Mr. Salvatore glared at me one last time before he resumed writing on the dry-erase board.
I stole a look at Funk You to find he was piercing those sea-green eyes of his right through me. What I wouldn’t have given to have his long lashes tickle every part of my body.
I shivered. “What?” I asked in a low voice.
He shook his head, grinning.
I leaned over my desk until my boobs were pressed onto the top. His gaze flew to my cleavage.
“Any parties in this town? Or do you know any taggers?” My fingers itched to show this clean town my colorful graffiti work. However, from the confusion on his face, he clearly didn’t know what a tagger was, or maybe he’d just never seen a set of size C cups before.
I scratched that last thought. As mouthwatering as he was, I would bet he’d had those strong hands or even his thick lips on a set of ta tas. I held back a snort at that last word. I’d always found the boob slang funny, especially when a former beau of my mom’s used the word constantly.
Mousy Girl whipped her blond head around, her ponytail swaying. “Shhh.”
“That bruise on your head is growing,” Funk You said in a Southern drawl.
Automatically, I touched it as I squeezed my thighs together at the sound of his Southern accent, deep and smooth. I would have to thank Small-Bladder Girl for making her mark on me. “It’s nothing.” It hurt like a pisser. I also learned that phrase from one of my mother’s boyfriends. “Back to my question. Parties. Taggers. Music. Dance. Booze. Or is this a dry town like in the movieFootloose?”
Mousy Girl sneered at me with her wide hazel eyes.
“Seriously,” I said to her in a hushed whisper.
At the moment, Mr. Salvatore was oblivious to the class as he wrote the syllabus on the board. It was the start of the school year, and the class already looked bored. Hardly anyone was writing. Bladder Girl came back in with a smile that wrapped around her head. I had to laugh. I knew how it felt when my back teeth were floating and my stomach hurt in pain from a full bladder.
Funk You chuckled. “You always this forward?”
“Do you always brood?”
He lost the gorgeous smile as his light-brown hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes darkened. Or at least I thought they did.Scratch that.Fire burned in their depths.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I tend to be…” I had to think of the word.
“Rude?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I was rude as much as I would say I call it like it is.”
Mr. Salvatore turned around. “In this class, we’ll discuss theory and coding. I will also assign a senior project that you’ll learn more about tomorrow. In addition, we’ll spend one day per week in the computer lab either applying what you learn or working on your project.”
Funk You began doodling in his notebook.
I sat back and crossed my arms over my chest. With my low grade point average, I should have been paying more attention if I wanted to graduate, which I did. My goal for the year was to bury myself in books and study my ass off. At least that was the plan.
“Pouting?” Funk You asked.
I splayed my fingers on my cheek then lowered each one, leaving my middle finger showing.
He chuckled.
While Mr. Salvatore droned on about quizzes and grading, I rubbed my fingers lightly over the growing lump on my forehead.
“Maybe you have a concussion,” Funk You said.
“And maybe you have a stick up your ass.”
“You know what happens to girls with feisty attitudes around these parts, Hannah Montana?”
Heat squeezed the life out of my cheeks, thinking of all the naughty things he could do to punish me. But calling me Hannah Montana was enough to flare my nostrils like a bull in a ring. Everyone always thought they were hilarious when they blurted out “Hannah Montana.”
