“Fuck, Wren.” I kiss her again because she’s so damn sad, but she ends it first, stepping away from me completely. “What’s wrong?”
“We should go to class.” As if on cue, the bell rings with the five-minute warning. “We can’t be late to Fig’s.”
Fucking Fig. I hate that guy.
“Crew…” She takes a step toward me, her expression pleading. “Can we keep what happened between us a—secret?”
“What?” I shake my head. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“I don’t want anyone to think we’re in a…romantic relationship. We can be friendly. People will think it’s a normal progression from working on the project together, right? I’m just not ready to let people know we made out in the back of a car.”
I automatically want to belittle what happened in the back of that car Saturday afternoon. What’s a little make-out session? We’re in high school. Shit like that happens all the time. All sorts of people who go here hooked up over the weekend and are now pretending nothing ever happened. Hell, I’ve done that more than a few times myself.
But there’s something about Wren telling me she doesn’t want people knowing we kissed that bugs me. Like she wants to keep me her dirty little secret.
That’s fucked up. A blow to my massive ego, if I’m being real with myself.
Then again, I can’t imagine what it’s like, to be Little Miss Perfect Wren, the sweet and proud virgin on campus preaching abstinence. Being seen with me puts her reputation at risk, and that’s something she values.
Maybe a little too much.
“Whatever you want,” I tell her with an easy smile. “We’re just friends, right, Wren?”
“Right.” She nods. “Just friends,” she adds weakly.
“You leave first, okay? I’ll wait a minute so people don’t see us together,” I instruct her.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Thank you for understanding.”
And then she’s gone.
I lean against the wall, steaming as I hit the back of my head on the wall once. Twice. A couple of more times until a growl leaves me.
Why should I care if she wants to keep us a secret? That’s how I usually operate, so I should be all for it. Not like I was going to run out and tell everyone what happened. I didn’t even mention it to my friends. Hell, I lied to Malcolm earlier.
But Birdy’s calling the shots. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
As promised, I leave the room a minute later, rushing to class, pushing past the students milling about. Some of them say my name, but I ignore them. A plan clicks into place as I make my way to Honors English, and when I enter the classroom, I’m relieved to see I can go through with it.
Wren is already there, sitting in her usual spot. Front and center. Her cheeks are blotchy from her earlier crying, but otherwise, she looks okay. Barely holding it together, but okay. I make my way over to the desk directly behind hers and settle in, dropping my bag on the floor next to my feet.
Figueroa notices, of course. He observes me from where he sits at his desk, surrounded by his usual harem of girls, including Maggie, who’s glaring at the rest of them as if she wants to slit their throats.
Someone’s feeling territorial.
I just smile, tempted to wave at him. He doesn’t want to see me sniffing around Wren. He’s trying to get in on that action himself.
Over my dead body.
The final bell rings and the girls settle into their seats, one of them glaring at me since I guess I took her usual spot.
“That’s my seat,” she says snottily.
“Sorry, babe. Trying to score points with the teach,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and finds another desk.
Mr. Figueroa launches into a lecture about The Great Gatsby, which I haven’t even started reading yet. I figure I’ll watch the movie for real this time if I need to. Or someone will share their notes or whatever with me and help me out. I’m a fucking Lancaster. They all do my bidding.