

“Back the fuck off, Iris. You’re wasted.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know the truth,” she slurs. “Maybe the whole school should know—”

This time it’s Chase who steps up. I don’t hear what he says, but whatever it is, it makes Iris blanch. Her eyes spit daggers at all of them, but she and Savannah turn on their heels and stalk off—the effect only slightly ruined by her unsteady gait.

Lincoln turns to face River, saying something I can’t hear. The brown-haired boy nods, his jaw tight. The other three kings go back to their discussion, keeping an eye on the party-goers around them, as Rivers disappears down a hallway toward the back of the house.

Savannah and Iris settle into a corner to lick their wounds, and I find myself diverting from my original course. Instead, I slip down another hallway and make my way to the back, stepping out onto a wide terrace.

It’s dark out here, lit only by the glow spilling from the windows on the other side of the house. River is standing near the low wall that edges the terrace, and his head is slightly bent. He looks… sad. Broken, somehow.

Did Iris’s words really hurt him? How could they have? She’s a drunk, kind of skanky cheerleader, and when it comes to power and status at school, he’s got her beat, hands down.

“Hey, um, I’m sorry about that,” I say softly. This guy’s been kind of a dick to me, but he hasn’t done anything bad enough for me to relish in watching someone tear him down.

He doesn’t respond, just draws in a deep breath and runs a hand through his brown hair. He probably wants to be left alone, but I’ve never been great about walking away from things, so I step closer, reaching out to touch his shoulder with my free hand.

“Seriously, Iris is a bitch. I don’t know what her problem is, but she—”

My fingertips are a few inches from him when he spins, cutting me off as he clamps a hand around my wrist. His gray eyes look almost silver in the dim light, and he squints at me, breathing hard.

“What the fuck do you want?”

I’m shocked by the sudden movement, and by the look on his face. My heart stutters in my chest as I shake my head. “Nothing. I just wanted to say—”

“I don’t need your fucking pity. Just get the hell away from me.”

He pushes me backward and releases my wrist at the same time, keeping his gaze locked on me as I stand there and gape at him.

What the hell? I was just trying to be nice.

But I’m not Iris, so instead of throwing a temper tantrum about it, I just hold up my hands.

“Yeah. I’d love to.”

Spinning on my heel, I march back into the house. Lincoln sees me emerging from the back hallway and shoots me an assessing look, but I ignore him, taking a long pull from my beer before heading over toward the kids from my Business and Econ class.

I don’t get these guys. One minute, they’re assholes to me, the next they’re defending me. Then when I try to reach out, they’re jerks again.

Maybe that’s the lesson here.

I should be keeping my distance from all four of them.





9





I largely ignore Lincoln and the other three guys throughout the next week. It’s a little harder to avoid Lincoln since we’re living under the same damn roof, but it’s a big house, and it’s easy enough to find an excuse to leave a room if he’s in it.

On Friday, there’s another poker game in the same warehouse I went to last time. I sneak down the west wing stairs—the bedroom next to mine is empty this time, thank God—and slip out the front door. The ATM won’t let me withdraw more than a thousand dollars, which is too bad because I’m feeling lucky tonight. Ah well. If I can at least double it, that’ll help make up for the money Mom spent fixing her car.

When I step inside the warehouse, adrenaline spikes in my blood, sending pleasurable tingles over my skin. I live for this shit. The therapist my mom made me see a few times after I was officially declared cancer-free said a craving for adrenaline is common in survivors of life-threatening illness or accident—as is the complete opposite, where they worry constantly and become cautious about everything.

Maybe the therapist could’ve helped me work through it or something, but my mom couldn’t afford to keep sending me. And besides, I’m not sure I want to work through it. I almost died before my life ever really got started. If I’m still here, I’m sure as hell going to really live.

The guy who greeted me last time, Carson, scoffs when he sees me approaching. “You really think we’re gonna let you play here again, Pool Girl?”

Dammit. I open my mouth to try a little sweet talk, but before I can say anything, a voice comes from behind me.