“No, and I’m not planning to,” I snap at her, my footsteps quickening in response as I head toward the open classroom. “My life’s goal is to avoid him at all costs.”
What is it with her pushing my every button this morning?
I’m not usually this irritable but I had a shitty night's sleep dreading the god awful first day of school, and it’s turning out just like I imagined it would last night while I lay restless in my bed.
“You’re going to be living together Phoenix, I don’t think that’s going to be possible,” she mutters, trying to keep up with me, once again stating the obvious about my unrealistic expectations.
Donovan’s sure giving theDumb Blondereputation grounds for reason today, as if we needed any more. The girls at MC High may not be the brightest tools in the shed or whatever, but at least they look shiny, expensive, and pretty.
I laugh, not a genuine laugh, more like an aggravated chortle at her comment. “Oh, trust me, it will be.”
I’ve signed up for literally every extracurricular activity imaginable this year to ensure I spend as little time as possible at home. The school newspaper, student government, I almost went as far as joining the chess club, all to avoid my father’s new wife and her son.
“I wonder why he’s come back. Wasn’t he living in New York with his billionaire grandmother?” she leans forward and asks as we step under the doorway of our homeroom.
I sigh, knowing damn well this inquisition won’t end if I don’t give her what she wants. My bestie is relentless. “Connecticut, and it was an aunt,” I reply bored. “He was attending some ritzy boarding school, which was supposed to ensure he would be accepted into any Ivy League of his choice, as if his parents' generous donation wouldn’t take care of that.”
“So, what happened?” Dee blurts out, and I’ve just about stopped caring.
“Rumor is he was kicked out.” Oliver, my other best friend and the third member of our inseparable trio, shows up out of nowhere just as we enter the classroom. “Guess he went ape shit when he found out his mother cheated on his dad and nearly beat a classmate to death. Like the poor kid ended up in the hospital with multiple injuries.”
The look of utter bewilderment on Dee’s face makes me laugh, though not as much as the worry and fear visible in Oliver’s dark brown eyes.
I first met the said asshole in question when I was ten years old, and the Carters moved in next door to us. They were a quiet family, rarely seen outside their household, much less at any of the events and parties my family frequented at the Malibu Cove Country Club. On the rare occasion they did come out to some social event, it was only Mr. And Mrs. Carter that were seen, making the existence of their son always a topic of conversation amongst the progenies.
However, it’s been eight years since I last saw him, the summer before he abruptly left and disappeared into thin air, never coming back home during summer break or holidays. My parents weren’t very close to our next-door neighbors, so I never quite found out the truth about why he left.
Well, at least I thought they weren’t close, though apparently my father and Mrs. Carter were quitechummy.
“And how do you know all of this Oliver?” Donovan asks, meanwhile Olly brushes his brown hair off his face and gives her his best,do you really have to ask, expression. “Right,” she sighs, taking a seat at the desk beside me.
The classroom has five rows of six light oak-wood desks and turquoise chairs. Olly takes the desk in front of Dee just as everyone settles into their seats right before the second bell rings and Mrs. Phillips enters the room.
Mrs. Phillips is an older woman, maybe hitting fifty soon, with short brown curly hair which looks like it has never seen the end of a hairbrush nor met with a blow dryer. They’re not kinky curls, more like sad, loose, and frizzy tendrils waving inward and outward in opposite directions. She could use some leave-in conditioner, or a hair mask-treatment like the one I did just last week to revitalize my hair which has been drowning in saltwater and chlorine for nearly four months.
Maybe I’ll bring her a bottle, after all, my hairdresser Stacy gave me a few extras to pass around making the girls visit her salon to get the magnificent treatment known as theBeach Babe.
Though I’m not sure the hair treatment would even be helpful. Not only is Mrs. Phillips' hair a tattered mess, but the woman is wearing a long boho skirt in some weird tie-dye hippie pattern, and a loose white linen shirt that makes her look more like a grandma than someone who is a few years older than my father.
The room of course looks more like a fancy university classroom with modern tables and chairs, and one of those electronic white boards hanging at the front of the room. They’re made to display whatever it is she’s writing on her iPad, and with the brand-new ones we received this morning, we’ll be able to send out answers directly to the board.
“Well, it looks like everyone has made it in on time, so we’re off to a great start,” she says, and immediately the entire class looks around the room, eyes rolling and silent snickering. My gaze travels around and I notice all the seats are occupied except for the one directly behind me. “Well then, let’s begin,” she adds, proceeding to take roll call, while I dig into my bag, rustling through my things, and pull out my notebook.
Everyone is shuffling around and taking out their belongings when suddenly simultaneous gasps are heard throughout the room. I glance up to the front and toward where everyone’s glaring, thinking something terrible has happened, and find a guy standing under the doorway of the class, eyes locked directly on me.
Now it’s me who gasps for air. At least I feel like I do, as I stare into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Cobalt blue with traces of cerulean and cyan marbled around in luscious swirls. His jaw is sharp and covered in a slight shadow, his cheekbones as defined as a runway model or a chiseled Greek God’s marble sculpture, while dark hair, wet and tousled, falls in loose waves along his face.
Tattoos cover the entirety of his visible body, and I can only imagine they continue underneath his all-black clothing. Black ink twists around his neck like thorny vines pressing into his Adam’s apple, making me want to trace along every line with my tongue. I swallow hard as I watch it move in sync with his unsteady breathing. The divine being in question is tall and lean, but immaculately toned, dressed in jeans with chains hanging from the pockets, a V-neck T-shirt, and leather jacket. He’s a fucking wet dream. One I wouldn’t mind rocking myself to sleep on.
I can see the small gauges in his ears, the horseshoe on his lip, and silver rings across every one of his tattooed knuckles. This dude is easily the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, in a “you never would have guessed I’d be into this”kind of way. Not when my ex-boyfriend is the living equivalent of aFrat BoyKen Doll, whose name, you guessed it, is Chad.
Everyone can see his eyes are glued to mine, and from the corner of my eye I can see their gazes going back and forth between us.
The sexy stranger smirks knowingly, the edges of his plump lips turning upward as he catches me admiring him.
“Phoenix Bancroft. Phoenix Bancroft.”
Donovan leans over and elbows me, bringing me out of my lustful haze. She anxiously, yet casually, nods toward the front of the room where Mrs. Phillips’ currently glaring at me, clearly pissed I’ve made her repeat herself.
