Duh.
I could ask for details. I could admit the truth. That I could genuinely use an opportunity to earn back my money. But it would mean giving in. And giving in, in a way, feels like surrendering. If I’ve learned anything in my stupidly rocky life, it’s that I’m resilient, if nothing else, so why cave now? Sobering, I counter, “I don’t play games, remember?”
“Everything’s a game, Violet.”
Violet.
My lips part as the way he says my name washes over me. The sharpness of thetat the end. The low rumble from his chest. He knows my name. How the hell does he know my name? I didn’ttell him. I refused to. Hell, he took a knee to the balls because of it.
“How do you?—”
“Do you want my help or not?” he demands.
Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?
“Not,” I announce, well-aware I’m too stubborn for my own good.
Reading my silence as contempt, and let’s be real, it probably is, Jagger shakes his head and holds out the hoodie. “Fine. Take it.”
I look down at the fabric in question. “I don’t want it.”
“What? You think it has cooties now?” The hoodie hangs between us for a solid two seconds until Jagger drops it onto my backpack lying at our feet. “You really are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.” With another brisk shake of his head, he steps away from me. “Take it or leave it, but it’ll help cover up your bruise. You know, from thefall.”
As he turns on his heel and strides away, I roll my eyes at the man’s temper tantrum. Heaven forbid he deals with someone who doesn’t bend to his every whim. Then again, standing up to the enemy isn’t always the smartest thing to do. I have a feeling there will be repercussions for my metaphorical dissent.
Yeah, I’m totally going to fail my class.
Resigned to my fate, I reach for the discarded heap of fabric lying on my backpack and slip it over my head, careful not to let the hoodie brush against my back again because even if I don’t want to admit it, he’s right about it doing its job in covering up the mark I have no doubt is purple and likely the size of my hand at this point. But the most annoying part of it all? It’s the way my brain plays tricks on me, making me wonder if the scent of him could possibly still cling to the worn fabric as I slide it over my head, well aware it’s been washed at least twice since it wound up in my possession.
Yeah…I’m supremely in trouble.
11
JAGGER
Ican still see it. The mark. Hell, I don’t even need to close my eyes. It’s right there. The muddled black and purple surrounded by a mottled pink. The way it peeked beneath her crop top, tainting her naturally pale skin and making me see red. She couldn’t have fallen. Bumped into something—been shoved into something—sure. But a fall? That’s the bullshit excuse she gives me?
My nostrils flare as I dribble the ball across the court and lay it up. After ricocheting off the backboard, it falls into the hoop with ease. I’m too distracted to enjoy the easy two points. Not that we’re keeping score. “You find anything out?” I ask.
After my Little Thief showed up at the party, demanding we give her back the money her dad gave us, I had the guys do some digging. Despite what we told her, people aren’t usually stupid enough to go head-to-head with any of us about a lost bet. They know it’s a bad idea and can get them banned from any other future wagers or parties in general. But Violet? The girl was so desperate for the money, I could almost taste it. Seeing the bruise earlier today, I finally understand why. She was going to use the money to get away from her dad. Now, it isn’t even an option.
Hawke rebounds the ball, then tosses it back to me. “She keeps a low profile. Only has one friend. The same one we saw at the fight,” he clarifies, “and there’s not a chance in Hell that girl will tell me anything even if I could talk to her without pissing off her brother.”
So, nothing. He found nothing.
Chucking the basketball into my best friend’s waiting hands, I demand, “You?”
The ball connects with Roman’s palms, then rolls off his fingers in an instant, arching through the air and falling into the basket. As the net swooshes back and forth, Roman answers, “Rumor has it, there was yelling at her place the morning of, but no one saw anything.”
My molars grind, but I stay quiet as Hawke retrieves the ball and tosses it to Ford while the sun slips beneath the horizon. Ford pulls up for a shot, and the ball goes in. “Hell, yeah. Nothing but net.”
Standing beneath the basket, Roman rebounds the ball, passing it to Hawke on the opposite side of the court. “We don’t need an eye witness to piece together what happened,” Roman points out. “Like you said, she didn’t have the bruise until after the fight, and there was screaming at her place before you saw it after class.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Ford interjects. “Stop thinking with your dick, and do the math. It was obviously the dad.”
“Just because he doesn’t have a heart doesn’t mean he’s thinking with his dick,” Hawke points out.
Ignoring them, I shoot my glare at Roman. “You told me he doesn’t hit her.”
