PROLOGUE
The splash of crimson all but glowed against the white beading of my designer dress. If I weren’t standing in a dark alley, staring in disbelief at the bleeding uniformed policeman on the ground, I would’ve thought it was an edgy fashion statement about privilege in America.
The policeman groaned and screwed up his eyes in pain, his hands pressed to his hip where he’d been shot.
I’d been standing so close to someone when they got shot that their blood splattered on my dress.
I started to shake. Why was I shaking? It was a warm night; summer was practically here.
The sharp screech of tires rounding the corner cut through the night and my shock. I let out a pained, desperate cry and started to go after them. That couldn’t be the last time I saw her.
“Amaya!” Jet’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Stay with me.”
He was crouching by the officer’s prone form, holding his shirt over the bullet wound as the poor man writhed in pain.
“They’re gone.” His tone softened, and his dark eyes turned gentle. “I need your help. I need your help with this. Please.”
I didn’t want to help Jet. I wanted to run. But he had a point—there was no sense in running after a speeding car, and the man on the ground was in real trouble. His arms hung limp beside him, and he’d gone really pale.
I dropped to my knees next to them, and Jet took charge, guiding my hands to take over from his and press into the wound. The shirt was soaked, and my fingers felt disgusting in the warm, slippery blood.
It was kind of fucked up that I already knew what to do in case of a shooting—that this wasn’t my first.
“We need to call 911.” My voice shook.
But I had no idea where my phone was, and I needed both hands to lean all my body weight into the bullet wound. Jet would have to call.
I looked in his direction, but he’d already turned away, giving me his back.
He was going to leave me here, elbow deep in a dying man’s blood. I just knew it.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a bright, sunny Monday the first time I laid eyes on Jet. I’d been hearing whispers about him all day. Fulton Academy wasn’t a massive school—exorbitant fees made it out of reach for many. Most of us seniors knew one another, and I made it my business to know the latest gossip. Since before school even started that day, I’d been hearing about the new guy. His name was Jet, and he was hot. That was about the extent of it.
I was a sucker for a mystery. That was the only reason I looked up when I noticed someone unfamiliar walk by.
The final bell had rung ten minutes ago, and I was the first one out. I’d been leaning on the hood of my purple Jaguar F-Type, waiting for the girls, sunglasses on, enjoying the sun on my face as I read a romance novel on my phone. He came striding past, curious looks and secrets trailing in his wake.
He wasn’t even carrying a backpack. He had his left hand in his pocket, and his right gripped a helmet and a leather jacket. No one had picked up that the new guy rode a motorcycle? At least they’d gotten one thing right. He was hot.
His hair was shorn close to his head, and he had a body I could only describe as “solid.” Not super tall or overweight, but the fit of his school uniform hinted at strength. Despite the helmet and leather, or maybe because of it, he looked innocent. He had a round face that somehow fit with a square jaw and full lips. Kind of a baby face.
When he glanced over, he caught my gaze and flashed a lopsided grin. He even had dimples. I nearly smiled back, nearly gave in to the giddy, amused feeling in my chest. He was a walking list of contradictions, and that intrigued me.
I held it back though, dropping my gaze back to my screen as if I hadn’t even noticed him. Better to keep a distance from people until you could figure them out. Less chance of giving them power over you. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught how his grin widened before he turned away.
I tried to go back to my book. The main characters were arguing, and I could tell they were about to have rage-sex. But even enemies-to-lovers couldn’t get me to focus. I bookmarked my spot and navigated out of the app.
A motorbike engine came to life somewhere behind me. It had to be Jet. No one else at Fulton rode a motorbike—they all preferred luxury cars to show off their privilege. Not that I could judge anyone, considering the car I was sitting on.
Everyone looked in his direction, the girls and some of the boys practically drooling at the prospect of a mysterious new student who was a bit of a bad boy. If romance novels had taught me anything, it was that bad boys rode motorbikes and would break your heart.
Once again, I refused to look, but resisting the urge to turn around was almost painful. So I compromised with myself, opening the selfie camera and striking a pose. I took several shots but didn’t even look at myself. I was watching the bad boy in the background as he zipped up his leather jacket and glanced around before securing his helmet.
As he rode off, the engine making an obscene amount of noise in the tranquil grounds of the school, I lowered my phone and flicked through the photos. I zoomed in on him over my shoulder. In one pic, it looked as if he was staring right at me. I zoomed in even more. Was he smiling again? But the image was too fuzzy this zoomed in. I pulled it back a bit. His ass looked great in the gray slacks of the Fulton uniform.
I bit my lip, shamelessly perving on photos I’d taken secretly like a grade-A creep.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I jumped and nearly dropped my phone. Mena was suddenly by my side, perched on the car and leaning in to look at my screen. She laughed as I fumbled and shoved the phone into my pocket.
“Bitch, you gave me a heart attack!” I shoved her shoulder, then pulled her in for a side-hug.
“I called your name, like, three times.” She laughed, her pale blue eyes sparkling. She’d done her eye makeup perfectly, making them pop even more, but she’d left the foundation and cover-up off today. Her port-wine stain birthmark was clearly visible on her nose and cheek. She was beautiful, regardless of whether she wore makeup or not.
I slid my sunglasses on. “I was just trying to get info on the new guy. No one seems to have any dirt on him.”
“By staring at a picture of him?” Mena gave me a teasing look.
“Research?” I shrugged, and we both chuckled. She’d seen me checking his ass out like a stalker. If it were anyone else, I would’ve been embarrassed.
Hendrix and Donna walked up, hands clasped, both their bags over Hendrix’s shoulder. He dropped them both onto the ground as they stopped in front of us.
“How much longer?” he groaned.
Mena checked the countdown timer on her phone. We all had the same one. “Thirteen days, sixteen hours, forty-nine minutes.”
Hendrix groaned again, and Donna pulled her own phone out. “Is that it? I was hoping to squeeze in a few more practice exams, but with tennis and pottery . . .”
The only thing Donna loved more than overachieving was Hendrix. Which was a good thing, because he helped her stay balanced. Her tendency to be extremely hard on herself had come to a head a few months ago, with some messy consequences.
“I’m sure you can find a corner to do some study while we’re away, babe.” Hendrix was only half teasing.