Are those things ‘right’?
I shrug to myself.
Hell if I know.
I look to the expectant man with gray-speckled hair and a mustache that would make Gomez Addams proud.
“Define wrong?” slips from my lips without thought.
Two memorable chuckles follow, as do a few others from around the room, but those come from people who are most definitely not on the same page.
Mr. Grant’s eyes widen before he can stop them, but he returns to his desk with a simple, “See me after class.”
As he turns away, I pull the gloves from my hands and toss them in the trash can near our feet. My eyes shift to Arsen.
His are already on me, a deep frown curved along his forehead, and the longer he stares, the deeper it gets. With a hint of reluctance, he looks over his shoulder.
Toward his friends.
Friends, I have a feeling, he’ll have long after this year is over.
Or maybe not.
They’ll probably fuck him over, or vice versa.
Every real relationship turns sour eventually.
Convenience and precise understanding are so much smarter, cleaner.
Necessary.
It has to be.
I don’t look away from the task at hand until the bell rings and we’re sliding our dough into our slot in the fridge.
Thankfully the teacher is occupied with another student, so I’m able to slip from class without a lecture on etiquette. A second after my heels cross the threshold of the room, my phone dings with a text from Scott.
Scott: I’m wearing white on Saturday. You should, too.
And just like that, the self-proclaimed capo demands confirmation our little interaction was simply banter between rich kids with superiority issues.
With a long inhale, I do my part.
Better to pet a persistent dog than attempt to shoo it away, everyone knows it only makes them more eager.
Scott will get his dance, and he knows it.
Ah, how the circle of the high society goes round.
I frown at my screen, at the smirking emoji I sent back, and just before I press the little button on the side to turn the screen black, a sneer fans along my hair.
All at once, Beretta, Arsen, and Ransom are slipping past me. The first two keep forward, without looking my way, but not Ransom. He spins, walks backward down the hall with his head cocked the slightest bit, shaking it back and forth.
I swear a heavy breath escapes him as he reaches out, tugging on his friends’ shirts before spinning and throwing his arms over their shoulders.
A girl walks by then, stepping out wider as they grow closer, and all at once, they jolt toward her, making me jump when a short scream flies from her mouth.
They chuckle, disappearing around the corner, and the girl growls, flicking her gaze their way in disgust. She recomposes herself, and I squash my grin as she breezes past me with a low mumbled, “Freaks.”
I don’t know why, but I push forward with rapid steps, gliding around the corner they curved, and continue toward the exit it leads to.
I throw it open and step out, jerking in surprise.
I glare, but as quick as it sets in, an unexpected low laugh slips free. This time I’m the one shaking my head.
All three are right here, just outside the exit, each leaning against the wall with their heads turned my way.
Waiting.
They knew I would come.
Arsen kicks off first, stepping right in front of me. He dips his chin the slightest bit, and somehow, I know what he wants.
I close my eyes.
Arsen and Beretta have been sparring for the last thirty minutes, neither pausing for air nor slowing their pace, clearly capable of going at it for much longer.
Ransom drops in the seat beside me, tossing his gloves to the floor with a bit of a pout.
“What’s the matter, are you sad you’re not getting your turn?” I tease, sticking my bottom lip out.
He surprises me when he jerks forward, ready to bite at it, but I pull back in surprise. My eyes must widen because his sudden grin is boastful. With a low laugh, we face the boys again.
Both drip with sweat, their broad smiles matching as they laugh and circle the makeshift ring. It’s nothing more than a few mismatched, scuffed-up mats they dragged from the garage, rolled out over the sunburned grass and threw some quick tape onto to help keep them together. They’re old, but they serve their purpose nicely.
Beretta bends at the knees, bringing himself lower as he spins, but Arsen whips around the opposite way, having expected his friend’s tricks, and is now pressed to Beretta’s back.
Arsen quickly hooks his elbows around Beretta’s and tugs his arms backward, trapping Beretta’s between his own back and Arsen’s abdomen.
Arsen rushes them forward, pinning Beretta’s chest to the side wall of the garage, and he holds him there, his chest to his back.
I grin, waiting for what comes next, unsure of what Beretta will attempt in order to get free, but neither of them moves, and then Arsen’s hold loosens.