Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(30)

“I’d love to talk,” I say as his arms slip around my waist, brushing over the bruises on my hip …



* * *



There’s a sharp pang in my head, the memory jolting my nervous system out of whack. I take a shaky breath and smooth down my school skirt, feeling a little sick. I don’t bother replying to Scotty’s message. I got the answer I was looking for: He’s not Aces.

Jamie taps my arm, his smile and eyes wide. “You’re thinking too hard. I can literally hear your brain cells screaming Help … there’s only two of us left!”

I roll my eyes. “My brain cells can manage,” I reply in a whisper. Jamie quirks an eyebrow up with an if you’re sure look, then turns back and continues defacing the instructions sheet we were given. He scrawls numbers and symbols all over it, like he usually does to pass time. I sometimes wonder how Jamie and I are in AP classes together—he literally never pays attention.

I tap his arm and he looks at me again.

“You forgot one of your passwords at my house the other day,” I say, staring at his thick black marker pen.

He looks confused. “My password?”

“Yeah, the 1717 one.”

His grin fades into a subtler expression. “Ah, that password. I don’t need it anymore,” he says.

“How can you not need a password anymore?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Needed it, then didn’t.”

I nod, not pressing further. Jamie is random like that sometimes. He goes back to writing on the page.

My head still throbs, so I try to focus on something else, hoping the pain subsides. My gaze drifts past Jamie, landing on Belle, sitting at one of the tables nearby. Her hair is falling over the side of her face while her chin rests on her manicured hand, face flushed. I notice she’s gripping the pencil so hard her knuckles are white.

I’d ask her if she’s okay, but we aren’t friends.

And so, I don’t.

I imagine her blond hair matted in red, blood dripping all over her uniform and forming a puddle on the ground.

Then I blink, and the image disappears.





13


DEVON

Friday


We need to talk—Dre

Daniel, the weird quarterback in my music class who’s taken a sudden interest in speaking to me, had the courtesy to show me the Aces text when I got to class this morning, before asking me what my “street name” is.

So I think I can guess why Dre messaged me. He wanted me to stay out of Aces’s mouth, yet for some reason I’m basically all Aces seems to talk about. I want to find out who is behind this, so I can ask them how they know so much and why they won’t leave me alone. It must be someone I accidentally pissed off.

My heart is thumping so hard I hear it in my ears as I walk toward Dre’s apartment. My school shirt is drenched and clinging to me, despite the chill of the afternoon air.

I grew up here. Right here, with the rest of these boys. We went to the same elementary school. We witnessed things no kid should see, like snitches getting stabbed and shot, fathers being handcuffed and taken away. We went to middle school together too, until one day an older guy, Malik, decided to beat me so hard after school that I had to drop out.

I remember everyone joining in—even the boys I thought were my friends.

They were shouting slurs, laughing as I screamed and bled.

The words “bitch boy” and “fairy” rang in my ears as they punched and kicked. Just like that, the boys I grew up with were no longer my boys. They were the boys I was made to be scared of.

If I could have fought back, like Dre, my life might have been so different. He’s always been able to fit in here; it’s like he has a handbook or knows unspoken rules that I don’t.

I’m at Dre’s apartment block now, staring at the guy at the door, Leon. Another boy from middle school. His brown curls nearly cover his eyes, but his stony gaze is set on me. He’s been close to Dre for years, never seemed to like me.

“It’s Devon,” I say, always holding my head high in front of them.

He disappears inside, coming back moments later with the confirmation.

The floorboards creak as I step inside. I walk through Dre’s apartment, then into his room, and there he is, with his back to me, hands in his pockets and his shoulder blades visible through the dark, clingy material of his T-shirt. I close the door behind me. “Hey.”

He twitches.

There’s a long silence; I can hear him breathing and sniffling. He brings his hand up to wipe his face, then pushes it back into his pocket.

“We should stop seeing each other,” he says abruptly, still not facing me.

I stay calm on the outside, despite the fact that my chest aches like I’ve been stabbed.

“What?” I say, swallowing hard.

“We should stop seeing each other,” he repeats. It stings. My eyes water slightly.

I heard you.

“Why?” I ask, even though I know.

He scratches his head, still refusing to look at me.

“Not everyone goes to your fancy school, Von. Not everyone has the privilege of not caring about their reputation. I have one—I need one. I have nothing else but this, and I can’t have you ruining it.”

I step toward him. “And how am I doing that, Dre?”