A white spray of milk goes flying from the carton in my hand as I fall to the hard linoleum. From the ground, I look behind me and see some student smirking with his foot sticking out into the aisle between the tables. He tripped me on purpose.
I stand up, brushing the dirt from my clothes. It’s weirdly silent in the room. The girls have stopped howling at me and are staring quietly at something over my shoulder.
I turn to see the guy from earlier standing behind me. The hot one who was leaning against the lockers. His arms are crossed, and he’s all jacked muscle and bad boy attitude. He’s looking at me with sharp green eyes that cut like razor blades. And he’s mad. He looks like he wants to strangle someone with those large, rough hands of his.
I wouldn’t want to be the person who pissed this monster off, but the way he’s looking at me tells me that I just fucked up.
The large space is so silent you could hear a pin drop.
What did I do? Is he also mad at me because of who my family is? Just like all the other students. As I’m thinking, I look down and realize what he’s pissed about. I spilled milk all over his combat boots.
“Clean it.” He says in a dark, commanding voice that cuts like a dagger into the primitive part of my brain that’s responsible for fear.
“What?” I ask in disbelief.
“Clean it.” He repeats in a deadly tone. It’s a command from a guy who’s never had someone disobey his commands before.
I can’t believe what he’s asking me to do. I look around the room for support—but I don’t know why, because all I find are eager eyes hungry for blood and violence. Hungry for the snotty rich girl to finally get what she deserves.
I’m about to tell him to fuck off, but the look in his eyes is pure dominant power. I realize that I’m in a hostile room that’s about to turn on me and this guy could make my life HELL if I don’t do what he says. For my own safety, I need to suck up my pride and do it.
But I make a promise to myself that I’m going to get back at him—even if I have to wait until graduation to do it.
I pick up the napkin I was carrying from the floor and slowly walk over to him.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
My whole being is screaming at me to stop. This isn’t me. I’m not someone who bows down to other people.
I grit my teeth as I kneel down. It’s taking all my strength not to knock him over and walk out—but I know if I do that I will get beaten up for sure. That group of girls will finally get their chance.
I reach out and brush the napkin across the drops of liquid on the worn leather of his shoes. I can’t suppress the curl of my lip in disgust. The act itself isn’t disgusting, I’m disgusted more with myself than anything else. This is how low I’ve come that I’m literally kneeling in front of some asshole—some very hot asshole—and cleaning his boots. I’m pathetic.
I finish quickly and stand up. I can’t look at him as I dash out of the cafeteria, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. That was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life and I’ll never forgive him for it. I hate him.
3
By the time I make it back to my foster home, I’m so drained from an awful day that I drag my feet up the rotten wooden steps like a ninety-year-old. They are cracked and creak violently under my feet, but they match the rest of the house. I’m happy that the day is over, but depressed to be home.
My foster home reminds me of Marter High. It looks like it might have been a nice—modest, but nice—home once upon a time, but now it’s a dump. There are shingles missing from the roof and the front porch is sagging on one side. The lawn is overgrown and there are random car parts scattered around it. The sight of the house makes me even more miserable than I already am—and the inside isn’t any better.
Olivia didn’t want to walk home with me because she had already made friends. She desperately waved me away when I started approaching her after school. She’d already changed her clothes from the expensive designer ones that she usually wore, to black and revealing ones. I have no idea where she got them.
I wearily walk up the stairs to my room on the second floor. I keep my shoes on because I don’t want my feet touching the dirty carpets. At the top of the stairs is the washroom. I reach for the handle when suddenly the door opens and I jump back, startled. I didn’t realize anyone else was home.
My jaw hits the floor. Out walks the hottest guy, completely naked. He’s toweling off his dyed silver-gray hair and I can clearly see the entire length of his muscular, tattooed body—including his very large cock.
“Whoa!” I say before covering my eyes. “What the hell!?”
He just laughs and it’s a dark rumble.
“Like what you see?” he purrs.
“No.” But I’m lying. “Cover up!”
Behind me, I hear the door open and my sister calls out to me before starting up the stairs.
“Olivia, wait! Don’t come up. There’s a naked jackass up here,” I say, but it’s too late. Olivia asks, “What?” in confusion, but she’s already up the stairs.
“Whoa,” she mimics what I said earlier. Despite what I sometimes think, it’s obvious we are sisters.
“Hey, Olivia,” the guy says.
“Hey, Brax,” she says in a clearly flirty tone. Dammit.
“You two know each other??”
“Yeah, we met at school, Addison,” my sister says sarcastically. “I actually try to make friends at school. You should try it sometime too.”
I just roll my eyes. It’s not a good sign that my sister already knows this loser. It’s going to be a full-time job keeping her out of trouble in this new town and I’m not looking forward to it.
I look back at Brax and finally he’s wrapped a towel around his waist. I’m almost disappointed—I must be out of my mind. But now I can safely get a better look at him.
I recognize him from school. I saw him with a couple other equally hot guys and they were hanging out with the douchebag who made me clean off his shoes. The company you keep is a direct reflection of you, so I know this guy is going to be trouble.
He’s tall and lean with an explosion of tattoos covering his well-muscled arms, chest and legs. The only place clear of ink is his, admittedly, handsome face. He has angular features and intense eyes. His dyed hair is sticking up at weird angles from the shower.
“Do you just break into people’s houses to take a shower?” I ask as I cross my arms.
He laughs, and it’s a slightly raspy, rumbling sound. I can tell he’s someone who’s quick to laugh.
“He lives here, Addison,” my sister says and I can hear the eye-roll in her words. “This is his mom’s place.”
“Great,” I mumble.
We only arrived here two days ago and the person who was here to greet us was Ms. Diane Decker, this guy’s mom. She seemed nice and friendly, but the second the social worker left she turned into her true self. Her smile turned into a frown. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and made herself a drink.
She told us we could do whatever we wanted, just not to damage the house—I couldn’t help but snort at that and she gave me a sharp look—or get her in trouble with the foster care system by missing school or getting into fights. She also said that if we got pregnant, we were out. She didn’t want to deal with any babies in the house. That was our welcome speech and then we were left alone.