Until You (Fall Away, #1.5)(25)

“It’s on.” And that promise floated in the air like the words “You’ve won the lottery.”

Hell, yes.

“Tatum Brandt!”

We both jumped out of our own little world and looked to the end of the row where Coach Syndowski and about half of the cross-country team stared at us.

Oh, shit.

I almost laughed at the sheer luck.

Tate in her towel. Me hovering close. I couldn’t have planned it better, and I was a little ashamed that I didn’t predict this twist.

This wasn’t going to look good on her so-called “They’re not taking my senior year” game plan.

“Coach!” Tate gasped, grappling at her towel, and making it look like we were guilty of something other than talking.

Smooth, Tate.

But my amusement was short lived when I saw girls snapping pictures with their cell phones. My stomach hollowed out immediately.

No, no, no….goddammit.

Tate was mine, to do with what I wanted. And I did not want pictures of her in a towel texted to the whole goddamn school!

“There are other places for you two to do this.” The coach’s voice sounded like she should be wagging her finger and sending us to bed without dinner. “Mr. Trent?” She scolded me with her eyes. “Leave!”

And I buried my anger about the pictures and walked out just as I’d come in. Like I f*cking owned the place.





Days later, I was experiencing more ups and downs than a damn roller coaster. Tate completely aware of my presence and cringing every time she saw me—going up! Douchebags trying to fist bump me for screwing her like she was some skanky slut that would throw down anywhere—going down.

Motherf*cking cell phone, internet, technology and shit!

And worst of all, I actually felt guilty.

I should’ve been thrilled. Especially since she had transferred into one of my classes yesterday, and I could f*ck with her anytime now.

But things were different this year, and that photo hadn’t helped. Guys wanted her. Like wanted her so badly that no amount of shit I spewed about her eating boogers, having lice, or even dissecting human cadavers in her home would dispel.

Screw it. There wasn’t much I could do on that front anymore, and why would I want to? Why did I care if she dated or not? I didn’t.

It simply bugged the shit out me to have a nearly naked picture of her zooming through cyberspace.

Tate would assume I’d planned the whole thing, and she’d know that I would be thrilled about her humiliation. Let her, then. It worked to my advantage.

But that didn’t mean that I was happy or okay with it.

“Toni, baby. Come with me.” I hooked Toni Vincent, cheer captain, by the elbow and led her outside the double doors of the gym.

“Oh, look who’s talking to me after weeks and weeks.” Her sarcastic tone was playful but annoyed.

She and I had hooked up a couple of times last year, and while she was confident and fun, I wasn’t in it for a relationship. She tried to push that shit.

She was cocky, though, and she knew how to work her tough streak. I admired that about her.

“We’re better when we don’t talk,” I mumbled as I backed her into the wall.

She didn’t want to give me an inch, but I saw the small smile peek out before she lowered her green eyes. When she looked back up, her gaze was steady. “So, what do you want?”

“The Cheer blog,” I stated. “The picture of Tatum and me? Take it down.”

“Why should I?” she sneered. “It’s getting a lot of hits.”

“Because I’m telling you to,” I ordered, not flirting or pretending in the least. “Today.”

And I left her there, knowing she’d do it.





Later that day, I made my way to my final class, Themes in Film in Literature. I’d signed up for any courses I could take from Penley this semester. She was sweet, and I felt worse about my behavior towards her than any other teacher last year. It was the teachers who went the extra mile with me that got my respect, and after my dick behavior with her last fall, I’d decided to seize any opportunity I could to show her I was a good student. Or at least a nice guy.

Her classes, while she tried, were my least favorite, though. I hated literature and writing, and definitely hated expressing myself in public when it didn’t involve some Patrón or a fast car.

But I looked forward to this class most of all now. Tate sat two seats in front of me, and I could drill a hole into the back of her head the entire class.

“I’m trying to get into Columbia, pre-med. What about you?” Tate asked Ben Jamison, who sat next to her, and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation from behind them.

“I’m applying to a few places,” Ben answered. “I have no head for Math or Science, though. It’ll be Business for me.”


And Business is what exactly? Greek Literature?

“Well, I hope you like some Math. Business goes with Economics, you know?” Tate echoed my thoughts, and I snorted when Ben looked over at her, eyes wide and clearly confused.

I chewed on my pen to keep from laughing at the dumbass.

Tate’s back stiffened, and I knew that she knew I was listening.

“So…” she continued, ignoring me, “you’re on the Homecoming Committee, right?”