When the game finally ends, I make a beeline for the parking lot. Fans of both teams stream out into the bright light of the parking lot. People are yelling about a party somewhere, and a bonfire, and swimming. I don’t know if it’s all at one place, and I really don’t care. I’m not here for the afterparty.
I find the SUV I’m looking for, the Range Rover, and lean against the grill.
“What are you doing?” Jolene whisper-screams. “Whose car is this?”
“I hope it’s Royal Dolce’s,” I say. “You don’t have to wait if Tater Bug’s here to pick you up.”
“Royal Dolce?” she squeaks. “Why are you touching his car?”
“I need to talk to him.”
She grabs me by the arm and drags me a few feet away. “You don’t just go up to Royal Dolce and talk to him,” she hisses.
People are looking at us with curiosity, lingering to see what happens. Apparently, I’m not the only one who knows what car the Dolce boys drive.
“It’s not like they’re the president,” I say. “They’re our age.”
“Their dad is basically the president of Faulkner.”
I shrug and resume my spot on the bumper of the SUV.
Jolene gnaws at her lip for a minute, then nods. “If you really want their attention, you should be lying on the hood naked when they walk up. Otherwise, what’s to set you apart from all the other girls who chase after them?”
“Not a bad idea,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “I’ll save that one for later.”
I spot two boys walking our way, and from the reaction, I have a feeling things are about to get interesting. People step back, looking unsure and almost afraid. Girls are obviously checking them out, but I notice that none of them throw themselves at the boys. So, they aren’t rock stars at Willow Heights—not exactly.
I have time to take in the three of them and recognize them as the guys from the tracks. The one who almost killed me is taller than the other two, and from the height difference on the field, I know that one must be Royal. My heart skips a beat and then races to catch up when our eyes meet.
While the guys stroll toward me with the kind of natural swagger that must come with millions of dollars and the body of a god, I have a few seconds to consider whether I’m doing something suicidal. I force myself not to move. This is a different situation. At the tracks, they were out wreaking havoc. There was no one around to stop them. Now, they’ll want to look cool in front of all their friends and peers. They’re not going to go psycho in the parking lot of the stadium with a hundred families around.
Are they?
They must be aware that all eyes are on them, but they don’t even glance around. They don’t slow when they see us leaning on their car, either.
Actually, it’s just me. Jolene has disappeared. But whatever. This isn’t her fight.
“Get off my car.”
His voice is colder than I expected. There’s no laughter or teasing in it, none of the playfulness I expect from guys who are all that and know it. His voice holds none of the taunting that Duke’s held when he mocked Mr. Behr’s authority, and none of the cockiness I expect him to show in front of a crowd.
Royal stops right in front of me, just inches away. His face is blank and hard as stone. I remember that dead-eyed blackness in his gaze from the tracks, and a shiver races across my skin.
My tongue is suddenly tied tight to the roof of my mouth, and no words come. I’m not usually intimidated by assholes, but I’ve never been around rich assholes. I swear the guy smells like money. His dark hair is still wet from the post-game shower, and he has a football bag slung over one muscular shoulder. The two others stand back from him, watching. Duke, the running back, wears a cocky grin on his face, and the guy with glasses—Baron Dolce, according to Jolene—stands with his head cocked, like he’s curious to see where this is all going. Like the last time I saw him, he has a sucker tucked into his cheek, the stem poking out between his lips.
“I said, get off my car.”
I swallow, forcing my eyes to Royal again. People are starting to gather nearby, waiting for a show.
“I want the picture erased,” I say, my voice low but firm.
He draws back just a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough for me to know. Probably no one else notices. Probably no one else sees the faint flicker of something—I don’t know what—cross his face before it goes blank again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I press my palms against his bumper, steadying myself. “I think you do.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away right now,” he says, his voice as low as mine but edged with warning.