I brush past Easton. As soon as I’m in the hall, I lean over and throw up everything in my stomach into a trash can. A girl walking by gags, and a couple of football players feign throwing up between laughs. But I don’t pay attention to them. Because Easton is face-to-face with Mr. Doau in the doorway of his room.
His mere presence shrinks the balding teacher right before my eyes. He has half a foot on Mr. Doau, but I know that’s not the reason the teacher looks ready to shit his pants. Everyone knows the Rutherfords, thanks to the high-profile cases Vincent’s firm takes on, and it doesn’t hurt they funded this school practically single-handedly.
Easton takes a small step toward Mr. Doau, who takes one back. They do it again until they disappear into the classroom.
My shaky heartbeat battles with the nausea in my stomach.
He can’t help it, can he? He just has to save everyone.
Everybody’s fucking staring at me like I carry some infectious disease.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lift a shoulder. “What can I say? First trimester’s a bitch.”
Eyes widen, a gasp sounds, but I ignore it all and head down the hall to the water fountain. I take a long drink to rid the bad taste from my mouth. But even Caspian Prep’s fancy water can’t rinse it away, so I fetch a piece of cinnamon gum from my bag and pop it into my mouth.
I have two minutes to get to study hall, but I don’t move. I lean against the wall near the fountain and wonder what’s happening in Mr. Doau’s classroom. What they’re saying. What Easton is thinking.
Most days, I know exactly what I’m doing. I work for it—the way people see me. The way they talk. But sometimes, when I look at Easton ... when I see the way he looks at me ... I can’t remember why I do any of it.
The bell rings, jolting me back to reality.
The hall has cleared out, leaving me alone with a tall and angry silhouette moving past me. He’s purposefully avoiding me, but something deep and empty inside of me won’t let him walk away. I grab his arm, and he reluctantly stops. Red washes down his neck, and his whiskey eyes have darkened to Guinness. His gaze slides to my hand on his bare skin, and I let it drop.
Vulnerability expands in my stomach. I don’t like the feeling.
“What the hell were you doing?” I hiss.
“Are you kidding me? You want to know whatIwas doing?” he growls. He presses his lips together, releases a slow exhale, and runs his palm across his mouth. “How long has he been touching you like that?”
I lift a shoulder and look away.
“Eva.”
The way he says my name, it’s so gentle, the warm glow of a slow-burning flame. I drag my gaze back to his. There’s a tightness in my throat. It feels like shame and hope and too much else.
His jaw tightens when I still don’t respond. “How long?”
“Your cop complex is adorable,” I breathe, “but not everyone needs saving.”
“Just answer the question, Eva. Please.”
His insistence squeezes my lungs so tightly I’m claustrophobic.
“Why does it matter? Are you jealous?”
He lets out a rough breath. “Why do you do this?”
“Do what?” My voice shakes, betraying me, so I blow a bubble, then pop it.
“This.” He grabs the deflated bubble from my lips, and I watch as he tosses it into the trash can beside the water fountain. “Deflect whenever I have a real question.”
The small touch of his fingers against my lips still burns, and somehow the contact threatens to tear my fa?ade to shreds.
I don’t know, I want to say.
I don’t know why I do it.
Instead, what comes out is, “If you wanted a turn with me, all you had to do was ask.”
