Chapter Eight Applied Alistairatics #2
Stupid fucking hormones.
Forbidding myself to look over at him, I sink back in my seat, keeping my eyes ahead and pretending to focus on what Professor Sheridan is saying.
But my peripheral vision sees plenty of him.
Enough to keep me preoccupied. His meaty hands resting on the table casually.
It's such an odd thing to notice. How his hands look normal right now and not as weapons.
It just feels impossible to see him as anything but trouble.
The ring on his pointer finger has his initials on it, something I would call pretty on anyone else.
Good God, even in my side view he's gorgeous.
But not gorgeous like Easton. No. Easton is white picket fences, soccer dad, Sunday brunches, and sex with the lights off. And there is nothing wrong with that, that’s something I want.
Something durable and safe. Reliable.
Alistair is gorgeous in a sinister kind of way. Reckless abandon, turmoil, broken hearts, but you'll never leave him because the way his mouth travels on your body while you’re chained to his bed is enough to make any woman stay.
I didn’t want trouble. I wanted safe.
This opportunity, this school, is my chance to have that one day. A life I don't have to run from. Yet, I was still allowing myself to be affected by him.
Even though I knew what would happen if I involved myself with a boy like him.
My hands are sweating, this itching feeling on my palms. The same feeling I get every time I'm about to steal something off someone. It puts the taste in your mouth like nectar. Sweet and addictive.
It's why walking away from the wrong side of the tracks is so hard.
You know how bad it is for you. You've seen what it can do to you. But it feels so fucking good that you just have to have it.
You crave it. You'd do anything for it. You'd die for it.
“You have a grudge against that pen?” He says, still facing the front of the classroom.
It would seem I’m not the only one using their peripheral vision at the moment.
His voice does nothing but agitate me more. I mean, why is he even here? Does he even take this class?
I'm annoyed that he is stirring me like this.
It’s not unexpected, but you would think he would at least bring a sheet of paper and a pencil, a book even? Who shows up to class without supplies?
People like him have always bothered me. The ones who let their parents’ money manage all their problems. Never grasping what struggle means because mommy and daddy bailed them out of everything.
Sure, the people in this town were afraid of him. Him and his frothing dogs.
But what were they excepting four spoiled brats who relished in throwing tantrums? I mean they weren’t killers for Christ's sake, they’d be in jail if they were! They are just a pack of rich kids with bad attitudes.
“Are you even in this class?” As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. Not because I didn’t mean it, but because I know he’ll reply.
I shouldn't have even acknowledged him. But my mouth has never been good at keeping shut, especially when I'm annoyed.
We sit in silence and I hope, I fucking pray, he didn't hear me. That way I can forget I even spoke and get out of this class without a scratch.
He twists his head casually, looking directly at the side of my head as if he can’t believe I said anything either.
“No.” Is all I get.
Just leave it alone, Briar. Leave him alone.
“So what, you just sit in whatever class you want? Is that a perk of having your last name on a plaque outside of the library?” I glance over at him, his dark eyes observing my face.
Screw that. I'm going to make it clear to him that I'm not afraid of him or his friends. That messing with me is not a good idea.
A grin unfolds across his lips and I can’t help but wonder what he would look like when he smiles. If the simple movement would soften his features at all.
“Careful,” He suggests, “I wouldn’t go around speaking about things you don’t understand. You have no idea the perks I have because of my last name.”
I roll my eyes, clutching my pen tighter in my hand like it’s going to protect me somehow.
“Oh, I understand completely.” The only way you get over what scares you is to face it, tear it down so it becomes nothing but a pest. “You’re a posh boy who probably got his AMEX taken away?
Are you punishing mommy and daddy for grounding you from your Lambo?
Bored of your extravagant lifestyle and wanna cause a little trouble?
Get over yourself and welcome to every rich teen cliche. You’re not special.”
Yikes, Briar, that was harsh. More so than I would have liked to be, but I wanted to make it very clear I wasn’t going to let him or his crazy-ass friends push me around. I refused to be invisible Briar here.
It’s not like they could do anything to me.
Nothing too damaging.
However, I'm not sure that's true as I count the ticks in his jaw.
One, does he work his jaw muscle out?
Two, he should shave his stumble.
Three, fuck.
He lets out a dark breath that flares his nose, tilting his neck just enough to crack it. Realistically speaking he isn’t gonna hit me in front of all these people. Theoretically, I don’t know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t.
Currently, I’m freaking out trying to figure out how to fix this before he explodes.
He shifts to face me once again, watching me with pits for eyes reaching his hand out seizing the leg of my chair, and jerking me next to him. I can't tell if it's the chair squeaking or if it's me. Either way, my face flames a fierce red because I know people are watching.
I make an embarrassing oof sound when the corner of my seat clashes with his. That same hand I'd been staring at starts crawling up to clutch my thigh, his fingers squeezing roughly so that the denim of my jeans grates against me. And suddenly I’m torn between the two halves of myself.
The side of me that wants to slap him for laying a hand on me and the side of me that is throbbing from the heat of his fingers on my inner thigh. Dangerously close to my center.
His breath slaps me on the face, fanning across my lips and cheeks. I can smell the coffee on him, his morning cigarette, and the flavored gum he is chewing.
It's swirling around in my brain, jumbling my thoughts. Numbing the logical side of my brain just like the night I first saw him. I knew I should’ve left, but I stayed anyway. Just like I was doing right now.
My mouth is silently open, gaping at him as his dark eyes flick from my lips to my eyes, over and over again before he talks,
“There is a fine line between brave and stupid, girl. You are fucking toeing it.” He breathes, my body recoiling from the insult, his face inclines in even closer.
His lips desperately close to mine, an inch away, maybe. I can feel the warmth of his skin on my own and I know I should pull back but I don’t. My body won’t let me. It refuses.
“They are not scared of me because of my money, they fear me because I could, and would kill them if they crossed me. You should think about that before opening those cock sucking lips again.”
I inhale sharply, the lewd image of me on my knees in front of him while he said those exact words. My mouth wrapped snugly around the thick length in his jeans, his hand wound in my hair yanking me up and down it so he could pleasure himself.
“Don’t be stupid. It’ll get you killed.” He ends, releasing my thigh and shoving my chair back to its place. Returning to face the board, crossing his arms across his chest like that didn't just happen.
A few students are turned around looking, our professor not noticing since we were all the way in the back and his back was turned to us.
I hold my breath, wanting to smack myself in the face, but also telling myself that I need to get laid as soon as possible because obviously, I’m having a case of sexual deprivation if this psychopath is turning me on.
I’m just projecting is all, that’s it. I tell myself as I try to calm my flushed cheeks and erratic breathing.
“You okay, Briar?” Easton’s melodious voice comes as a safety blanket mixed with ice water, bringing me back to reality.
I blink, looking at the students who are charging out of the classroom and assembling their things. Apparently, I’d missed the dismal. I didn’t even hear if we had homework. I wordlessly thank myself for recording on my computer, saving the file instantly, and shoving my things into my bag.
I stand up, “Yeah, I’m uh, fine. Totally fine.”
Really believable, Briar. Honestly. Where is your Oscar?
Easton looks down at Alistair, his once charming face turning frigid, “Caldwell.” He utters giving him a less than stellar greeting.
“Sinclair.” He sing-songs, looking up at him with a grin.
Next to each other, they look like the perfect representation of day and night. Ying and yang. Good and evil.
I’m grounded in my spot, not able to get past Alistair unless he moves his chair forward. So I just stand still, awkwardly watching them.
“How's your brother?” Easton asks smugly like it’s an inside joke or something.
Quick as a whip, Alistair responds with just as much irony, “How’s your mom?”
For a few moments, they have a staring contest, neither of them speaking a word, only watching each other. It’s clear they don’t get along but know enough about one another to get under each other’s skin.
“Come on, Briar, I’ll help you find your next class.” Easton snaps back to me, a friendly smile on his face.
I’m grateful for the help, wanting to get away from this situation as soon as possible, but Alistair has yet to move his chair.
“Let her out, asshole.” He snarks.
“If she asks me nicely, I’ll think about it.” This is directed at me.
Those dark eyes looking up at me and shining with a challenge. Daring me to do something about it.
I drink the bile in my throat, not wanting to be late to my next class and needing some fresh air that doesn’t smell like hot cloves. I hated being here, being in the middle of this.
I was not a girl who could be intimidated. My father raised me better than that.
You can do this, Briar.
I hitch my book bag up higher on my shoulder, pulling my hair to the side and taking a breath for courage.
With ease, I swing my leg over Alistair’s lap trying to ignore the desire between my legs that’s directly over his crouch. Our eyes meet for a split second, his jaw clenches and arms crossed at his chest, the veins bulging.
Easton grabs my hand for support, helping me pull my other leg over before I’m standing next to him on the outside row.
“I have statistics with Gaines next,” I tell him already walking down the aisle towards the door, feeling the pair of ebony eyes follow my every move.
I try not to. I try to fight off the portion of me that looks for problems. The piece of me that misses the adrenaline of stealing and wandering in the shadows. I tell myself I can be different now, that I don’t have to be that person.
But it wins. The fight is pointless.
Warily, I turn my head up to the top of the lecture hall, looking at the unmoving Alistair. His eyes never wavering from my own, like he knew I’d look back at him.
A smirk adorns his face just as he raises his hand, wiggling his fingers softly in a mock goodbye wave.
From down here, his eyes aren’t as dark. They are a stunning brown color and I find it almost unfair that the boys stitched together with dark magic and cruel intentions always have the prettiest eyes.