A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime (Lancaster Prep )(16)

Calls me by a silly nickname that I don’t particularly like.

But he didn’t give me the chance.

Typical. I’m starting to realize that’s how everyone treats me. It’s as if they all talk at me, instead of with me. I’m never involved in the conversation. I’m only supposed to sit there and take it like a good little girl.

It’s annoying.

Worse?

It hurts.





SEVEN





CREW





I’m minding my own damn business, striding through the hallways at school and heading for the dining hall, since it’s lunch, when I hear my name being called.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see it’s fucking Figueroa headed my way, his expression full of steely determination.

Great.

Since we came back from Thanksgiving break, it’s been one thing after another, and it’s only Tuesday. It frustrates the shit out of me. Most of it has to do with Wren too, which is interesting.

There’s more to Wren Beaumont than just a pretty face. Which deep down, I always knew. She’s smart, she’s kind to everyone—maybe not me, but I asked for that—and she’s influential. All things I can respect, though for whatever reason, the word respect and Wren never went together in my brain.

I’m attracted to her. When does respect ever come into that equation for me? Not like I degrade girls for sport, but they’re just…there. To talk to and to kiss and to fuck.

That’s it.

It threw me off when she apologized for what she said about me to Skov. I exaggerated a little bit, just like she did, acting like our teacher questioned me thoroughly regarding her allegations, which she sort of did, but it wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be. I was trying to make Wren feel like shit, and it worked, though I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.

The girl is easily manipulated, and too nice. So damn nice, you get a toothache every time you talk to her.

She’s just that sweet.

Wren has to know I say all that shit to get a rise out of her, and it’s so easy. Her bird feathers get ruffled way too quick. It’s almost fun, making her upset.

Harmless fun.

“Can I have a word with you for a minute?” Figueroa asks me, his tone friendly. Though I sense the dark undercurrent beneath his words. He’s unhappy.

Guessing he’s unhappy with me.

What the fuck did I do now? Oh, I know, I was born. With that supposed silver spoon in my mouth. He resents all of us rich kids, which is funny as fuck, considering he works at one of the most exclusive private schools in the entire country.

But he’s in to the broken, damaged little rich girls with daddy complexes. He eats them up with our discarded silver spoons and then spits them out when he’s done with them. On to the next one, and the next one after that. Like a damn shark swimming in the sea, a killing and eating machine.

Figueroa is more like a grooming and fucking machine among the halls of Lancaster Prep, the sick asshole.

“What’s up?” I flick my chin at him, already bored.

“Let’s talk somewhere more private? It’ll just be a minute.”

I follow him until we’re outside, standing in front of the school’s main entrance. Not many people are out here at the beginning of lunch, so this is probably the most private spot he could’ve found.

“What did you want to talk about?” I ask him, when the dick still hasn’t said anything. He’s too busy looking around, as if he’s afraid someone’s going to leap out of the bushes.

“Wren Beaumont,” he says as he faces me fully. “Leave her alone.”

His tone is threatening, his gaze hard.

What the actual fuck? Is this guy for real right now? “What are you talking about?”

“Stop giving her grief in class. She doesn’t like it. And since she’s stuck with you for the psychology project, she’s not happy about it,” Figueroa explains. “At all.”

“Did she tell you that?” I’m floored. She actually went to this guy, trusted him and told him how much she hates working with me?

That’s some fucked-up shit.

“Yes, she did. Yesterday. She was crying. Upset that she couldn’t get out of being your partner on that project.” His lips tighten into a thin, firm line. “I tried my best to console her, but she wouldn’t stop crying.”

“I bet you tried comforting her,” I retort. This guy.

We all know he’s been fucking Maggie in secret these last few months. Franklin dumped her ass when he found out. Rumor has it she’s knocked up with Fig’s kid, though I don’t know if that’s true.

I hate how all the girls call him Fig. It pisses me the hell off. He doesn’t deserve their attention or affection. He’s a complete creep.

“Tell Skov you want a new partner,” Figueroa demands.

“No.”

“She’ll listen to you. They all do.” That last sentence is said with total disdain.

He hates that I’m a Lancaster. That he can’t do shit to me because it won’t stick. I’m untouchable—for the most part. Hell, I’m the most powerful person on this campus and most of the staff and admin don’t give a shit what I do. They’re used to the Lancaster white glove treatment.