6. Indy
SIX
INDY
We get paired up in debate class. Argument practice partners. Because the universe enjoys irony.
He rolls his sleeves up.
It’s such a small thing. Just fabric pushed to his elbows.
But there’s skin. Lean forearms. Muscles that flex when he gestures. When he points at me with that unimpressed look because, once again, I’ve lost my train of thought. Because of those fucking forearms. I get flustered. I mess up, try to hide it, and fail.
“The fuck is the matter with you today?” he drawls. “You’re not even listening.”
“I am,” I grit through my teeth.
He quirks his brow before leaning back in his chair, all casual.
He drags his hand through his hair and my eyes follow the movement.
I track the stretch of his shoulder beneath his shirt.
The brief flash of his stomach when he reaches for his pen.
He leans over the table to grab his notes, and I catch a hint of his cologne.
The clean, woodsy smell is subtle and insanely distracting.
I lose my train of thought midsentence.
He smirks. It’s a slow, knowing look filled with satisfaction. Because he doesn’t have to do anything. All he had to do was utter those few strategic sentences on New Year’s Eve. Nothing else. And now I’m sabotaging myself. No effort on his part.
“You done?” he asks.
I hate him.
I hate him so fucking much.
We get stuck in the rain after school. I gave him a ride because his car is in the shop.
It’s not a gentle drizzle. It’s a full-on downpour.
He curses under his breath, yanks the collar of his sweatshirt higher, and marches into the rain.
The fabric clings to him instantly. Plastering itself to his chest. To his stomach.
This is a terrible, horrible, deeply inconvenient development.
He turns around halfway to the car and holds his arms out. Water beads on his lashes and runs down the side of his neck. “By all means, just stand there uselessly,” he calls over the pounding of the rain.
When I don’t move, he marches back to me and snatches the keys out of my hand.
“Hey!” I snap. He ignores me, so I hurry after him. “It’s my car.”
He keeps ignoring me.
I go to grab the keys, and he easily holds them away from me, and suddenly I’m too close. Toe to toe. Chest to chest. The heat of his skin seeps through the wet fabric.
I can see the line of his jaw in perfect detail. The way his lips curve. The way a drop of water slides down to the hollow of his throat.
My brain short circuits.
The droplet of rain stays on his skin, and I—
Fuck no.
Stop.
Stop!
“Give me the keys,” I say.
He leans closer. Tilts his head slightly.
“Make me.”
We stay very still for a moment.
I shove past him, heart pounding, round the car, and get into the passenger seat.
He laughs.
I hate him even more.
I look up and blink when a backpack lands on the table right next to me. The legs of the chair drag over the tiles with a screech, and I wince as the sound carries through the otherwise quiet library.
Nick takes a seat next to me, and my whole body tenses. I know he notices. I know that’s why he does it.
We’ve moved past loathing and gone straight into torture.
He doesn’t dismiss me or ignore me anymore, instead he searches me out. Because some twisted part of him finds it funny. That twisted part of him gets a kick out of it when I get flustered around him.
He pulls out a textbook. His foot bumps against mine under the table. He keeps it there, and the words swim on the page in front of my eyes. I watch as he licks his thumb to turn the page from the corner of my eye.
A violent shiver races down my spine.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
“You okay?” he asks casually.
“Fine,” I say in a clipped tone.
He leans closer, and I freeze in place.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look nervous, Blue. Any particular reason?”
The teasing tone makes the urge to punch him triple in strength.
He stretches, arms over his head. His shirt lifts. Just an inch.
Heat rushes through me so suddenly it feels like anger.
He leans closer.
“I bet you hate this,” he says in a low voice.
I clench my jaw and my fists and turn my head just enough to look him in the eye.
“Good,” he says.
His knee is pressing into mine deliberately now.
It’s over too soon and yet not soon enough.
He gets up and disappears between the shelves.
I let out a slow, stuttering breath.
We’re way past confusing.
It feels like I’m being punished for something.
And I have no idea what I’ve done.
We’re in detention.
Because of him.
Because he doesn’t know when to shut up, and I keep losing my temper.
He’s slouched in his chair like he owns the school. Like he’s not the sole reason we’re here.
“You’re tense,” he says. Amused again. Satisfied.
I look straight ahead. “And you’re a dick, so it evens out.”
He leans back, his already-dark eyes darkening further. “And yet you keep looking at me.”
It’s a challenge, and it makes me want to wipe that look off his face.
With my mouth.
The thought slams into me so hard I almost lose my balance.
“You need glasses. I’d rather choke.”
His gaze drops to my throat. “Careful,” he murmurs. “I might get ideas.”
I dream about him.
Not soft dreams.
My dreams about him have sharp corners and edges that cut.
His mouth is inches from mine. His hands grip my shirt. We share breaths, angry and hot. Teeth graze skin. Tension makes my blood boil and my skin absurdly sensitive.
I wake up angry, desperate, sweaty, and disoriented, my heart pounding like I’ve been running a marathon at full speed.
I throw my pillow across the room.
It’s ridiculous. It’s him; just him.
The guy from across the hall. The guy who smirks when I lose my temper. The guy who knows exactly which buttons to push and pushes them with surgical precision.
It has to stop.
Somehow.
Just… somebody, make it stop.
Because if it doesn’t… If this pull, this awful, terrible, horrible, no-good, magnetic thing doesn’t fade…
Then I’m in serious trouble.