"Oh, I can get you out." Trigger's eyes catch mine in the review mirror.
"And when you do, I'll head straight to Headmaster Trejo and fill him in on your little night ride," I say with my own sweet arrogance.
He's quiet, clearly weighing my words with his options. I don't know what they are up to, but it's possible they scratch it altogether. Hollis runs a hand through his hair and presses his head against the seat rest. I can tell whatever this is, it’s important to him, and my curiosity is thoroughly piqued.
"You know what your problem is?" Trigger’s eyes lock onto mine in the mirror, dark and cutting. "You think being a pain in everyone's ass makes you useful. Like, if you're annoying enough, people will mistake it for actually giving a shit. But it doesn't make you useful; it just makes you someone we have to deal with."
His words are unexpected. They’re sharper than he probably realizes, and they cut deep. I've been left to make numerous assumptions over the years. Assumptions about why I'm here and not at home. I mean, technically, I know why I was sent here, but right now, it feels like he knows too. But then the static ringing in my ears as my panic starts to rise reminds me that no one knows, and I'm letting my insecurity show.
I fake bravado before leaning one elbow onto each captain's seat with a confidence I certainly don't feel. "That was a low blow. Didn't your mother ever teach you any manners?"
"Nah, she didn't want me," he says, one hand tightening around the steering wheel as the other shifts the car into drivewith a force that almost drowns out Hollis's groan, but the look of disappointment he shoots me tells me I unknowingly hit back with equal measure. But how?
"Asha," Hollis says my name, his voice heavy with annoyance, regret, and apology that I can tell isn't for me. "Please, just for tonight, let it go." Then, turning, he adds, "This is important."
I hear his words, but it's the plea in his eyes that has me folding. I give him a subtle nod and sink back into the seat, swallowing my protest. Hollis is family, and he’s never asked for anything. Until now. So, I'll bend. Besides, my problem isn't with him. It's with the man gripping the steering wheel.
Since homecoming last year, there has been a noticeable shift between me and Trigger. I hit a nerve with my move that night, auctioning off all my time so he no longer had control of it. The move was one I think he had to applaud. He knows me more than I'd like to admit, so I don't think it surprised him. Instead, it was my words that drove the stake between us. His taunting, playful smirk was gone, replaced with a scowl reserved only for me. I get it. I accused him of something I know he didn't do. But to be fair, when I said it, I didn't know I was wrong. However, I also never apologized.
"How did you get your Bronco past the campus security guard anyway?" I ask as we start down the dark rocky path, trying to climb out of whatever icy tomb I stepped into with my last comment.
"We parked it on the old path on the last free day and told them it broke down and was in the shop."
"Why would you tell her that? The more you say, the more she has against us when this all blows up in our faces."
"Wrong. I wouldn't rat out my cousin—just you," I answer, my tone dripping with fake honey.
I watch in the rearview mirror as Trigger keeps his eyes focused on the dark road ahead, but I don't miss the way he runs his tongue over his teeth, like he has something more he wants to say but is choosing not to. The victory feels hollow before it even settles. I've made a career out of needling him, finding the exact words that'll burrow under his skin. But this time, I went too far, and I know it. His comment hurt, but what I said back…that wasn't just a jab. That was a knife, and I twisted it.
"Keep an eye on her. She's your responsibility tonight," Trigger says, not even acknowledging my presence with a glance, which is new. Even when he's mad, his gaze lingers, but not tonight. Not after what I said.
"I can take care of myself," I call out to his back as he disappears into the crowd.
"Where are we?" I ask Hollis as I try to figure out why all these people have gathered at what appears to be an old abandoned farm. There's an almost dilapidated barn about one hundred feet away, a few bonfires, and people gathered around a paddock.
"You'll see," he says as he pulls his wallet out and thumbs his finger over a wad of cash.
"Hollis," I hiss. "What are you doing with all that cash? Are you trying to get jumped?"
"No." He pulls out the wad and taps a guy wearing a black suede vest on the shoulder. "Five hundred on Hale."
The man takes his money and gives him a slip before tipping his hat.
"Explain," I demand.
"You'll see soon enough. Come on." He grabs my elbow. "Let's get a good spot."
People wandered through the night around us, barely visible until they passed close enough to catch the moonlight. We pushed through to the front, and I blinked as floodlights snapped on, bathing everything in white light. An old paddock stretched before us, weathered wood and rusted metal, and at the far end, guys were dressed in riding gear and protective vests. I watched one adjust a rope around his gloved hand, and my stomach dropped. Bull riders.
"We shouldn't be here," I said, taking a step back. "This is illegal."
"No, it's not." Hollis dismisses my comment with a tsk, as though it’s completely baseless, and leans against the cool bars of the arena, utterly relaxed. "Bull riding isn't illegal."
"Then why does this place feel so sketchy?" I look around at the crumbling structures surrounding the arena. "And why is it so late at night?"
"It's the only time we could make it work, so the organizers worked around our schedule."
My eyes scan the far side of the arena, and my breath hitches. There, across the paddock, adjusting his vest and rolling his shoulders is Trigger. The one person I've spent months trying not to think about, trying not to notice in the hallways, trying to convince myself I don’t feel anything for. And he’s suited up to ride.
