“Fuck off, Patrick,” I say in a low voice.
He glares at me from next to the fountain. He’s exactly the same: short brown hair and icy blue eyes. Patrick’s cute enough to make him popular, because that way, people don’t try to look too deep inside. And he’s rotten.
Luckily he’s also alone. The last thing I need is a bunch of ex-friendsandan ex-boyfriend harassing me.
“Now, is that nice?” Patrick asks, his mouth pulled into a sneer.
“Nicer than you deserve. Yes.”
He clenches his oversize jaw and slides his hands into the pockets of his khakis. I wonder if he’s trying to cover up the scar from where I stabbed him.
“How’s juvey?” he asks, coming over to sit across from me. My mouth opens, surprised, but I try to cover it quickly. I haven’t been this close to him since I was dragged out of class in handcuffs.
I straighten my back. “It’s an extended learning center, jackass. And it’s fantastic. I don’t have to deal with assholes all day.”
Patrick smiles to himself, looking down at the table—like I’m being funny. I can’t believe we ever went out. The first guy to call me beautiful and I waste half my junior year on him. I was an idiot. I should have been able to see past his bullshit.
“So they’re going to let you graduate?” he asks, looking up at me. “You should be in jail.”
I chew on the inside of my lip. The way he’s watching, as if I’m a piece of meat, makes me cringe. His gaze pauses at my boobs and then at my mouth. I fold my arms over my chest, and he seems to revel in the power my discomfort gives him.
“What do you want?” I ask. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” My pulse races—he once told me he’d kill me for what I did. His harassing phone calls may have stopped a few months ago, but he’s obviously still angry.
Patrick sets his hands on the table, stretching them out to rest in front of me as he leans in close. I recognize the smell of his cologne, and it makes me a little nostalgic. But then I remember how much I hate him. My eyes drift to the scar on his hand. It’s still pretty gnarly.
“You know you’ve never apologized?” he says almost sweetly. I lift my eyes to meet his. They’re pale blue; I used to like that about him.
“Yeah,” I respond. “I know.”
He waits. Well, he can wait all day—I’ll never apologize. Patrick treated me like shit our entire relationship. He put me down, made me feel like I should be lucky to have him because of where I came from. And then the day I tried to break it off, he blamed Evan.
“Savvy?” Travis’s voice is immediate comfort. I look up as he walks toward me, jetting a concerned glance at Patrick. Travis’s long hair is tangled and wild, like he just woke up. I smile, relieved to see him.
“Great,” my ex-boyfriend says. “Another one of your new degenerate friends?”
“Go to hell,” I say, braver now that I’m not alone.
Patrick reaches out and grabs my hand from across the table. It’s a movement so sudden and forceful, I lose my breath. He yanks my arm toward him, dragging me onto the table.
“I should put a spike through your fucking hand,” he hisses in my face.
“Hey!” Travis yells, running over to pull me free.
But I’m shaken, gasping. I didn’t expect that. I should have expected that. Patrick’s been asking me to apologize since he came to my court appearance, but I sort of thought he’d be over it by now. When the calls stopped, I thought he would too.
Travis grabs Patrick by his polo shirt, hauling him out of the chair and pushing him into the aisle between the tables. “Don’t you ever put your hands on her!” Travis shouts. Around us everyone stares.
I can barely breathe as I look between Travis, my skinny, ex-drug-addict friend, and Patrick, a linebacker. I’m still shaking. He grabbed me. Patrick grabbed me and pulled me over the table. This is some next-level shit.
Patrick laughs, brushing off his shirt as if Travis’s touch dirtied it. As if Travis is dirt. Patrick glances at me and raises his chin, confident. Powerful. “I’ll be seeing you around,Slutton,” he calls to me. And then he turns and walks out the mall exit.
I try to calm down, look normal and unfazed. It’s near impossible to fake. I sit back down in my seat, and Travis joins me at the table, taking the spot where Patrick had been.
He studies me for a moment and then leans in. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod, but no. I’m not. I’m freaking out. Patrick has gotten under my skin again. He’s rattled my confidence.
“Let me see your wrist,” Travis asks quietly, holding out his hand. I glance at his arm, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to the elbows. On his skin are the leftovers of needle tracks not yet faded. He sees me looking.
