The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(19)

I huff out a breath of bitter laughter under my breath as I grab my calculus book for first period and slam my locker door closed. There will come a time when she won’t be desperate for that sick motherfucker’s attention…

“Ahh, don’t get precious on me now, baby,” Jake croons. “She’s got nothing on you. You are one hundred percent right. Why would I want Second Place Silver when you are first place gold?”

This seems to pacify her. God, Kacey was never a straight-A student, but she was never this stupid either. I sling the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, peeling away, hurrying down the hallway, making sure to keep my eyes on my shoes; I’m almost past them when Jake’s voice echoes above the chatter of the other students.

“Hey! Hey, man. Alex, right? Has Coach talked to you about trying out for the team yet?”

God, do not look up. Do not look up.

At some point, Alex has arrived, and he’s standing somewhere behind me. I quicken my pace, not wanting to witness the moment when Jake makes his move, trying to induct Raleigh’s newest student into his entourage, but my progress is halted when a hand lands on my shoulder. My instant response is to whirl around, fist raised, ready to defend myself—

—but then Alex’s voice is in my ear. “Steady there, Argento. My street cred’ll be in ruins if my first fight at this shit hole is with a chick.”

He places a hand in the small of my back, setting pace beside me as he urges me away from Jake and the others. I look up at him disbelievingly, daring a glance out of the corner of my eye, and there he is, dressed in black, looking like the devastatingly handsome villain of a story that I can feel being written even as he ushers me toward the women’s bathrooms. He gives me a shove, and I stumble through the door, a protest already on my lips. “Dude, you can not be in here. Karen’ll have a fit if she finds out—”

“Who’s Karen?”

“Darhower’s assistant.”

“All right, well fuck Karen. I don’t care about Karen.”

I spin, so mentally turned around that I dump my bag into the wet sink beside me without thinking. Against my own better judgment, I’ve wanted to speak to him again. I didn’t think he’d be shoving me into the bathrooms before first period this morning, though.

The black long-sleeved sweater he’s wearing pulls taut across his chest; he’s not as built as some of the guys on the football team. He’s broad in the shoulders, though, and his biceps are defined. His jeans hang low on his hips, tight enough to be fashionable, but not that tight. His white sneakers are Adidas—Stan Smiths if I’m not mistaken. The green flash on the tongue gives them away. For the first time since he showed up at Raleigh, I really see the tattoos on the backs of his hands. On the left, a huge, intricate, black rose with vines snarled around it, thorny, winding their way around his wrist and his fingers; on his right hand, the face of a wolf, or a lion, baring its teeth in a savage snarl. I can’t really make out which—

“You done?” he asks, voice hard. He slides his hands into his pockets.

“Done what?”

“Picking over me like I’m standing in a fucking line-up.”

“I was just looking at your tattoos, asshole.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“They’re hard to miss.”

“Try harder.”

“Try not to make yourself stand out from the crowd so much. Try not to cover your skin in artwork that invites people to look.” I throw my hands up in the air. “You asked for people to stare at you when you did that to yourself. Don’t get on my case because I’m a fucking normal, curious human being.”

His scowl seems to darken the room, even though the stark fluorescent lighting overhead remains constant. “I need a favor,” he rumbles under his breath.

“Hah!” I cast around, looking for the hidden camera. This guy has got to be joking. “You want a favor. You’ve ignored me for two solid weeks, after breaking into my car and insulting me for no apparent reason, and now you want something? You know, people usually try and ingratiate themselves with someone before they hit them up for something.”

Alex’s gaze catches on the black lace of my top. His expression remains blank. I find myself straining against the urge to pull my hoodie around myself and zip it closed. “You want me to act fake? Bullshit you?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then excuse me while I don’t blow smoke up your ass. I need extra credit, but I’m not joining the fucking debate team.”

“So?”

“I need you to teach me to play guitar.”

I reel back, caught off guard. That’s not what I expected him to say. “I don’t think so, Alex. I have a lot of shit going on, and this…this isn’t some kind of ‘bad boy tutored by the outsider, cue cute makeover and the unlikely pair are suddenly an item’ situation. That’s far too fucking cliché. Plus, I don’t need a damn makeover. Or a rebel boyfriend.”

Oh my fucking god. Why did I even say that? That was probably the dumbest thing anyone has ever blurted out in front of a guy.

A detached, cold, hard look forms on Alex’s face. There’s a cold, flatness in his eyes that suddenly makes me feel very, very stupid. “I’m not interested in you, Argento. I definitely have zero interest in being your rebel boyfriend. All I want’s the extra credit and none of the fucking drama. If you think you can help with that, then great. I can pay you in cash. If not, no big deal. I’ll pay that Harriet Rosenfeld chick to teach me fucking trumpet instead. Makes no difference to me. Be under no illusions. You’re nothing but a means to an end.”