There are two sides to a story. Here’s Seven Shanahan’s.
Chapter Two: Seven
I don’t feel bad for knocking the new girl down a peg. Girls with attitude and hateful glares aren’t welcome on me and my boys’ turf. What we like is what I see waiting at the end of the hall.
A group of girls eye us expectantly. I run my gaze over their fine bodies. Their hair is in my favorite shades. Burnt caramel. Dark chocolate. Honey blonde. Platinum blonde. Fiery red. But not pitch black. Black is death.
Their skin is pale and smooth, unlike the girl from earlier with the natural tan. Blue eyes. Green eyes. Dark-brown eyes. Not clear amber like hers. The girls direct their flirty smiles our way. Predictable. So is the lust in their eyes. They want a piece of us. Our mouths on theirs. Our hands on their bodies.
Soon enough, ladies. There’s a party at my place tonight, the folks gone for the week for their millionth try at saving their marriage.
“Hi there, Seven.”
Hannah walks over and runs her manicured finger up and down my arm, sending hot need to my junk. I stop her fiery caresses and grasp her hand in mine. She has other ideas. Fully aware of all eyes on us, she takes my hand and sucks on my middle finger.
Her tongue on my finger, her wet, warm mouth . . . I groan and resist the urge to stroke my cock through my jeans. Fuck sakes, this girl is killing me softly and slowly with how well she sucks my damn finger.
“Hannah.” Jesus, I’m panting.
She lets go of my finger and, biting down on her smile, says, “Tonight. You and me.”
How can I refuse? I nod, too turned on to speak. My boys and I, we head to our class. They shove me back and forth with shit-eating grins on their faces. They understand I’ve been wanting in Hannah’s pants, but you see, she has a mean-as-fuck older brother who likes to keep a close eye on his fine-ass little sis.
But the dude’s away at college. And that, my friends, give me free rein to do whatever the hell I want with Hannah.
In math class, I sit behind the new girl. Her long black hair drapes over the back of her chair, the strands falling over her white shirt like muddied waters after a flash storm.
To show her not to mess with me, that I’m a somebody and she’s the nobody, I shove my shoe into the small of her back, leaving a muddy imprint on her shirt. It rained buckets, and the walk from the school parking lot to the front doors was fraught with puddles.
She doesn’t flinch or acknowledge that my shoe is pushing into her back so hard, I can feel her rigid spine straight to my core. I press harder. She picks up her desk and scoots forward. I scoot after her. The guys notice and snicker. The teacher turns from writing a math problem on the board and lifts a drawn on brow.
Mrs. Bowman glances around the room and zones in on the new girl. Her desk isn’t lined up with the others, and Mrs. Bowman notices. Another smirk lights up my face the instant I see the annoyance on hers. I had Mrs. Bowman for math last year, too, and the thing is, she’s particular and hates when things are askew.
“Miss Kim, please scoot your desk back and center it with the desk in front of you, please.”
What will New Girl do? My body pulls taut with anticipation
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bowman, but I can’t see the board very well. I forgot my glasses at home.”
Mrs. Bowman, who is wearing glasses, well, damn it, her face softens.
“Oh, dear, that’s a problem. Why don’t you and Allison switch seats?”
New Girl moves to the front of the classroom, and my ex-girlfriend takes her place.
“Allison, please scoot the chair back and line it up with the one in front of you.”
Allison does as the teacher asks. When Mrs. Bowman returns to solving the problem on the board, Allison glances over her shoulder and shoots me a tentative smile. I look off to the side, avoiding the pleading in her big blue eyes. We broke up for a reason. I don’t take well to cheaters. I also don’t believe in second chances.
Most of all, I don’t like people who disturb the peace, and reek of rebellion and defiance. I stare a hole in the back of Safari’s head.
Rebellion and defiance give someone the potential to unseat me and my boys from our thrones. Gives them the chance to pump back into my heart the metaphorical blood I lost when a girl ripped my heart in two.
Black hair. Amber eyes. She comes to me in my dreams and my nightmares, and every goddamn time, I wake up to the same ending no matter how hard I tried to change what happened that day.
In the end, the girl I tried to save dies.