Chapter 10 Violet
VIOLET
My heels dig into the black pavement on campus when I recognize him.
Jagger freaking Harden. By some miracle, I escaped Econ without us interacting, but I should know better than to assume my luck would last. Two hours later, and here he is.
Blocking my literal path. He’s talking to some girl with long black hair who puts most models to shame.
With a laugh, she shifts her designer bag a little higher on her shoulder, looking up at him like he hung the moon.
When a group of guys calls out to him, Jagger lifts his chin in response and a football arches through the air, landing right in his waiting hands.
As they make their way toward him, he throws it back, starting a little game of toss in the middle of the quad like they own the entire plot of ground.
Then again, Jagger’s family probably does. The reminder makes my nose wrinkle.
You know how you don’t notice something until you notice it, and then you can’t not notice it? Well, it’s official. Ever since I crashed Jagger’s party, it’s like I can’t escape the guy, no matter what I do or where I go.
I could always turn around. Get out of here without being noticed. But my next class is on the opposite side of the quad, and if I turn around, I’ll be late on the first day of class, which is the last thing I need.
Come on, Vi. Time to put on your big girl pants.
Keeping my head down, I start toward the group blocking the path, veering into the grass so I don’t draw too much attention when a football nearly hits my head.
“Shit,” someone mumbles before calling out, “Sorry!”
I give the group a blind wave but don’t look back in hopes of flying under the radar.
Please don’t notice me. Please don’t notice me.
It doesn’t work.
The sound of footsteps echoes from behind.
My spine straightens, and I peek over my shoulder, finding the one and only Jagger Harden jogging toward me across the grass.
Now that he’s closer than when we were in class, I can really take in the damage from last week’s fight.
Ouch. His left eyebrow is taped together, sealing a cut from a particularly ruthless blow.
His eye is still swollen, too. A dark purple bruise spreads beneath it, though it doesn’t look like he’s bothered to cover it with makeup or anything.
Why would he? He looks…annoyingly attractive like this.
All rugged and hardened and…like he knows how to take a hit.
I’d be sure of it even if I hadn’t witnessed his fight with Ethan.
Maybe it’s the way he carries himself. Maybe it’s the bruises and split brow.
Maybe it doesn’t even matter. The man is still burrowed under my skin, which is annoying on so many levels.
My jumbled nerves rise with every step he takes toward me, and I shake my head slightly, forcing myself to focus on whether or not I should get the hell out of here. Part of me wants to ask if he’s okay. If his eye hurts. It’s a dumb question. It looks absolutely excruciating.
Realizing I’m still standing like a deer caught in headlights, I start to turn, but his cold, lethal voice stops me.
“Hey, Little Thief,” he says while scooping up the football at my feet and throwing it to one of his friends. “I’ll catch up,” he tells them.
Wait. Did he call me Little Thief?
Turning on my heel, I face him again. “Excuse me?”
“I said, hey, Little Thief.”
Yup. I most definitely heard the bastard correctly the first time.
I paste on a fake smile, grateful for the reminder that I do not like this man. “Goodbye, Jag Off.”
“Jag Off?” He laughs, but it’s low and threatening more than light, without any kind of amusement.
Yeah, I pissed him off. Which is what I wanted.
Or at least, what I thought I wanted by tossing out Ethan’s nickname for the bastard, but now?
Now, I’m not so sure. It’s not like I have a death wish, and with the angry glare he’s currently pinning me with? Yeah, maybe I went too far.
“Seems you’ve been hanging out with your friend’s older brother too much,” he finally says.
Despite how little I know Ethan Morgan, the idea of spending any time with him after how cocky he was last weekend is about as appealing as a colonoscopy without anesthesia. Even so, I smash my lips together, keeping that particular tidbit of information to myself.
“What are you doing here?” Jagger demands.
“Leaving,” I offer dryly. I step to one side, but he mirrors my movements. Yup. He’s just as stubborn as I remember, and I’m not in the mood to replay this song and dance. Not after the morning I’ve had. “Seriously?” I ask.
“Answer the question.”
Standing a little taller, I reply, “I go to school here. Obviously.”
“Since when?”
“Since this year. In person, anyway,” I clarify, but I’m not sure why.
He tilts his head, his unspoken question loud and clear.
“The first two years, I was online only,” I mutter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Where’d you get the hoodie?”
“Huh?”
“The hoodie.” His gaze trails down my body, making my heart pound through the worn fabric.
This is why I don’t like him. Why I don’t like being around him. Why I’d prefer to keep our interactions to a minimum or better yet, absolute zero. If only I was so lucky. Here he is, making it impossible.
“Not sure why my clothes are any of your business. Or are you hoping to steal those from me, too?” I challenge.
“Says the thief,” he mutters.
I scoff. “Wow.”
“Answer the question,” he pushes. “Where’d you get the hoodie?”
Refusing to admit the truth, that I could barely afford it at Goodwill, let alone the full-priced version I’m sure they carry at the campus store, I lie. “I’ve had it forever. Why?”
He steals my space, crowding me even more in the middle of the quad while people shuffle around us.
It’s as if the sexy fighter intimidating women is simply par for the course around here.
Then again, maybe it is. He’s Jagger Harden.
The man’s used to getting away with murder.
A lack of respect for a person’s bubble with a side of intimidation is probably nothing but a blip on their radar.
So why the hell am I still standing here?
His fingers find the tattered hem blanketing my torso. “You’ve had this forever, huh?”
I force myself to nod while ignoring the way my body is oh so aware of his every move. Seriously. He’s so close, I swear I can feel the gentle brush through the fabric, yet I can’t convince my hand to swat him away.
“Have you always been a liar, or…?”
My jaw drops at the accusation. “Excuse me?”
“It’s mine,” he growls, though I don’t know if he’s annoyed or just passionate.
Okay, that does it. Snapping out of my funk, I look down at the thrifted sweatshirt. “What?”
“I said it’s mine.”
“Must be a lookalike,” I insist. Because, seriously? It’s not possible. The odds alone are…ridiculous. Right? Right?
Please tell me I didn’t buy this man’s hoodie.
“A lookalike, huh?” Jagger threads his fingers through a small hole just above the thick band along the bottom, his fingertip skating against my bare skin hidden beneath. My gut squeezes in response, no matter how loud my logic yells at me. “Where’d this come from?”
Focus, Violet!
“What? The hole?”
His chin dips.
Shit. I have no idea where the hole came from, but I do know there’s no backing down now. Not when he already thinks I’m a thief and a liar. I clear my throat, trying to focus on our conversation despite the way his fingertip brushes against my bare skin. “Regular, uh, regular wear and tear.”
“Got caught on some barbed wire when I was jumping a fence,” he reveals.
Damn, that does make more sense. Wish I’d thought of it, but it’s too late to change my answer. “Coincidence,” I toss back at him, doubling down despite the ridiculousness of it.
His mouth lifts, but I can’t tell if it’s a snarl or a smile. Yeah, I have a feeling I’m walking on thin ice.
“When did you steal it?” he demands.
“I didn’t steal—”
“Little Thief.” He tsks. “Lying’s bad, remember?”
“Says the man who stole from me.”
“Says the girl wearing my clothes.” He tightens his hold on the fabric in his hand and tugs me closer. Not forcibly. Just…deliberate, I guess. As if to prove a point. That he’s in control. And me? I’m nothing but his plaything. “Although…”
His words hang in the air, allowing me a moment to fill in the blank, and it doesn’t take a genius to pick up what he’s putting down, even if he doesn’t mean it.
No, he wants to make me uncomfortable. He wants to knock me off guard the same way I did when I showed up at his fight, even if the idea of me wearing his clothes is weirdly… hot.
I shove the thought aside. Nope. I’m not going to open that door even if he’s handing me the key. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I finally grind out.
His smirk falls. “How long have you known Morgan?”
“Excuse me?” I repeat, and I swear I’m not stupid but the way this man bounces between subjects leaves me dizzy. Or maybe it’s the smell of his cologne? Seriously, it’s unfair how good this man smells. Pine and wood and earth and—
“I said, how long have you known Morgan?” he repeats.
Morgan? Who the hell is—oh. Ethan. Ethan Morgan.
Jagger’s interrogating me about the fight.
I guess I don't blame him. From what I’d heard, Jagger had never lost until last weekend.
It’s gotta be a solid hit to the ego. Literally.
And seeing me with the enemy? I wonder if he’s thought about it. Clearly, he has. But why?