I stalk toward her, and when we’re toe to toe, I gaze down at her until her lips tremble. I run my thumb over it, and she sucks in a breath. “Oh princess, I do mean it. And when have I ever said I was nice?” I chuckle, then turn, ready to climb in my car and leave her standing there, but pause when I come face to face with the stray Marcella’s mom took in. I throw her a smirk, “Lesson for the future, kitten.”
“Does humiliating a woman make you feel like a big man, little boy?”
“What did you say to me?” I tilt my head, annoyed and intrigued that the tiny thing has the balls to insult me. She frowns, and I’m irritated to find I like her frown. She repeats herself slowly, likely for emphasis.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
She scoffs at me. “Just ‘cause your daddy thinks he owns this town and donated some money to get a school named after him doesn’t make you special, Ryder Rothwell.”
Oh, the girl has no fucking clue how many lines she’s crossing. I close the short distance between us in a few strides. The closer I get, the more frustrated I become. The girl doesn’t flinch. She just stands with her hands on her small hips, chin jutted out in defiance. My eyes roam down to the slim column of her neck, and my fingers ache to reach down and wrap around it.
She cocks a brow. “Boyslike you don’t scare me, never have, and never fucking will.”
“You sure about that, sweetheart?”
“Oh, I’m all kinds of sure.” She stares me down, shoulders past me, and walks toward Cassandra, who stands watching our exchange with a stunned expression.
“You alright?” Marcella’s cousin, A — something, asks Cassandra. I didn’t even catch the girl’s name when Dylan was begging me to invite her to my party, but now I want to know, so I can make her regret ever talking to me the way she did.
“I don’t need you to stand up for me,” Cassandra snaps.
“See there, kitten. Some girls know their place.”
She turns toward me. “Where’s that?”
“At my feet.”
Her cheeks redden, and I turn away, climbing into my Wrangler. Oh, she’s going to be sorry. Nobody crosses me and gets away with it.
ChapterThree
ASH
Sitting on the loveseat, I try to make my aunt see reason. “I really don’t want to go to this party, Aunt City, and Marcy shouldn’t have to miss it because of me.”
“No way. I’m not going without you,” Marcy whines. “That’ll be like I agree with what Ryder did or something.”
“Come on, we both know that’s not the case.”
“Girls,” my aunt interrupts. “You know the decision is yours, but you shouldn’t let someone rude prevent you from having fun.”
Marcy sinks into an armchair, and I feel genuinely bad.
In the short time I've interacted with Ryder, I’ve come to loathe him, but I know Marcella is dying to go to this party. A party the guy throws weekly, from what I gather. It’s apparently the biggest social event on everyone’s calendar. The Rothwells are as rich as sultans, Marcy’s words, not mine, and any party Ryder throws is the be-all and end-all of social status. Which is why he probably does it.
“Fine. I’ll go,” I groan, caving as my cousin’s chin dips almost to her chest.
The squeal she lets out is deafening as she pulls me in for a hug. My aunt shakes her head but smiles. “All right, but be back before curfew, and if you’re drinking, take a cab. Oh, and protection, ladies, please.”
“Mom!” Marcy looks horrified, and I don’t blame her.
“What? I’m a progressive mother,” Felicity continues scribbling notes on music sheets.
“What are we going to wear?” Marcy drags me upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open her closet doors and dragging out clothing in various colors and materials.
“I’m wearing this,” I motion to my skinny Levi’s and AC/DC rocks t-shirt.
“You are not wearing that.” She looks horrified at the mere idea of it. “Here.” Marcy shuffles through her closet and draws out a soft gray knit dress that doesn’t look half bad. She’s taller than I am, so it’ll end at my knees, and I could pair it with boots.