“Nothing,” I say, looking away when the teacher is onto us again.
I’m not gonna tell him shit.
There’s silence for a while, but when the teacher’s back to mumbling some things about the text we just read (which I didn’t read because of Cole), I tap his back again.
“I need that number,” I say.
“No, you don’t,” he says.
Goddammit! Why is he so annoying? What is he trying to achieve?
“I get it. I’m the new girl, and you like making me the butt of jokes,” I say, “but it’s not funny anymore.”
“Joke? Who says I’m joking?” he muses without even looking at me. “You want this back?” He holds up the tiny paper again. “Come and get it.”
Is that a challenge?
If this was any other day in my old school, I would’ve stood up, punched him, snatched that paper from his hand, and taken the time-out in detention like a big girl. But I’m the new girl now, and I can’t afford to misbehave.
So I stay down and ignore him. Maybe I can convince Mel to give me her phone number again later when Cole isn’t bothering me.
“Fine, I’ll keep it then,” he mumbles. “I have enough groupies at the band practice anyway. You won’t be missed.”
“Fuck you,” I reply. “Asshole.”
Suddenly, he turns around in his seat, his green, smoldering eyes piercing straight through me. “What’d you say?” he says through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Travis, is there anything you’d like to share with the rest of the class?” the teacher interrupts. I thought he’d never notice.
“No, sir. I’m just saying hi to the new girl.”
This is his way of saying hi?
“You can do that after class,” the teacher says, clearing his throat. “We’ll continue with page thirteen now. Fifteen minutes. I don’t want anybody talking.”
Cole’s silent again, but I’m not. “My cousin was right about you. You are an asshole.”
I don’t even care anymore what he says. He’s already ruined our first meeting. He’s clearly only out to play games with me, and I’m not up for it. Assholes will always be assholes, no matter how pretty they are.
Chapter 3
Cole
Asshole.
That word … I’ve heard it so many times before, but I never had the urge to defend myself and show them I’m not. But I do now, more than anything. And I don’t know why.
Why the fuck would it irritate me so much that she called me an asshole?
Why the fuck do I even care that she’s here at all?
I smack my pen onto the table and look away, blowing off steam, but nothing I do can stop the voices in my head from repeating what she told me.
Asshole.
I’m a fucking asshole, and I know it.
I do it on purpose because I wanna see how far I can go. Because they’ll always come back to me because I’m popular, because I’m in a band, and because they can’t help themselves. Nothing I do ever has any effect.
But this girl … she doesn’t play by those rules.
And the fact that she doesn’t fangirl over me like all the others makes my stomach churn.
When the bell rings, I pick up my shit and chuck it into my bag, right as she passes by. Her hips sway as she walks, and she has this arrogant attitude to her, but not in an I’m-a-hot-cheerleader-and-I-know-it kind of way. No … this is a girl who knows she doesn’t need anyone to make it. A girl who doesn’t want the attention of boys but gets it anyway.
And it’s infuriating to the point that it makes me want to snap.
Why?
I don’t even fucking know her.
But I want to … I want to know what made her this way.
I follow her out the door and grab her shoulder, spinning her around.
“Don’t call me that,” I say. “Ever again.”
The look in her eyes changes as they widen, and her pupils dilate, her body growing rigid under my touch, the hairs on the back of her arm standing up. She backs away from me as though I threatened her with a knife.
“Don’t touch me,” she says quickly but softly, almost as if she can’t get the words off her lips. Those pretty lips quiver with fear right at this very moment.
Is she scared of me?
I frown, confused. No girl has ever had that reaction. Most of them fawn over me, beg me for attention, a touch, a kiss, anything. But she … it’s almost as if she hates me already.
But she doesn’t even know me.
And for some unknown fucking reason, I want her to, more than anything right now. I don’t know why I’m having such a visceral reaction to her calling me an asshole. It normally doesn’t faze me … but this time, it’s different. And I’m not fucking used to shit being different.
“Whatever your cousin told you about me, it’s not true,” I say.
She puts on a defensive stance. “I think I’d believe her over you.”
Of course she would. They’re family after all. But who in this school would ever tell the new girl I’m the asshole? There’s only one person I can think of …
“You’re being lied to,” I reply, licking my lips in anger.
“Yeah, well, I could say the same about you,” she says, clutching her bag closely as though she’s using it as a shield to create distance, and it makes me want to rip it away. “What do you want, Cole?”
I swallow. I don’t fucking know either, and I hate that she asks because I don’t want to think about the answer.
“If you bully me, I’ll call you out,” she adds. “And you’re an asshole for stealing my shit.”
“It’s just a fucking note,” I reply.
“It was a big deal. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the new girl,” she hisses. “That was the first friendly conversation I had with that girl, and you stomped all over it. Why? You jealous or something?”
She’s so fucking direct, and I both love it and hate it at the same time. I don’t know why I did what I did. I wasn’t jealous. Maybe I like being the asshole because everybody loves me, and no one ever calls me out on it … until her.
“You want a phone number?” I say. What I’m doing is wrong, but I do it anyway. “Here.” I fumble in my pocket and take out a bunch of scribbled on torn pieces of papers that I’ve gotten today from several different girls. Fans. Groupies. It doesn’t even matter because they’re all the same to me. “Have at it.” And I chuck them at her.
They all fall to the floor like a cascade of confetti. None of them manages to make her move. “Go on. Plenty of girls to be your friend.”
She shakes her head with such disappointment that it stings like a motherfucking knife cutting me to pieces. And I don’t even fucking know the girl. What is wrong with me?
“You know what, never mind,” I say, and I turn around before I make an even bigger mess. “Call me whatever you want. I don’t care.”
“Clearly, you do,” she calls after me.
I glance over my shoulder, and she’s standing there, arms folded like she’s the queen of the motherfucking hallways. And it makes me want to turn around and make her regret every single word.