Chapter 2
Reece
It’s her fucking hair.
That’s where it starts. Always. That red, too bold to ignore, too dangerous to touch without getting burned. It glows in the sun, turns molten under the fluorescents, and makes my brain short-circuit every time it brushes her shoulder.
Sam Carter doesn’t own the hallway. She doesn’t strut. She doesn’t perform. Most people don’t really see her, not the way they should. She keeps her head down, shoulders squared, moving through the noise instead of feeding it.
But I see her, and that’s the fucking problem.
Sam Carter is the kind of girl who makes tight jeans, and low cuts seem desperate. She doesn’t cake herself in makeup or pout in bathroom selfies. She exists and nothing more. Effortlessly. Beautiful in a way that’s real. Natural.
Some days she shows up in a hoodie and jeans and still manages to make every fake bitch in this school look like they’re trying too hard. Because they are. Tia with her stripper lashes. Nicole and her please-look-at-my-tits top.
Sam… She doesn’t try. Doesn’t lick a straw like it’s a skill. She’s everything. Messy hair, sleeves too long, lips soft and unbothered, and somehow I’m standing here wondering how they’d feel wrapped around my…
Focus.
I mean, sure, I’ve imagined it. Once. Maybe twice.
Fine. Every damn time she opens her mouth and tells me to fuck off.
Those lips are pure fucking trouble—smart enough to ruin me, soft enough to make me want it.
The kind of lips that stay in your dreams for a moment, enough to wake you up hard, irritated, and one bad choice away from a hand job you’re not even proud of.
It’s humiliating, honestly.
She rolls her eyes, mutters something and suddenly I’m spiralling, wondering what those same lips would do if she wasn’t using them to verbally dismantle me. If she wants me the way my body wants her.
Which is aggressive, always at the worst possible time.
I’ve heard Jace talk about her. It’s crude shit. Locker-room garbage. Running his mouth about her ass, her body, what he’d do if she ever let him. I laughed it off in the moment because that’s what I do. But my jaw was locked so hard I thought I might crack a tooth.
I almost punched him.
Not because he was wrong, she is hot as fuck. But because she wasn’t his to talk about.
Sam doesn’t smile at me the way the others do. No fluttery lashes. No lip bites or giggles. Hell, I’m pretty sure she’d rather set herself on fire than be in the same room as me.
She rolls her eyes when I wink. Crosses her arms when I talk. Looks at me like I’m static she learned to ignore years ago.
But I see it.
It’s the twitch in her jaw when I get too close. The split-second hitch in her breath when I call her Red, as if I’m saying something filthy. The way her fists curl like she’s deciding whether to punch me or drag me somewhere dark and lock the door.
She acts unfazed. Almost bored.
But I see it.
I always fucking see it.
I get under her skin. Scratch that. I fucking live there.
Although she’ll never admit that, but that’s half the fun.
She fucking loves it almost as much as I do.
She makes me want to ruin her mood. Hell, maybe her entire year.
Whatever perfect plan she’s got in that pretty little head? I want to fuck with it. Just enough to make her snap.
This isn’t a crush. That shit’s for freshmen and idiots who fall for the first girl that looks their way.
This is something else. Something darker.
Deeper. A fixation that’s carved itself into my ribs and made a fucking home there.
A fever that simmers beneath my skin every time she walks past, every time she opens that mouth and tells me to fuck off.
I won’t name it, because the moment I do, it becomes real. And if it’s real, it owns me.
So I leave it where it is—in the glances I steal when she’s not looking. In the smirk I wear to rile her up. In the heat that curls low in my gut when she squares her shoulders and goes toe-to-toe with me.
I may hook up with other girls while she walks by. Maybe I make sure she sees it. Maybe I get off on the way her face tightens before she snaps it back into place.
I lean back against the brick wall out front, and Shantel presses up against me. She’s already got one hand on my chest, the other sliding lower like we’ve got five minutes before the bell and she plans to use every one of them.
If we weren’t standing in front of the school, she’d be on her knees by now. Wouldn’t be the first time. It wouldn’t even be the third.
She’s easy. Always has been. Ever since I bent her over behind the gym, she’s been stuck to me like a bad fucking habit.
One she doesn’t try to kick. I ignore her texts, purposely call her the wrong name, treat her like an afterthought.
But it doesn’t matter. She keeps coming back like she’s wired for it.
Always ready. Always begging for another round.
Her lips are on mine, hot and sloppy, and yeah, my cock’s getting hard. But it’s not for her.
It’s for the redhead who just stepped out of her car. Tight high ponytail swaying with every step, bag slung over one shoulder. She’s scrolling her phone, oblivious of what she is about to stumble on.
But she’s coming this way. Past the wall where I’ve got Shantel pressed against me, her tongue in my mouth, her hand halfway to my belt as if she’s on a damn mission.
This moment it’s calculated. Deliberate. I want her to see it. I want Red to look up from her phone and spot me with someone else’s lips on mine. To roll her eyes and mutter something under her breath because she’s pissed and doesn’t know why.
I live for that because the more she hates me, the deeper I crawl under her skin.
And fuck, I love it there.
I pull back just enough to tuck a strand of Shantel’s hair behind her ear. It’s my signature move, the one that makes them think I’m sweet before I remind them I’m not. My fingers linger, thumb brushing her cheek as if I give a damn, as if this isn’t just theater.
I hear the telltale click of boots on concrete. Sam. Right on time.
So I lean in and kiss Shantel again, soft at first, then deeper. Open-mouthed and drawn-out, the kind of kiss you’d expect in some high school softcore fantasy. She moans, loud enough to echo, as Sam walks past.
Perfect.
I hear it. The hitch in her step. That tiny pause in her usually bulletproof stride. She doesn’t look over, doesn’t break pace, but I feel her feel it.
When I pull back, I keep my eyes on Sam’s retreating figure. Red ponytail swinging. Shoulders squared. Walking with that nothing-touches-me strut, even though I know I do.
This isn’t about getting laid.
I could get off with any girl in this place.
I already have.
But Sam?
She’s the only one who makes it worth the chase.
I let Shantel kiss me again. Harder this time, messier. She’s all tongue and lip gloss, and I let her think it’s doing something for me. It’s not. My mind’s already miles away, somewhere between the front gate and the swing of a red ponytail.
When I pull back, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. No shame, no apology. Just a smirk for the effort.
She pouts, lower lip shoved out like she expects me to kiss it better. “You’re such a tease,” she says.
I cock my head. “Takes one to know one.”
“You want to hang out?” she asks.
Not a chance. I’d rather watch paint dry.
“Nah,” I say. “Got better things to do.” Which is code for: I’ve already used you for what I needed, so now it’s over.
She huffs, tugs at her too-short skirt like modesty suddenly matters, and storms off toward the courtyard. “Asshole,” she mutters under her breath.
She’s not wrong.
I move through the school gates, backpack slung low, swagger set to cruise control. Noah’s already waiting near the flagpole, Jace beside him with that smug grin that usually means trouble or tits. Sometimes both.
We fall into step, cutting through the chaos. First bell hasn’t even rung, and the place is crawling with try-hards and hormone-choked wannabes.
Jace sparks a cigarette he won’t finish. One of those crusty teachers will be on his ass before the filter burns. But Jace… he lives to stir shit. The more rules he breaks, the harder he grins.
“Shantel blew me behind the science block this morning,” he says, dragging in deep and exhaling through his nose. “So technically, you’re tasting me right now.”
I freeze mid-step, dry-heaving like I’ve been poisoned. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
He shrugs, all cocky shoulders and zero shame. “Thought you deserved to start your day with something memorable.”
“You’re fucking feral.”
“I aim to please. She swallowed,” Jace adds with a wicked grin. “Begged for it too. Said she hadn’t eaten yet.”
Noah chokes, gagging so hard he actually stumbles. “You’re fucking sick.”
“I’m just generous,” Jace says, smug as hell. “Feeding the hungry and shit.”
Noah rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Do you guys wanna hang out later? Might hit the courts after school.”
I’m about to answer, but Noah’s gaze sharpens ahead, zeroing in.
Aubrey.
She’s cutting across the quad, head down, hair loose, books clutched to her chest. And just like that, Noah forgets we exist.
“Later,” he mutters, already moving toward her.
Jace watches him go, snorts, then turns to me. “Pussy whipped.”
I snort. “You’re one to talk.”
“Only when the pussy’s worth it.” He grins, all sharp teeth and zero shame.
“Classy.”
“Always.”
Jace grinds out his cigarette with the toe of his boot, sending ash skittering across the concrete. We push through the front doors, and the noise swells. Laughter too loud. Shoes squeaking. Some idiot slamming a locker shut just to hear it echo.
A group of girls turn as we walk in. Whispers. Bites of giggles. One of them tucks her hair behind her ear, angling her body toward Jace with that desperate smile he never returns.
I barely notice them.