Chapter 15
AVA
The Bistro is a war zone at noon. Every table packed, every seat claimed, the air itself practically thrumming with the restless energy of bored, overfed, horny co-eds looking for a reason to hate their lives a little less between classes.
The moment I step through the doors, every head within a ten-foot radius swings my way, then snaps back again, as if they’re terrified to be caught looking but just can’t help themselves.
I’m honestly not sure whether I love it or hate it.
The old me– the na?ve girl who first arrived at Corvus College– would’ve ducked my head, tucked my hair behind my ears, and made a beeline for the food counter, praying not to get tripped along the way.
But after enduring the Kings’ torture and coming out on the other side of it as their Doll, I’ve either been cured of impulse or just injected with something meaner and sharper.
I manage to keep my spine straight and my head high, even as my skin crawls with the sensation of being watched.
The Kings’ usual table is dead center of the room, and the area around it may as well be their personal VIP lounge, even though it’s technically open seating. Nobody even thinks about sitting near them if they’re not explicitly summoned, and today is no exception.
Ford and Raf are on one side of the table, both hunched over their plates like they’re plotting world domination, while Wes is seated on the opposite side, his posture casual as his gaze tracks every flicker of movement around them.
When his eyes land on me, they instantly sharpen, and my heart does an embarrassing little flip at the attention.
I force myself not to rush as I cross the room to them, but my legs are trembling by the time I reach the table. I’m not sure I’ll ever be fully comfortable in the presence of these boys.
“Well if it isn’t our pretty little Dolly,” Ford remarks as I approach, flicking his chin up in acknowledgement as a lazy grin slides into place. “Didn’t know if you’d actually show.”
“Only because you threatened to come find me if I didn’t,” I huff, aiming for annoyed but just sounding petulant.
My last class before lunch was with Ford, but when I suggested going to the library to study for an hour before eating, he had zero interest in joining me. He just said I was expected to be at the Bistro by noon, so here I am.
“Got you a coffee,” Wes says, patting the seat beside him as he slides a paper cup over.
“Ugh, I could kiss you,” I groan, dropping into the seat beside him and reaching for it.
Before my hand can close around the cup– before I can even freaking blink– Wes’ hand latches around the nape of my neck. He yanks me in, crushing his lips against mine in a hard, unexpected kiss.
The move is so quick that I don’t even have a chance to properly react– my lips part for him on muscle memory alone.
The heat of his body, the taste of his mouth, and the spicy scent of his aftershave are so alluring and achingly familiar that I kiss him back on instinct, his tongue sliding over mine, coffee and mint mingling with that underlying warmth that used to make me melt.
It’s so sudden, so jarring, that for a full, reckless second, I forget myself; forget who he is and what he did.
I let myself lean into it, forgetting that I’m not supposed to want it.
Then I snap back to reality, slapping my palms against his chest and shoving him away.
“What the hell?!” I sputter, wiping my mouth off on the back of a hand, heat rushing to my cheeks.
A goofy grin spreads across his face. “You said you could kiss me,” he drawls, shrugging.
“That’s not… I just…” I stammer, ridiculously flustered.
“Not fair, I want one,” Ford pouts from the other side of the table, shoving his plate aside so he can lean over it toward me. “C’mon, Ava baby, lay one on me. Don’t be shy.”
“No way,” I snap, glancing around the room and instantly regretting it. Every person in our periphery is openly gawking at our table, some with expressions of envy, others just outright disgust.
Ford grins wider, leaning in even further until I can smell the bite of his cologne. “Why not?” he scoffs. “You like Wes better than me?”
“Of course she does,” Wes says with a smirk, draping his arm around my shoulders like it belongs there.
I hate how warm and grounding it feels.
Hate how much it makes me want to nestle into his side.
I elbow him in the ribs instead, promptly shrugging his arm off.
“C’mon,” Ford coaxes, evidently not giving up. “Give me a kiss, pretty girl. You know you want to.”
“Can you stop?” I groan, lowering my voice as I curl in on myself. “People are looking.”
Ford barks a laugh, tossing his head back. “Then why not give ‘em a show?” he asks, voice carrying a little too loudly. “You’re our Doll. They expect you to be all over us.”
My stomach clenches. He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.
“Because she can’t keep playing innocent little virgin if she’s climbing all over your dicks in public,” Raf grumbles, finally breaking his silent villain act to glance up at me.
His eyes are cold, but there’s something else behind them– a strange kind of longing, maybe?
Or just hatred. With him, it’s hard to tell.
I swing my gaze on him, unblinking, the tension in my spine ratcheting up a notch. “Screw you,” I hiss, but it comes out small and hollow.
“Soon,” he replies, the ghost of a smirk curling his lips. “Ready to beg?”
He cocks a dark brow, and my heart trips over its valves.
“Whatever, that ship’s already sailed,” Ford scoffs, not missing a beat. “She already sucked me off in front of half the school, remember?”
My face explodes with heat. “Could you not–” I start, but he cuts me off with a gleeful cackle.
“What? There are worse things,” he laughs, completely unapologetic. “Would you rather everyone know you’re a sad little virgin?”
“Yes, actually,” I snap, cutting him a death glare.
He rolls his eyes, waving me off. “Fine, we’ll dedicate Friday’s party to you. Let everyone know you’re finally about to get that cherry popped.”
My heart stops. “What party?” I ask, dread unfurling in my chest.
“Ford wants to have a party at the boathouse this weekend, remind everyone of the hierarchy around here,” Wes says with a sigh, swiveling his gaze toward Ford. “I don’t have the time to get this shit together, not with finals right around the corner.”
“That’s fine, I’ll take point,” Ford replies coolly.
Wes’ brows shoot up. “You?”
“Sure, why not,” Ford shrugs, mouth spreading into a wolfish grin. “It’s not rocket science. If you can do it, then I definitely can.”
“Sure,” Wes grumbles. “As long as none of it falls back on me, then have at it.”
“It won’t,” Ford promises, already typing something on his phone with rapid-fire thumbs.
A beat of silence falls over the table. I shift uncomfortably, still feeling a million eyes on us. “Do I have to go to this party?” I ask, already knowing– and dreading– the answer.
Ford looks up, hazel eyes glinting. “Of course you do.”
“But I have so much to catch up on,” I whine, thinking of the mountain of reading I still haven’t tackled. “I missed a full week. I’ll fail if I don’t–”
“I can help you study,” Wes offers, sliding his hand onto my thigh and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Ford snorts, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Cute that you guys actually study,” he remarks.
With the way he’s annoying me today, I decide not to brush Wes’ hand off this time. I lean into his side just enough to make a point, batting my lashes at him. Wes grins, triumphant, and I can feel Ford’s eyes narrow at the move.
For a split second, I consider kissing Wes again just to see Ford’s reaction. The thought of it makes me giddy in a way that feels dangerous. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the stress, or the bitterness rotting away at my insides, but I want to see the mighty Christian Ford lose his shit. Just once.
So, I play with fire. I turn and look up at Wes again, wetting my lips with my tongue. “You’d help me study?” I ask, pitching my voice just shy of a purr.
His pupils flare as his eyes drop to my mouth. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna try to kiss you again,” he murmurs, playing right into my hands.
“Maybe you should,” I whisper, shrugging.
He grins like the goddamn sun, then leans down and captures my mouth in another kiss, this one even deeper than the first. I hear the bench creak as Ford tenses on the other side of the table, but I don’t stop.
I tangle my fingers in Wes’ hair, pulling him closer, letting myself drown in the heat of it.
It’s so good I forget where I am for a second– forget I’m in the middle of the Bistro and that the whole room is probably watching.
In the moment, I don’t even care. All I can focus on is the soft drag of his tongue, the way his hand slides up my back, the small sound of surprise he makes when I bite down on his lower lip.
By the time we break apart, I’m breathless, cheeks red and heart pounding like I just ran a marathon. I swing my gaze back to Ford, his expression completely blank and unreadable. Then a slow, wicked smile spreads across his lips.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he coaxes, voice low. “It’s fucking hot watching you two.”
Raf abruptly pushes to his feet, snatching his backpack off the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. He mutters something about class, then turns and stalks away without waiting for a reply.
I glare at Ford, daring him to say something else. He just holds my gaze for a few seconds, then winks, going back to his phone.
Asshole.
I get up, willing my hands to stop shaking as I smooth my skirt. “I’m going back to the library,” I announce.
Wes looks up, confusion creasing his brow. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, snatching the paper coffee cup off the table. “Thanks for this, though.”
He looks like he wants to follow me, but I turn away before he can offer, the heels of my boots clicking against the tile as I stride back toward the doors.
I feel the weight of too many stares, but I try not to let it get to me; try to pretend I’m above it now. But my skin still prickles with awareness, every nerve ending lighting up.
Maybe this is just how it is now.
Maybe this is the price for playing their game.
I keep my head high all the same. If I’m going to embrace being their Doll, I may as well fully lean in.
If people are going to talk regardless, I may as well own the narrative.