Her lip curls and I feel a spark of disappointment on her behalf. “He’s got a girl, already. A tiny fact he omitted the first time we talked.”
“Oh, hun. I’m sorry.” I wrap my arms around her stiff shoulders. “We should swear off men and go live in a lesbian commune somewhere. Organic gardening and lady gardens.”
I drag her to the tuck shop, buying her a Mars bar; an overload of sweetness to counteract her terrible taste in men.
Our next lesson is English, and we get to class early, taking our usual desks at the side, me against the wall, her in the aisle.Wilder strolls inside ahead of his friends, taking his seat, then locking eyes with Clare, patting the empty chair beside him. “Do you want to come over here or are you sick of me already?
Clare pulls a querying face at me, and I shrug, a second later she’s sitting next to him. I realise my mistake when Zane enters and bears down on me, filling the space she vacated. “Looks like my usual desk’s taken.”
“Find another one.”
“There aren’t any.”
I glance around the room with a frown, realising the four spare desks on the far side of the class are stacked on top of each other. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You rearranged the room?”
“Not me. They were like that when I got here.”
His smirk is insufferable, and I face forward, tilting my head slightly towards the wall so I can’t even catch him from the corner of my eye.
A stance he takes advantage of with a hand on my leg.
Which I just as quickly shove away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m just trying to get you acclimated. If your friend’s going to be spending all her free time with Wilder, don’t you think we should at least be civil with one another?”
“And why is his interest suddenly rekindled?” I ask, not bothering to hide my suspicion. “Don’t tell me you’re paying him.”
His stare is so outraged I feel the ground shift beneath that conclusion. “He likes her,” he says in a slow voice like I’m a moron. Then he leans in closer. “I asked him to cool it with her out of respect for your position.”
“And what? You think I’m all better?”
“No,” he says with a lazy smile. “I think he only had a few weeks of respect in him.”
The deadpan delivery makes me burst out laughing and Clare glances over, her face relaxing at my smile. “That better be true because if you’re pimping out your friend…”
He waits, leaning forward with anticipation, but I don’t have an end to that threat. And it doesn’t make sense. They’re all wealthy. Clare is definitely his type, partly because she’s been studying his endless trail of flings and modelling each style change upon them.
“Fine. He genuinely likes her.”
“Now try it without the eye roll.”
“But it doesn’t mean I have to spend time with you.” I face forward, nose in the air. “I should get to know Dahlia better. Become cofounder of the anti-royal club.”
Mr Acaster starts the lesson, putting a stop to our conversation. The hairs on my arm stand on end, informing me about every tiny movement from Zane, tracking his position and sounding endless alarms.
This isn’t anything like staring at him on a phone. A digital image doesn’t shift in their seat, sending warm clouds of a dark and dangerous scent towards me. A photo doesn’t make the air around me crackle with energy or brush against me, making swallowing both necessary and close to impossible.
When the lesson drags, Zane’s fingers steal onto my leg again and I let them stay there, telling myself it’s because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of slapping them away. My stomach muscles tighten as he moves incrementally closer, one fingertip tracing circles on my leg, the touch easily transmitting through the thin wool of my kilt.
My peripheral vision fills the gaps in my internal photo album. I’m still clueless about why he’s toying with me but, Wilder aside, today reinforces heistoying with me.
Maybe some bored rich boy bullshit that I’ll never be able to understand. Perhaps he doesn’t enjoy knowing there’s someoneout in the world who can’t stand the sight of him. Although, that’s not true. I love the sight of him. It’s the physical reality and flashbacks that are problematic.
Finally, the lesson is over. I jump to my feet and have to contend with Zane blocking me. “Could you move?”
“Why such a hurry?” he teases, edging me against the wall while my internal sensors go haywire, and my eyes try to bug out of my head.
Luckily, my phone buzzes with a message. The library book I’ve had on request for my art history project has been returned.
