She rears back with a hurt expression on her face. Fuck. This is never easy.Why do they get so attached?I’m always honest up front. Shit, I couldn’t be any clearer if I wore a sign.No relationships. Just fun.
Someone suddenly coughs in the doorway. I look past Darla and gape. “Lemon?” I sit up straighter.
“Is this a bad time?” Laney measures me and Darla in the very compromising position on my bed.
“Not at all,” I immediately answer. Darla pins me with her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to study.” She holds up a very full backpack.
“You’re my tutor?”
“Uh-huh,” she responds. I think I hear angels singing. “I’ll come back though . . .”
“No! Darla was just leaving.” I all but launch her off me.
“You sure about that?” Laney asks snidely, and goosebumps rise on my arms. Shit, I missed that smart mouth.
“Yes.” I look pointedly at Darla. She pouts, but there’s fire in her eyes. I don’t like it one bit.
“Yeah, I was just leaving.” Darla slinks off my bed. She smooths out her skirt, lifts her chin, before starting for the door. She walks past Laney without so much as a hello, and it pisses me off to no end. Most of the girls in school think it’s okay to brush her off because she isn’t like them. A Stepford southern belle with a pole stuck up her ass. “Kam, you know my number. Call me when you feel better,” Darla tosses over her shoulder right before she leaves.
Um, yeah. Darla.Delete.
After she’s gone, it’s just me and Laney and a whole room of awkward silence. I break the ice.
“Hi.”
I never said it was going to be with poetry or anything.
“Hi,” Laney responds with an entertained smile. I know what she’s thinking. Once a player, always a player. I wish she knew how wrong she was. Laney strolls into my room and drops the book bag by my desk, then takes a look around. I love her confidence and comfort in her own skin. She isn’t intimidated by all the trophies or the black and white pictures of me playing hanging on the wall. Captured movements suspended in time. My favorite is the close-up where I’m just about to fire the football into the end zone. It’s a representation of my dream, of my focus, of my life. It’s also a reminder those things might all be gone.
“It’s sort of just how I pictured it.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“And how is that?” I question.
“All jock.”
“It’s not all jock.” I dispute. “I still have Mr. Wiggles.” I hold up a small, brown bear I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I never could let go of this stupid stuffed animal.
“Oh, well, that makes it much less masculine then.” Laney sits down in the chair at the desk. Somehow she fits. “Ready to get started?”
“Meh.”
“Senioritis kicking in?” She pulls out a few, thick, hardcover books.
“I guess.”
“I promise I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
With you here, I feel no pain at all.
“Sounds like a plan. How did you get slated for the job anyway?” I take the notebook she hands me.
“I was in the office when Principal Adams was talking to Julius Maxwell. He was your original tutor.”
“Orange Julius?” I curl my lip. Biggest brain at school. We call him Orange Julius because of his crazy, ginger hair and freckles. He also talks like he’s whining. All. The. Time. My skin crawls just thinking about it.
“Yup. He looked like he wanted to throw up. I don’t think he liked the idea of being your tutor.”
