Cruel Boy Page 13

  I approach her and peek over her shoulder at the painting. There’s a man pictured with a poppy in his hands while he stands beside a hole in the ground. I know that man. I know him better than anyone else.

  But she sees me in a way that no one else can, and it makes me choke up.

  She adds another stroke of paint, and I lick my lips, thinking about that moment when we stood by Nina’s grave. It was the first moment I couldn’t keep my eyes off Sam. I haven’t been able to look away since.

  “Like what you see?” she murmurs.

  A smirk forms on my lips. Of course she’d know I was here. She always notices. Just like I notice her wherever she goes. The air crackles with electricity whenever we meet, as it does now.

  I place my hand on her hip, and lean in to whisper, “Very.”

  * * *

  Sam

  His touch burns my side, and a need I’ve never felt before combusts in my core. I can feel his shallow breaths against my ear, his whispering resounding over and over again. I can’t let go, can’t let him do this. He’s not here for me. I have to remember he only wants the pictures.

  “Thanks,” I say. “It’s one of my favorite paintings. But I know you’re not here for that.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the painting.” His guttural voice sets my senses on fire.

  Fuck.

  Shoot me straight in the heart, why don’t you?

  Why do I have to feel this way when I’m around him, like some little girl fawning over her idol? It’s wrong.

  “Don’t play with me, Nate Wilson,” I reply.

  His fingers slide a few strands of my hair aside, and his lips graze my neck ever so slightly as if he’s contemplating but then hesitating at the very last moment, waiting for me.

  “I don’t wanna play. Playing means staying nice, and I don’t wanna be nice,” he whispers, planting a soft, delectable kiss on my shoulder.

  I shiver with delight. I shouldn’t, but fuck, I can’t control my body.

  “I know you’re not nice. You’ve already shown that to me many times,” I say, trying to maintain my composure, but it’s damn hard when his lips are drawing a line on my neck.

  “You’re right. I am bad for you,” he says, and I can feel him grin against my skin. “Imagine how much worse I could be.”

  Fuck. I have to stop this before it goes too far. Before we end up like last time when he threatened me with that knife in his car … and then kissed me.

  He’s a sinner, a cruel boy, someone no one should ever want, yet everyone craves, including me.

  My fingers curl around the wooden brush so tight that it almost snaps. I spin on my heels and paint his face again.

  He looks up, the look on his face a mixture of surprise and amusement. And fuck me if that doesn’t make him look even hotter. A dirty smile forms on his lips. Why did I do this? He actually thinks it’s funny. Fuck him.

  “Ooh, threatening me now?” he muses. “You did that before, Sammie-Sam. It’s not gonna work a second time. It’s not a knife. You’re not gonna hurt anyone with a brush.”

  “Fuck you,” I growl, and I try to paint him again, but this time, he grabs my wrist tight and holds it in the air. I struggle to free myself, but he’s much stronger than I am. Instead of fighting me, he takes a step closer into my space, up until the point that he could grab me and kiss me or push me up against the painting, break it into pieces, and fuck me on top of it.

  Shit.

  Don’t you fucking dare have these thoughts, Sam.

  “What are you gonna do? Knife me? Try it. I dare you,” I growl.

  I don’t know where I get this sudden bout of dumb courage and rage from, but it’s invaded deep in my soul, and it needs to be let out.

  “You think I wanna hurt you?” he muses, and he grabs my chin with his free hand. “That I’d actually be capable of that?”

  My lips part, but I don’t know what to say to that. It’s a possibility that it was all a farce, an unfounded threat, but it felt real to me. And that’s exactly what he wanted; fear. But I didn’t cave. I didn’t give him what he wanted, and now he’s here for round two.

  So I reach for the bucket of red paint standing on the stool and chuck it right at him.

  He releases my wrist and looks down at the pool of paint and his completely drenched, now red shirt. Some spats landed on my floral top too, but that’s a cost I can live with to see that look on his face right now.

  He deserves it.

  He wipes some of the paint off his face, but it only smears more. The marks left are none as big as the splash on his shirt, and his eyes follow the trail all the way down.

  I was expecting full, unbridled anger.

  I was not expecting him to lick his lips while his hands move toward the buttons. Instead of scolding me, he starts unbuttoning his shirt, one by one, all the way down to his V-line, which appears behind the stained shirt. He pulls it off slowly as though to torture me just a little bit more. The paint-covered shirt drops to the floor, leaving his naked, trained abs on full display.

  I gulp and lean back against the painting as if it’ll provide more stability to my shaky legs. My eyes try desperately not to look at his naked torso, but he makes it so hard when every move he makes ripples through his shredded muscles. It’s like watching a painting come to life.

  Him … he’s my muse. It’s always been him, from the day I first saw him until now. He’s my painting come to life … the troubled bad boy always looking for a fight. The boy who sets my soul on fire with a simple, scorching touch. And when the tip of his fingers brush along my cheeks, I melt into a puddle of paint myself.

  The paint smudges on his face don’t stop him from getting closer. A whole bucket of paint didn’t even stop him from advancing. And when his face is mere inches away from mine, hot-headed breathing from both sides, my brush drops from my hand … and I let him kiss me.

  Chapter 20

  Nate

  At first, I hesitate, gently placing my lips on hers to test the waters and see if she’ll let me. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight me anymore. Paint may have been her weapon, but red smudges all over my body and clothes won’t stop me from wanting to get close. Nothing will ever stop me from wanting to kiss her. So I do. I kiss her like a lover would when he sneaks into her bedroom to whisk her away. That could’ve been me … if only our circumstances had been different.

  But I still claim her mouth like I own it because I want to. Right now, I don’t care about what should and shouldn’t happen. Fuck wrong or right. I want what I want, and I want it right fucking now.

  My mouth latches onto hers, unable to stop. Even though I know I’m here with a purpose, my brain goes haywire the moment our lips touch. Her brain mesmerizes me to the point that it drives me insane. I don’t want her because she’s pretty or because she’s the most popular girl; I want her because she hates me. Because she makes my blood boil and my heart beat fast all at the same time … because she’s perfectly imperfect.

  The longer I kiss her, the more delirious I get. My hands clutch her face, slide down her neck, and graze over her perky tits. Greed fills my veins with lust. I want more. I want everything.

  My hand flicks open a button on her top and slides inside to cup her breast. A soft moan emanating from her mouth makes me rock hard and ready to go.

  Fuck.

  I want to rip the clothes off her body and set her down on my cock. I want to fuck her against the painting and mess it up until it’s covered with unbridled passion. I want to do so many things to her, but we don’t have time.

  Our lives weren’t meant to entwine.

  Not like this.

  Not with this dangerous secret we both harbor, one that could ruin us both.

  I have to know the truth.

  So I lean in to her just so I can slide my hand into her pocket and steal her phone. She doesn’t seem to notice as it slips out of her pocket and into mine. But then her eyes widen, and she leans back. I’m expecting a sl
ap. A yell. Anything.

  Instead, her pupils dilate as she stares at something over the edge of my shoulder.

  I turn my head, and my jaw drops. “Layla?”

  * * *

  Sam

  I thought he’d closed the door behind me, but maybe he forgot. Well, fuck.

  “NATE!” she screeches. “Her? You kissed her?” She marches into the room, glaring at me as if I’m the devil incarnate. “Get your filthy hands off him.” She stomps toward Nate, shoves him aside, and goes straight for me. “This is all because of you.”

  Before I know it, she’s grabbed me by my top and throws me against my painting, cracking the canvas from my weight. Adrenaline and rage mix as I glance over my shoulder at my beautiful creation, now soiled and destroyed. All because of her.

  “You bitch,” I growl, and I lunge at her.

  I punch her in the gut and grab her hair to pull her down a notch. I’ve never wanted to do anything worse than this, but she pulled it out of me like blood underneath my nails. She’ll feel the pain now.

  “You ruined my painting!” I yell.

  She scratches me in the face and kicks me in the shins with her Louboutins. “You ruined my perfect relationship!”

  “Excuse me?” Nate says.

  “Stay out of this!” we both say.

  Nate makes a face, raising his hands as Layla and I go head to head. She’s had it coming, and I don’t intend to hold back. Hours of my time I can never get back wasted on that painting. I don’t fucking care anymore. All gloves are off.

  “Fuck you,” I growl at Layla, and she slaps me in the face so hard that it burns.

  I hit her back, and she hits me back, and we go on and on until we’re both grabbing each other by the hair and pushing each other to our knees.

  “No, fuck you! You stole my fucking boyfriend,” Layla hisses.

  “He’s not your boyfriend anymore, bitch!” I yell back. “And I didn’t fucking steal anything.”

  “He’s not fucking yours either,” she spits back.

  “Good, I don’t want him!” I growl. Everyone’s watching us from the hallway, but I don’t care, and neither does she, it seems.

  “You kissed him!”

  “No, I fucking didn’t,” I reply. “He did!”

  She gazes at Nate who’s like “not me” with his gestures.

  Then she returns her attention toward me. “You’re just like your goddamn mother, stealing boys who don’t fucking belong to you.”

  Now she’s gone and done it. I punch her right in the cunt.

  She rolls around over the floor in sheer agony while I’m on my knees panting from all the fighting.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Someone enters the room. A teacher. No, scratch that … the fucking principal.

  “Oh my … Stop!” the guy yells, marching toward us. He picks me up from the floor and drags me away from Layla. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “She started it,” I say. It’s the goddamn truth.

  “You hit me!” Layla hisses as she crawls up but she slips on her high-heeled Louboutins and falls to the floor again.

  Nate tries to offer her a hand, but she swats him away. “I don’t need your help. Get off me.”

  He lets go of her, and when she drops to the floor again, I can’t help but snigger.

  “Stop that,” the principal says.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  Not sorry.

  “What is wrong with you both? Fighting on school grounds? This is no way to behave,” the guy says, grimacing at the sight of Layla’s bruises as she finally manages to get up and stay up. Then he gazes at Nate. “And what are you doing? Letting these girls fight over you? You know better than to involve yourself with this, Nate. Shame on you.”

  Nate clears his throat. “Sorry. I should’ve intervened.”

  “Yes, you should’ve,” the principal says. “This school’s got enough to deal with without you three making a scene.”

  “She hit me first,” I say, shrugging. “I didn’t do shit.”

  “You little bitch,” Layla says, almost ready to attack me again, but the principal pulls me away.

  “No. This ends now.” His fingers dig into my shoulder as he pulls me along. “You two,” he says, turning around only to point at Nate and Layla, who seem completely befuddled. “Detention. Now.”

  “What?” Layla exclaims, making an o-shape with her mouth as though she’s surprised.

  “You heard me,” the principal says, eyeballing her. “Go.”

  She rolls her eyes but then leaves the classroom without protest.

  “Layla, oh my God, I was so worried about you,” Jenny says, who’s apparently also part of the crowd watching us.

  Layla raises her hand. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

  Yikes. Guess that friendship has also gotten cold as ice.

  Nate goes straight for the door, but the principal stops him before he gets there. “Put on a shirt, for heaven’s sake.”

  I peer over his shoulder at all the girls chuckling and grinning to themselves as they watch Nate pick up his shirt from the floor and put it on. I can’t blame them. His abs are a distraction to literally everyone around him, including me.

  Nate passes us but still glances at me over his shoulder before he goes into the detention classroom. Suddenly, the principal drags me into that same class and pushes me inside.

  “Sit down and wait. Someone will be here in a minute to talk with you all.”

  Well, that’s just … great.

  Chapter 21

  Nate

  Three people in a classroom have never sat this far away from each other. I can guarantee it.

  Sam in the left corner, Layla in the right corner, and me in the middle at the far end of the classroom. No way am I going to sit between those two. Coming close means risking my own head getting bitten off. I’m not gonna risk it. Those two can fight out their problems on their own.

  Layla sighs out loud. “This is taking too long.” When no one says a word, she continues, “Nate, can’t you just come sit next to me so we can talk?”

  “No way,” I reply, folding my arms.

  “Why not?”

  Her voice makes me cringe. “I don’t wanna talk. And especially not to you.”

  She grimaces, and Sam snorts, which only makes her grimace harder.

  “Fuck you,” Layla hisses under her breath.

  Sam sticks up her middle finger. “Right back at you.”

  “And that’s why I’m sitting all the way back here,” I say, letting out a breath.

  “You’re scared of two girls?” Layla says, adding a tsk sound. “Boring.”

  “Comments like those are why I quit hanging out with you,” I say.

  “What?” she utters as though it’s the first time she’s heard me say I’m no longer interested. It’s the goddamn truth, and it’s about time she faced it.

  “You’re always acting like a bitch,” I say.

  Her eyes widen, and her jaw drops, while Sam is actually sniggering.

  “Shut up,” Layla says, and she throws one of her pens at Sam.

  “You deserve it,” Sam says.

  “No, you do. You both deserve each other,” she says, making a face at me and Sam.

  “You could’ve been nicer, but you chose not to,” I say.

  “You started it!” she says, turning around in her seat so she can look at me. “You were taunting her. You started making fun of her with Daryl and Robby. You even threw her in the pool,” she exclaims, crossing her arms. “You’re no better than me.”

  I swallow. I don’t like confrontation, especially not when it’s about all the things I did to Sam. I did them for a reason, but I can’t ever tell Layla that. I’m already a suspect in Nina’s death. I don’t want to become a literal criminal. I’m sure Layla would go straight to the cops if she knew the truth. She’d grab a chance to hurt me back with both hands if she could.

  “What I do has no
thing to do with you. You made your own choice,” I say, tapping my pen on the table.

  “You hate her. We both do,” she says through gritted teeth. “Why would you even want to hang out with her, let alone kiss her?”

  “Because I’m cute, and you’re not?” Sam interjects, and I snort a little.

  “Don’t. You’re not cute. You’re a freak. He’s only with you because he pities you,” she spits.

  Sam cocks her head and looks at me with a raised brow. “I don’t know, Nate. Why were you kissing me?”

  I can feel the heat coming off both of them from all the way over here.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I like easy girls,” I say, raising a brow back.

  Her pupils dilate, and now Layla laughs. “Slut.”

  “Or maybe …” I add, glancing at them both. “I do what I want when I want for no goddamn reason.”

  Layla’s smile dissipates, and Sam rolls her eyes. Layla reaches into her purse and fishes out a mirror and some powder, and she starts touching up all her bruises and hissing along with them as if they’re painful, then patting on some powder to cover them up.

  “Make sure you cover them up real good,” I mutter. “No one wants to see you with flaws.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she says, making me grin. I know I’m a pest, but I can’t help it. Women make me insane.

  “Sorry, Lay-Lay. I’m sure you’ll forgive me, right?” I say.

  She shuts her mirror and groans. “Ugh, you’re such a goddamn womanizer.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam says.

  “No one asked you shit, twerp,” Layla spits.

  “Well, no one asked you to barge in on us either,” Sam retorts.

  “I wouldn’t have had to if the door was actually closed and you two weren’t making out in front of the entire school.” Layla clutches her table as though she’s holding herself back. “You’re just as bad as your mom.”

  Sam grabs a pencil and threatens Layla with it as though it’s a knife. “Take that back, or I swear to God—”