Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(20)

He sighs. We clash sometimes, like two idiots playing chicken. Most of the time, neither of us move. Crash.

“What?” I square up to him. We’re a pretty even match. Coach often puts us on opposite teams for practice to even things out. Because as much as we fight, when we’re on the same page? Magic.

He’s the same height as me. Around the same build. If not for the wildly different features, people might think we’re related.

“Oh, you asshole.” He shoves me back. “Get out of my fucking face.”

I crack my neck, grinning. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”

His eyebrows rise, but he grins back. “Fuck you, man.”

I lunge for him, getting the first punch. His head snaps back, eyes wide as the blood flows from his nose. It’s like a little switch flips in him. Game on.

Kids make space for us, some jeering while girls down the hall screams. It makes my blood hotter. He gets a hit in, his knuckles glancing off my cheekbone. I dive for him, a tackle better made for a football player than me, and we go down. I’m mid-attack when a teacher hauls me back, slamming me face-first into a locker.

Fuck.

Only one person in the school is strong enough to do that.

“Sorry, coach,” I say against the metal.

Coach’s grip on my neck doesn’t soften. “You think a sorry will cover this mess? In my office after school. Both of you.”

And then he’s gone. He’s as much of a legend as the rest of us, honestly. He went to Emery-Rose when he was in high school and captained the football and lacrosse teams. He was basically the original golden boy.

The disgust in his voice spears through me. I push myself off the locker and offer my hand to Liam. He takes it, letting me pull him up, and we both look in the direction Coach left.

“Damn,” Liam mutters. “He’s going to take it out on us with drills, isn’t he?”

I sigh. “I don’t even want to fucking think about it.”

He brushes under his nose, smearing blood, and then glances at me. “I got you good. Split lip.”

I laugh. “Better than my eyes swollen shut.”

He grimaces. “Fuck you.”

We go back to class. And I feel exponentially better—and worse.





10





I hate that the first words out of my mouth are, “You got into a fight?”

Caleb shrugs. The proof is in the pudding: his lip is fat, split open by—I’m assuming, here—his friend’s fist.

Boys are idiots.

“Should I add that to my painting?” I ask dryly.

He shrugs again.

I turn back to my canvas. It’s… blank. He’s been fiddling with his paintbrush for the last ten minutes. His paints are still packed away. I assume his canvas is just a long stretch of white, too. It’s a little daunting. The first stroke.

Robert—er, Mr. Jenkins—is circling around the room, and he stops behind me.

“Interesting,” he says. “Is that how you see Caleb?”

I glance up at him. “Can I just paint the whole thing black?”

Caleb chuckles. “Well, that’s a new one.”

“You wanted a window into his soul,” I tell Robert. “And his soul is—”

“Okay,” he says, holding up his hand. “I’m sure there’s more to Mr. Asher than what meets the eye. You’re our only pair that hasn’t even started. Why is that?”

“I have her figured out,” Caleb says. “It’s just a matter of finding the right way to portray it.”

I hum. “Pretty sure he’s blowing smoke out of his—”

“All right,” Robert interrupts. “New plan.” He claps, drawing all eyes to him. “This assignment is now homework.”

Cue: many groans. Including mine.

“We’re going to work on technique and smaller projects in here, and I expect everyone to have a masterpiece using what they’ve learned over the semester.”

I meet Caleb’s eyes, but he doesn’t seem mad about it. In fact, he’s smiling.

Ugh.

He raises his hand once Robert is done. “I have a very rigid after-school schedule,” he says. “Especially with the games…”

“Well, lucky for us,” Robert answers, “this project is due before winter break. As you know, our art classes aren’t for the full year. You’ll be filling the gap in your schedule in the spring with a different art class… or study hall.”

“Is that new?” one student demands. She pushes her glasses up on her face and frowns.

“Yes, new policy went into effect over the summer.” He shrugs. “I go with what the school board tells me. Now, there’s no use debating it with me, Ms. Addams. Let’s get back to the actual class, yes? Put those canvases aside, we’re going to work on something new…”

We all shuffle our easels around so we’re not facing our partner. Once Caleb’s eyes are off of me—albeit momentarily—I let loose a breath of relief. Staring at him for forty-five minutes is exhausting.

He leans into me. “You’re coming to the game.”

I jerk. “No,” I lie. “Why?”