The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football, #1)(14)

I stare down at mine, thumbing through it, my head tumbling with what Benji said about River and me having things in common. He called me different. I guess talking to myself qualifies. My parents are non-traditional. I don’t have many friends. And my hair is unique. It’s long and straight and thick, the lavender ends brushing my mid-back. Lila says it’s my best asset, even though she wants me to jazz it up with some multi-colored stripes. My dad says my eyes are his favorite: bright green with dark lashes. I don’t put much stock into looks. (Although I admit to weak moments around River. It’s the artist side of me.) I prefer to look at a person’s insides, to the depths of who they are. I want the layers within, unfolding and unpacking someone’s true nature. I’ve learned that beauty on the outside doesn’t matter if the inside is rotten.

My first taste of masculine beauty was at seventeen. He was thirty and—

I stop that train of thought when Whitman slaps River’s character analysis from last week down on his desk. River tucks it inside his notebook, but not before I see his F.

River’s jaw tightens, and I see fury on the granite planes of his face. Then, as the moments tick by, resigned acceptance. Oh. My breath catches. It’s a defeated expression I’ve never seen him wear.

Whitman hands me my A, and a few minutes later, the bell chimes for class to be dismissed.

River stays in his seat as students file past us, and I guess he’s waiting to talk to Whitman. My body is hyperaware of his proximity, and my hands hurry to get out of his space. The strap of my backpack gets tangled on my chair, and when I yank on it, several items spill out while my phone flies under his desk. I bend down and snatch it up, brushing against his thigh. Inwardly, I groan.

Must. Stop. Touching. Him.

Maybe it was a good idea he didn’t sit next to me that first day.

My cell lights up with several texts, and I scan them. All from Donovan. More info about Harvard. Nothing about my birthday.

Loneliness claws, catching me unexpectedly. Time is running out for law school applications to be accepted. It’s not my dream to be a corporate lawyer, tax attorney, or work in the entertainment field like many in my cohort; no, I want to work with people with legal issues who can’t pay the fees. The poor and disenfranchised. At this rate, I may be waiting tables for another year until I find a spot.

“And yet morning will come,” I say to myself. “And you will watch the sunrise.”

I tuck my phone away then glance up to meet River’s gaze. I think he’s been watching me the entire time.

I straighten my shoulders as our eyes cling.

There’s not one expression on his face I can identify.

But it’s his eyes that give him away.

They burn. Smoky sapphires in flames.

My chest rises. “What? You’re pissed? I had to defend you. And me.”

“I’m not angry. Not at all.”

“Then why the smoldering glare, Snake?”

His lids lower, a little smile curling his full lips. “My tattoo is actually a python.”

“Python doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

“I’m flattered by the nickname.” His tongue darts out and dips to his bottom lip, sweeping across the skin, and it’s a crime against all women that he looks damn hot doing it.

“Don’t be,” I mutter. “I wasn’t being sweet.”

I’m walking away when he calls out, “Wait.”

I flip around. “Boy, I’ve heard that before. What do you want?”

He stands up and walks to me, his feet eating up the space between us. He stops and stares down at me as we ignore the jostle of people walking around us.

“Well?”

His lashes lower, hiding his eyes as he reaches out. His thumb traces the line of my jaw from my cheek to my chin, his fingers grazing down my throat. “Happy birthday, Anastasia,” he purrs.

My chest tightens, my body buzzing as I sputter and jerk away from him.

He can’t…

He can’t do this to me.

That was not an ordinary birthday wish.

“Stop your games,” I snap.

His lashes lower again. “Not even sorry.”

My hands clench around my backpack. “There’s a thick line between us, River, one you put up a long time ago.”

Whitman approaches us, and River stiffens, dropping my gaze as he shifts in the professor’s direction. Feeling as if I’ve been released by a hungry predator, I whip around and jog out of the room, skipping the elevator to take the stairs. My heart pounds as I keep my head down and dash to my next class.

River Tate is a dangerous man.

And the best thing I can do is stay away from him.





5





After getting my ass reamed by Whitman, I jog to the parking lot and shove my backpack in my black GMC, scrub my face, and take off running. It’s two miles across campus to the athletic administration building, but I need the cold wind in my face. Whitman knows about my issues but doesn’t care. He believes I shouldn’t be in his class. He isn’t wrong. Failure tugs at me, and I run faster.

Doesn’t matter that I’m wearing jeans and not workout gear. I need this, the release from anxiety.

I zoom past a group of ATOs. They call out my name, but I keep going.