6. Preston
PRESTON
What a fucking week.
And even though this is my last class today, I don’t have the luxury of looking forward to a weekend with nothing better to do than have fun, unwind with friends and all that.
No, I get to look forward to spending three hours at the hospital tomorrow, just like I did yesterday. Just like I’ll do again on Sunday.
It’s enough to make my blood simmer as I walk into the classroom where my 19th century American Literature class is held.
I kind of like this class, which is rare for me.
I’ve never been the guy who really engages in schoolwork—whatever the bare minimum is, that’s where I’m usually found.
Honestly, what difference does it make? So long as I pass and graduate.
I doubt anybody’s going to ask for a list of grades for every class I took in college.
But Lit, I can make an exception for. I don’t, like, look forward to the readings or anything, but I usually end up liking the material. And when we talk about it in class, I already know what the professor is going to say. When he asks questions, I usually know the answer.
Not that I give him the answer or anything. I’m not trying to have a debate. And I’m not trying to sit here with everybody staring at me, either. It’s unnerving. If they’re going to stare, it should be because they like my truck or wonder what my dick tastes like.
“Preston.” One of the girls sitting closer to the front of the room swivels in her chair and grins my way when I walk in. “You hanging out tomorrow night?”
Tomorrow night? Right, Carter and Elliana are having a party.
I was so busy being pissed off, I forgot about it until now.
My spirits start to lift—yeah, I still have to go into the hospital tomorrow, but I’ll have something to look forward to.
It will help the time go faster than a brain-melting crawl.
Or I could be kidding myself.
“We’ll be there,” I reply, since I’m sure I can speak for Easton on this. When it comes to parties, he needs to be deathbed-level sick to stay home. I’m already looking forward to it. Drinking everything away. Letting myself forget about Brody and Emma and volunteering for a little while.
Right now, it’s impossible to forget about Emma.
Because she is sitting almost in the center of the room. She might as well have a spotlight shining on her—or maybe that’s just the way she stands out to me.
And she knows I’m here, too, which is why her eyes are glued to the notebook open on her desk. The page is blank, but she is staring at it like it’s the most important thing she’s ever seen.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m broken somehow.
Otherwise, why is there a sizzle of excitement racing up my spine and lighting up the darkest corners of my brain, all because this girl is here?
All it takes is recognizing her to make my skin prickle in anticipation.
Everything around me gets sharper and clearer, right down to Emma’s blonde curls resting on her shoulders.
Somebody sitting behind her is now staring up at me. Jerking my chin, I growl, “You’re in my seat.” That’s all it takes to make him move—he gets his shit together like the desk is on fire, leaving it free for me to make myself comfortable.
I don’t believe in chance or fate or whatever, but dammit, there has to be a reason why she keeps showing up in front of me. I’m not trying to seek her out. All right, we were waiting for her a couple of days ago before she told us off, but otherwise? I would rather forget she exists.
Now, I sort of feel like I would be missing an opportunity if I don’t at least remind her who she’s dealing with.
Whose life she made the mistake of getting involved in.
I’m giving up a big chunk of my weekend, and all because she made a decision about something she was completely clueless about and refused to listen to reason. She brought this on herself.
“Pearls,” I murmur just loud enough for her to hear. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re stalking me. You always have to be where I am—parking lots, elevators, now here.”
The closest thing to a response I get is the slow rising and falling of her shoulders.
Like she’s fighting for every breath. Keeping herself calm.
I know how that feels, since the more I think about her kneeing Easton in the balls yesterday, the more curious I am about what it will take to break her down.
I don’t know who she thinks she is. She might as well strut around wearing a sign saying I’m better than you , since that’s clearly what she believes.
To her, Easton and I are nothing but violent thugs. She’s already made up her mind.
That’s fucking unfair. And it conjures up the same burning, all-consuming rage that made me kick Brody as hard as I did that night. Who the hell does she think she is, interfering with our lives?
“Hey, pearls…” I whisper, since the professor just walked in, and he’s already launching into the lecture. With the toe of my sneaker, I nudge her chair. “Pearls! I know you can hear me.”
She can’t ignore me for long. Nobody ignores me. I don’t know what game she’s trying to play, but she’s going to lose. She just hasn’t been in town long enough to know better. As it turns out, I’ve got all the time in the world to show her.
“Earth to pearls,” I whisper, nudging her chair harder this time. By now, there is soft laughter around me, a few snorts. “I know you’re in there. What, you think you can ignore me now? That’s funny. You were feeling feisty yesterday, though, weren’t you?”
She doesn’t know it, but the longer she ignores me, the worse it’s going to be.
Because I don’t give up. I’m not some schoolyard bully who’s going to get tired and give up.
I’m somebody whose life she has fucked up considerably at this point.
If it wasn’t for Dad’s connection to Paul, things could’ve gone even worse.
Which means having no remorse over kicking her chair hard enough to make her head snap back. That has to be what does it, right? She has to turn around, say something. React.
Why are you doing this? A tiny voice in my head.
Soft. Barely a whisper. It’s loud enough for me to hear, though, and a sort of sick, uncomfortable feeling slowly washes over me.
Why am I doing this? When I take a step back and observe this situation from the outside, I have trouble understanding what this is going to accomplish.
Which is why I need to stop thinking so much. All I know is, she’s a snide, sanctimonious little narc.
And she, of all people, has no right to ignore me.
“What a shame you couldn’t ignore me when it mattered,” I mutter, staring at the back of her head while the heat in my stomach moves up through my chest and blooms like a poisonous plant.
She had a chance to pretend we never met, and she made the choice to get involved in our private business.
She doesn’t deserve peace or consideration when she had no consideration for us.
And when I think of it that way, when I remember her defiance and how obvious she made it that she saw herself as being better than us, sheer rage explodes and gives me no choice but to reach out and grab her by the hair. Let’s see her ignore this.
That’s when the weirdest thing happens.
Instead of yanking her head back, like I planned, her hair just… comes off. Not only the handful I took, either, but all of it. An entire head worth of blonde curls is now clutched in my fist. I’m still so pissed and now battling confusion, so it takes me a second to realize I’m holding a wig.
And that her head underneath is pretty much completely bare.
I wanted a reaction, didn’t I? Her sharp gasp grabs the attention of anybody who wasn’t already watching us.
All eyes turn our way as she swivels in her chair with one arm awkwardly covering her head and the other arm outstretched so she can grab for the wig.
“How dare you?” she whispers through her clenched teeth, shaking, red faced, reaching out frantically while soft laughter rises around us.
“We should’ve named you cue ball, instead,” I mutter, and the laughter gets louder. It makes me hold the wig out of reach, too, since it’s obvious everybody’s on my side. She brought this on herself.
“Give it back!” she whisper-screams, glaring at me while she tries to hide her baldness.
“What is going on back there?” The professor’s sharp question lowers the volume on the laughter like magic while Emma still tries to get hold of her wig. “Preston, what are you doing? Give it back. They’re not here to play games.”
With a snicker, I shove the wig in her direction.
An undercurrent of soft laughter lingers in the air while she pulls it on and adjusts it, then looks around defiantly.
“What? I’m the first person who ever lost a bet and had to shave their head?
” she asks, holding the gaze of one classmate after another.
In a louder voice than before, the professor announces, “All right, enough of this. Back to the lecture.” His voice drones on while the occasional snort and whisper around me tells me this isn’t over.
Nobody’s going to forget this. By the end of the day, everyone in school will know pearls wears a wig, and had it snatched off in the middle of class.
It won’t be just me and Easton giving her the attention she could have avoided if she would have only minded her own business.
Everybody’s going to get on her ass now.
She won’t know a moment of peace after being humiliated like that.
And all it took was me trying to pull her hair.
She could have avoided this. She only has herself to blame.
And maybe now, she’ll be a little smarter about who she shows her attitude to. Maybe she’ll think before she acts like a know-it-all bitch who’s so superior to everyone around her. We all know the truth now. She’s no better than anybody.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself by the end of class.
I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to the end of class more than I am right now.
It doesn’t matter that it’s Friday, the last class, any of that.
I want to watch her scurry out of the room.
I’m craving her humiliation. For her to know she’s the reason for it in the end.
So when everybody starts getting their shit together and getting up from their desks, I stay put. I’m too busy watching her, clocking every move. Waiting for that inevitable moment when she ducks her head and lifts her shoulders and runs out of here like the room is on fire.
Yet when she stands up and immediately glares hatefully down at me, I’m kind of thrown off.
And it’s not just that she glares. It’s that she stands there, holding my gaze, like she’s daring me to say something.
Endless seconds pass with the two of us locked in a staring contest that tells me she is anything but intimidated.
I’m so busy asking myself who the hell she thinks she is, the way she still has the balls to stare me down, that I can only sit and stare while she marches out of the room with her head held high.
It’s amazing how quickly rage can harden into something hateful. Something dark and dangerous.
What is it going to take to put her in her place?