Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
KADE
She's been avoiding me all week like I'm a live wire she's afraid to touch.
But I catch her watching when she thinks I'm not paying attention—feel her gaze drag across my shoulders during lectures, burning into the back of my neck when I slouch in my chair.
Today was no different. She kept her eyes fixed on her podium, her notes, the whiteboard, anywhere but me.
Yet the moment I pulled out my phone to text under my desk, I felt her stare laser-focused on my hands like she was memorizing every movement.
She wants me but hates herself for it. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on, suffocating in its intensity.
Maybe she'll actually talk to me after school when I stay for tutoring.
That is, if we manage to be alone. Last Friday there were two other students camped out at the desks beside mine, so I couldn't say shit.
Just had to sit there and watch her explain fucking Shakespeare to some freshman kid who kept asking the dumbest questions, while my mind wandered to places it absolutely shouldn't go with my teacher.
Places that involved her desk, those conservative pencil skirts she wears bunched around her waist, and considerably fewer clothes.
I pull out my phone to text Grace when hands suddenly cover my eyes, blocking out the fluorescent hallway lights.
"Guess who?" Jules chirps in that sing-song voice that scrapes down my spine like nails on a chalkboard.
Fuck. I know exactly who it is before she even finishes speaking. I reach up and remove her hands from my face with zero gentleness. "I can smell your perfume from three feet away."
She beams like I've just paid her the sweetest compliment. It wasn't a compliment. The scent is strong and floral, reminds me of my grandmother's bathroom—all potpourri and ancient soap. Not appealing.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and start walking toward Fallon's classroom because standing here means more conversation with Jules, and I'm already done with this interaction.
Jules falls into step beside me anyway, chattering away about something I tune out immediately—probably her weekend plans or drama with her friend group or some other shit I couldn't care less about.
I spot Brad up ahead, heading in our direction. But the second his eyes land on Jules walking beside me, he does this hilarious one-eighty and starts speed-walking the opposite way like the fucking coward he is.
"Dude, I see you!" I call out after him, not even trying to hide my amusement.
He keeps walking, practically power-walking now, shoulders hunched.
I jog to catch up with him, Jules's footsteps clicking behind me on the tile floor. "That's fucked, man."
"Sorry, I didn't see you," Brad says when I finally reach him, voice flat as hell. "What's up?"
"The fuck you didn't." I can't help but laugh at his obvious bullshit. He literally made eye contact before bolting.
"What's up?" he repeats, more forcefully this time, pointedly refusing to acknowledge Jules's existence even though she's standing right there.
I feel like being an asshole—mostly because watching Brad squirm is entertaining, partly because I'm frustrated about Fallon and need to take it out on someone. "I'm staying after for tutoring again, so you can walk Jules out to her car. Make sure she gets there safe."
Brad's smile drops off his face like I just told him his dog died. He glares at me with pure murder in his eyes, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"I didn't know you needed help with anything," Jules says brightly, touching my arm with fingers that linger too long. "What subject? Maybe I can help you instead."
"Nah, I'm good." I step away from her hand like it burns. "But I don't want to be late, so let Brad walk you out. He doesn't mind."
Jules pouts, bottom lip pushing out dramatically. Brad looks like he's seriously considering homicide—specifically mine.
I turn away from both of them before either can protest further and head back the way I came, leaving them to deal with each other. Jules's disappointed "But Kade—" follows me down the hallway. Not my problem. Brad can handle her desperate attempts at conversation for ten minutes.
When I reach Mrs. Reid's classroom, it's completely empty. She's not even here yet. I take my usual seat in the front row—the desk directly in front of her workspace where I can watch her without straining—and pull out my phone again.
Me: Going to pick up my suit after school for tomorrow.
The typing bubbles appear almost immediately, like Grace was just waiting for me to message her.
Grace: Great! I'll pick you up at 6:00 tomorrow night. And before you even START to argue—I'm not riding on the back of your motorcycle in my pretty dress.
Me: Fine.
I groan out loud at my phone, the sound echoing in the empty classroom. I was totally about to argue that exact point. The bike would be so much easier—no dealing with her driver, no awkward small talk, just wind and engine noise and freedom.
But no. She has to be practical. Which means it'll probably be that Fernando fucker driving her around—Damián's cold-eyed right-hand man who got permanently assigned to Grace when she moved into his house.
The guy shadows her everywhere she goes, follows three steps behind with dead eyes and a gun I know is tucked under his perfectly tailored suit jacket.
He's crazy in that specific cartel way—calm and controlled until someone crosses a line, then suddenly there's blood and bodies and zero remorse.
Just like Damián and the rest of those psychos.
I guess that's good for keeping Grace safe in their fucked-up world.
Doesn't mean I have to like the guy watching my sister 24/7.
Grace: See you tomorrow! It's going to be so much fun!
Fun. Yeah. A fancy political gala packed with corrupt politicians and cartel associates pretending to be respectable citizens. Real fucking fun. I'll probably spend half the night wanting to punch someone and the other half trying not to look like I want to punch someone.
But I'll be there anyway because that's what family does—we show up even when it sucks, even when we'd rather be literally anywhere else. Grace asked, so I'll go. Simple as that.
I pocket my phone as footsteps echo down the empty hallway outside—heels clicking on tile in that specific rhythm I've memorized without meaning to.
Mrs. Reid appears in the doorway a second later, arms stacked high with textbooks and papers that look about two seconds from toppling over.
She stops dead when she sees me sitting there waiting, her whole body going rigid like I've caught her doing something wrong.
"Kade." My name comes out breathless, barely above a whisper. "You're... early."
"Wanted to make sure we got time alone." I hold her stare deliberately, watching pink color creep up her neck and into her cheeks. "To talk about my poem. You know, the one you said needed 'significant revision.'"
"Right." She breaks eye contact first—she always does—and walks to her desk with movements that are too careful, too measured, like she's physically restraining herself from running.
Sets the precarious stack of books down with unnecessary precision.
Smooths her already-smooth navy skirt even though there's not a wrinkle in sight.
Adjusts papers on her desk that were already perfectly aligned.
"Your poem. Yes, we should... discuss it. "
The silence that falls between us is thick and suffocating, weighted with everything neither of us will say out loud.
She won't look directly at me, keeps finding increasingly pointless reasons to organize supplies that don't need organizing—straightening pens in their holder, checking that her stapler has staples, examining her grade book like it contains the secrets of the universe.
I lean back in my chair slowly, letting it creak, and wait.
I've got all afternoon and nowhere else I'd rather be than right here in this classroom, watching Fallon Reid try desperately to pretend she doesn't feel this gravitational pull between us as intensely as I do.
Watching her fight against something that's already inevitable.
Eventually, she'll have to stop running. Eventually, we'll have to deal with what's happening here.
I'm a patient guy when it matters.
And this? This matters more than anything.
Several more minutes drag by while she organizes shit, like controlling these small things will give her control over everything else spiraling between us.
I watch every nervous gesture, every careful breath, every tiny movement that betrays how hard she's fighting to maintain her composure.
I memorize the way she tries so fucking hard to hold it together when we both know it's slipping through her fingers like water, inevitable and unstoppable.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of this beautiful torture, she looks up at me.
Her hazel eyes meet mine for just a second before skittering away.
She stands slowly, walks over with measured steps that don't quite hide the tremor in her legs, each footfall careful like she's approaching something dangerous.
She stops at my right side, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her body in waves. Close enough to breathe her in. "Is this it?" Her voice is barely steady, the words carrying the faintest tremor she can't quite suppress.
"Yeah." The word comes out low, rough, loaded with everything I'm not saying.