The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(23)
Coach Quentin gives Alex several papers—probably the team practice schedule and their calendar of preliminary games—then he stalks off the field, leaving Alex standing there, staring down at the papers with a bewildered, unhappy look on his face that I find instantly confusing. He was determined to gain extra credit. Like, determined. A guy like him, on his last warning before jail? There’s a reason why he needs that extra credit, and it’s an important one. I would have thought making it onto the team would have made him happy, but the look on his face is far from it as he clenches his hand around the papers and he slowly makes his way back toward the locker rooms.
It’s lucky that I made him put his cell number into my phone earlier in the bathroom. I’m going to need to give him the bad news. It doesn’t matter if I’m attracted to him or not: if he’s going to wind up being just another one of Jacob’s puppets, then I won’t be teaching him guitar. I doubt he’ll lose a moment’s peace over it, but I also won’t be associating myself with him again. Whatever brief acquaintanceship was forged between us during our two, equally brief encounters just fizzled out and died an irreparable death. I, Silver Parisi, will never be speaking to Alessandro Moretti again.
7
ALEX
I find the piece of paper wedged inside the vents of my locker door; I almost don’t even bother to unfold and read it, but my own damned curiosity gets the better of me. It’s a flyer. An invite, really.
‘Scuntapalooza – Chez Leon. Friday night @ 8. BYOB!’
Scuntapalooza? I’m not even gonna pretend to know what the fuck that means. Printed on the red paper in black ink is a crude drawing of Big Foot smoking a giant joint, with veiny, bloodshot eyes. I laugh to myself at the BYOB remark. I haven’t been introduced to a Leon yet, but he’s a fucking sad sack if he hasn’t figured out how the hell to get his hands on a keg or two at the ripe old age of seventeen. I ball up the flyer in my hand and I lob it at the trash can; the projectile arcs perfectly through the air and disappears.
“Nice. Didn’t even touch the sides.”
I turn toward the female voice, half expecting to find Silver standing beside me, but it isn’t her. Instead, a girl with bright, startling green eyes and skin the color of honeyed cinnamon is leaning against the locker next to mine, her head resting up against the locker door. Her hair’s a wild mass of corkscrew curls, tumbling around her face to her shoulders. First thought: you’re pretty enough. Second thought: now go the fuck away.
She smiles broadly, expectantly, like she’s waiting for me to drop down to my knees and worship her. I’m sure guys do that a lot around her. She could have been an Egyptian Goddess in a past life. “Shouldn’t be so quick to turn down an invite like that, though,” she tells me. “They don’t come around very often.”
“Doubt I’m missing anything.” I dump my notebook in my locker and slam the door closed, pushing away. I’m hoping she won’t follow…but she does.
“I’m Zen, by the way.” She rolls her eyes playfully. “I know. Weird name, right? My parents are the biggest hippies.”
“They must be really disappointed in you then.”
She falters, irritation flashing in her cat-like eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Hippies don’t often bring up daughters to lust after three-hundred-dollar purses.” I point down at the black leather obscenity dangling off her arm, and she slaps a hand to a chest, feigning surprise like she just noticed the damn thing hanging there.
“Oh, wow. Yeah, this was expensive. Thank you. You get what you pay for with products like this though, right?”
I grind to a halt, unable to keep the incredulity from my face. I’m about to ask her how the fuck she just took my backhanded insult as a fucking compliment, when I register the way she’s preening and figure it wouldn’t be worth it. “Can I help you with something? I’m trying to get to my next allotted torture session.”
“Allotted torture session. Hah. That’s funny.”
God, she’s one of those people. The I’m-going-to-tell-you-that-you-said-something-funny-instead-of-just-fucking-laughing people. I am so turned off right now.
Zen flutters her eyelashes, pouting a little. “You know, Kacey might be off the table now that she’s dating Jake, but there are still three other Sirens for you to choose from. I just wanted to introduce myself, and, y’know. Mark your card.”
I stare at her blankly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Alessandro.” She blushes in a way that feels practiced. “This is the twentieth century. We’re progressive here at Raleigh.” She reaches out and lays her palm against my chest. “Most guys consider it a compliment when a Siren hits on them.”
Oh, my good god. What the fuck is happening right now? This has got to be a joke. Gingerly, I take hold of her hand and remove it from my chest. “Alex,” I say. “My name is Alex. And…you do know it’s the twenty-first century, right?”
She blinks, her brows pulling together. “Dude. Of course. That’s what I said.”
“All right. Well…” I don’t have time for this. Or the fucking energy. I turn around and walk away, leaving her standing there. This time, mercifully, she has enough common sense to let me go.