19. Preston #3
Especially after his texts that night.
Are you okay?
Jude led you away, and you were surprisingly obedient as he fawned all over you, so I assume you’re doing perfectly well.
I’ll see you before the next game. We need to talk.
There’s nothing we need to talk about. Zilch. Nada.
We’re not friends. The best we can be is fuck buddies, and he needs to accept that.
My phone vibrates again.
Headache
If you refuse to text me back, I’ll assume you’re acting like a shy virgin after you kissed me so hungrily on that cliff.
Me
I did NOT kiss you so hungrily.
Are you sure? You looked ready to crawl out of your own skin. Hard to fake that kind of passion.
I can refer you to a therapist to deal with your pathological level of delusion.
Or you can just admit you liked kissing me.
I’ve had better.
With whom?
None of your business.
You can’t tell me you’ve had a better kiss with someone else, then say it’s none of my business, Preston. I’m asking you again. Who was it?
You really want to know?
Yes.
What to do? I decided not to tell you.
Preston.
Yes, Marcus?
If you don’t tell me, there will be consequences.
Oh no, should I tremble now or pencil it in for later?
The next time I see you, I’ll make your ass so red and your cock so hard, you’ll be begging to come and I won’t let you.
Bold of you to assume I’ll see you again. You’ll have to beg for three business days.
Are we playing that game again? Do you want to be blocked, is that it?
You have three seconds to reply, Preston. If I block you this time, I’ll never unblock you again.
Fuck you.
The next day, I go to Stantonville.
Hear me out. Yes, today is not the day before a game, and I don’t need to see the motherfucker Marcus, but I had to.
Because he dared to send the bike back.
Early this morning, Hayes told me it was delivered to the Armstrong mansion, which made Dad frown as usual and ask Hayes if I was into bikes now.
I’m not. But after classes, I drove this bike all the way to Stantonville because of a certain asshole.
I park near a corner, hidden by a graffiti-filled wall across from the shop where he works.
It’s a social experience since I’ve never seen a mechanic in real life. What? I don’t deal with my own cars.
Marcus is all alone in the shop, half buried under some shitty sedan as a leggy brunette in tight jeans stands close by, saying something I don’t hear as cars speed by on the street.
Soon, he slides out from beneath the car—that should be totaled—and hops up into a standing position.
My thoughts kind of trip over themselves and die.
Because what the fuck is he wearing?
I mean, I can see it, but how the hell is such a simple thing supposed to look like that?
Marcus is in some of those navy mechanic overalls, except the top half is tied around his waist, leaving him in a black sleeveless shirt that clings to solid, defined abs.
His shoulders look broader, arms cut and smeared with engine grease in a way that should be messy but somehow makes him look sculpted.
Decorated for a photo shoot or some shit.
A smudge slides across his forearm, another on his jaw as if they’re intentionally placed.
He wipes his hands with a rag, slow, deliberate, his forearms flexing with each drag. The muscles shift under his skin like they’re fully aware I’m staring.
No. I’m actually gawking at this point, entirely taken by the scene without my consent.
The soft glow of the afternoon sun hits him at an angle, catching on the cut line of his cheekbone and the scar that slashes through his right eyebrow. The one that should ruin his looks, but, instead, sharpens them into something unlawfully attractive.
His gray eyes flick up for a second, reflecting the light, like storm clouds condensing in the distance.
Someone interrupts my comprehensive stalking sesh.
The brunette.
I completely deleted her from the scene, but she’s now standing in front of him, half blocking my view.
She leans against her car, twirling her hair, giving him the “I’m available” smile. And Marcus—who’s on the verge of being castrated—steps closer, listens, then flashes her that fucking smirk.
He wipes a smear of oil from the back of his neck, and her eyes go wide like she just discovered a new religion.
My stomach twists as if someone reached inside and set a firecracker off.
Ridiculous.
Irrational.
It’s a feeling I shouldn’t have.
I don’t even like Marcus Osborn.
So him flirting with a random shitty sedan owner shouldn’t feel like this.
Whatever this is.
I definitely shouldn’t feel the need to march across the street, shove her aside, and tell him to stop looking like that.
Smirking like that.
Existing like that.
She laughs at something he says, and that firecracker lurking in my stomach like a monster detonates again—louder this time, sharp enough that I have to close my eyes briefly.
When I open them again, I’m already striding toward them.
No, I’m not jealous of a random woman over a man I absolutely do not want or care about or even know.
I’m just here to punish him.
And I have to remove any obstacle that’s in my way.