Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(17)
“Better not get comfortable, Followhill. We’re after your ass.” The brunette spat phlegm onto my powder pink lace-up heels.
I realized early on that I needed armor against my parents’ reputation.
The only way I could protect myself from the fire was by creating a bigger blaze. If they thought I was untouchable, they’d fear me instead of taunt me. If they thought the hard-nosed principal had my back—or had me on my back, for that matter—I would not be messed with. So I nurtured the rumors, made them grow, gave them wings, and let them fly, like butterflies from a Mason jar.
I’m smart, cunning, and understated. I don’t actually tell anyone we’re dating. I just keep going to Principal Prichard’s office, and he always opens the door because whatever we are—he likes it.
He likes it a whole freaking lot.
Halfway through my journey down the hallway, I decide to cut myself some slack and ditch my last two periods. They’re electives, anyway. Fifteen minutes later, I park my cherry-red convertible BMW by the patio fountain in front of my house and head straight upstairs to the shower. I need to wash my hair and look presentable for dinner, during which I will feign shock when my parents tell me that Penn will be staying with us. If Mom can even convince him to live under the same roof as me. Then I’ll corner the bastard and lay down the rules. Guilty or not, I run this show. Mom’s Rover is nowhere in sight, which means the house is empty. Tiptoeing in, I confirm the coast is clear, then head to the bathroom. I dump my white mini skirt on the floor and let my baby blue cropped shirt follow suit. My phone lights up on the marble counter.
Blythe: Ditching school on the first day? #savage
Gus: Nice of you to stand up for the Scully kid. Wanna slum it up with a hood rat? How about try one who’s not TAKEN.
Esme: Dude, your thighs look hella thick in that skirt. I know you’re a base, but there’s a limit. Abort mission or abort tacos. Your pick. :/
The hot water soothes the past twenty-four hours as it hits my body from four different showerheads. I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and moan. I can handle Penn. I’m the goddamn queen of All Saints High, and he’s just another random from Las Juntas. Whatever happened between us is water under the bridge.
The kind I can’t let drown me.
I step out of the shower to stand on the bathroom rug. I left my pink towel on the floor by the counter next to the door yesterday. I tramp toward it, dripping water, as the door swings open.
“Bailey!” I gasp, but instead of meeting my baby sister’s big blue eyes and tiny frame, Penn is standing in front of me, up close. His body fills the doorframe effortlessly, and he looks like a venomous kiss. Dark and sinful and irresistible. His jeans ride low on his hips, and a wallet chain hangs from his right pocket. His sleeveless black tank top has a hole where his heart is because, of course, he’s an edgy asshole like Vaughn, and his arms are big, tan, and full of veins and muscle. His cuts are purple against his moss-hued eyes. And those greens are descending my body like a whip, potentially deadly, but for now, tender. I resist the urge to flinch, knowing the painful stroke is about to hit me. He drinks it all in.
My breasts.
My stomach.
My thighs.
And that private place between them that clenches hard against nothing right now.
A slow smirk tugs at his cracked, heart-shaped lips. I cover my necklace—of all things—more embarrassed about it than anything else.
“Oh, my freaking Marx. Penn. Get the hell out!”
It’s the first time I call him by his name. Officially, I’m not supposed to know it. His face is still vacant. He is gripping the door handle, his knuckles ghostly white against his tan skin.
He picks up the pink towel, throwing it at me, and I catch it with shaky fingers, wrapping it firmly around my body and tucking the sea glass into it.
“Like what you see?” I flip my wet hair. My pride is beyond wounded. He just saw me completely naked and didn’t even acknowledge me. All my guilt and good intentions wash away and are replaced with a weird desperation to show him that he’s a peasant and I’m a queen.
“Hate,” he corrects, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip. “I hate what I see, and plan on seeing very little of it. You’re Daria, I assume.”
He is still not making a move to get out. This guy is unreal. I’m so mad, I could punch him in the face. Maybe I should. He won’t hit me back. And it would hurt him like hell since he’s already beaten to a pulp.
“Don’t pretend we haven’t met.” I reach for my brush and comb my golden locks in front of the mirror. Might as well. Asshole’s not going anywhere.
“We have, but we never exchanged names, just fluids,” he barbs, “which begs the question, how the fuck do you know mine?”
“What fluids? You were too chicken to seal the deal,” I purr, wondering if he really doesn’t know my name. We’re both pretty big deals at our schools.
I think about the sea glass necklace, watching my face turning scarlet in the mirror. Am I an idiot for taking what he gave me, turning it into jewelry, and making it my talisman? The sea glass is a functioning organ of mine now. It reminds me that good people exist.
Only, I don’t know if Penn is that good anymore.
I think I may have ruined him.
Watching him in the steamed mirror, I lean against the vanity. I can tell when a guy is checking me out, and he’s not doing that. He’s more like assessing the damage he wants to inflict on me. I know his hatred for me runs deep because when he talks to me, every word is a blade, causing a shiver to roll down my spine. Instead of ending in my toes, though, it explodes between my legs.