Never His Girl: Dark High School Bully Romance (Kings of Cypress Prep Book 2)

by Rachel Jonas

  Of course, no hands go up.

  When her gaze lands on me, I groan, knowing my name’s about to be called.

  “West? Can you join me, please?” she asks. “And … how about you, Trip. Get down here and grab a ball.”

  I do as I’m told, dribbling while I await instructions.

  “Trip, I need you on defense. Start at the free-throw line.”

  We make our way there and Trip spreads his arms, studying my body language. Still, he somehow gets crossed up when I fake left, then break right. The ball rolls off my fingertips into the basket when I jump, and it isn’t until I look back and find Trip on the ground that I understand why the class is laughing.

  “My bad,” I apologize, offering him my hand. He takes it and stands.

  Eager to redeem himself, he plants his feet more firmly this time, and I dribble until Mrs. C.’s whistle signals the start of the play. Trip’s more focused than before, and a little tense. Trying to give him a break, I hit him with the same move, thinking it’ll be predictable, but dude goes down like the Titanic for a second time, and the ball rolls into the basket with ease.

  This time, when I turn to help him up, I’m laughing with everyone else.

  “Good thing you picked football over basketball. Otherwise, they’d have to hire someone just to scrape your ass off the court after every play,” I joke.

  His face reddens, but he’s laughing a bit himself.

  “Caught me off guard is all,” he insists. “I’ll block you this time.”

  “Won’t be a next time,” Mrs. C. cuts in. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re being replaced.”

  Smiling a bit, her hand lands on Trip’s shoulder as he passes her on his way back to the bleachers.

  “Riley, you’re up,” Mrs. C. announces.

  Southside peers up from a daydream, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

  “What? I—I’m not really feeling well,” she lies, volleying a look between me and Mrs. C., begging for mercy with her eyes.

  “Won’t take long,” Mrs. C. insists. “Besides, I’ve peeked in on a few of your practices. I have faith if anyone can stop Golden short of the basket, it’s you.”

  Southside’s face is redder than Trip’s and I honestly wonder if Mrs. C. is the one person on this planet who hasn’t seen the video. Woman must live under a rock. Otherwise, she would’ve known why this pairing is probably the last she should’ve chosen.

  But alas, here we are.

  The whistle blows and, already, I see Southside’s got better instinct than Trip. Instead of watching the ball, her eyes are trained on my waist. I fake right this time and break left, but she’s still on me, slowing down my drive toward the basket. She goes up with me when I jump for the layup, stretching her hand toward the ball. If it weren’t for the height difference between us, she would’ve definitely blocked the shot.

  But it’s also that difference in height, plus the fact that I’m probably a good forty pounds heavier than she is, that has her slamming into my chest on the way up. Then, landing on the court with a thud.

  Right on her ass.

  The class erupts in laughter again and, right away, I know it’s too soon. The bruises to her ego are still fresh. Too fresh for her to be the center of attention again. Basically, they’re pouring salt in an open wound. One I’m trying desperately to heal.

  “Maybe give Blue the ball,” some kid yells out. “She seems to be pretty good with those.”

  I search for the asshat talking out the side of his neck, but don’t spot anyone. When I face Southside again, she’s furious. At me, no doubt, despite me not being the one who made the comment.

  Best I can do is offer my hand, which she slaps away and gets to her feet without help.

  “Again,” she practically growls, not bothering to wait for Mrs. C. to make that call.

  On the whistle, Southside’s ten times as focused as before. When I move, so does she, making it harder to get around her this time. But when I finally do, and my feet leave the ground for the layup, it feels like a rock slams into my chin before I even release the ball.

  “Riley!” Mrs. C. yells. “What the heck was that?”

  Southside, out of breath and still brimming with anger, appears to be coming back from an out-of-body experience, suddenly aware of having just punched me in front of the entire class. She takes a few steps back and then her eyes land on me, where I’m rubbing my jaw.

  She didn’t hold back, that’s for sure.

  “I … it was an accident,” she lies. “I was trying to block his shot and—”

  “A block, for the record, is an open hand on the ball. A punch is a closed fist to the face. But as a player, I’m certain you already knew that,” Mrs. C, seethes. “Hit the locker room and head straight to Headmaster Harrison’s office.”

  “But, I—”

  “Now!”

  The class lets out a collective, “Ooooohh,” as Mrs. C. points toward the locker room.

  Southside’s already tearing up, sprinting toward the door and it guts me, has me wanting to chase after her, but I know that’s the last thing she wants. Instead, I do the one thing I can.

  “I didn’t dismiss you, Golden.”

  I ignore the words that hit my back as I head toward the guys’ locker room myself, having a clear plan in mind as I burst through the doors and change as quickly as I can. Southside doesn’t want to hear a word I have to say, but I know one person who will.

  @QweenPandora: Sticks and stones won’t break his bones, but that punch certainly rocked KingMidas’s jaw!

  Geez! The recent streak of violent outbursts surrounding a certain former couple at CPA is further proof of tension running high. But come on, people! Make love, not war! Whatever happened to hugging it out?

  Maybe the rules go up in flames when one party makes an intimate moment public?

  This pic caught by an anonymous contributor shows the pair engaged in heated discussion moments before the punch heard round the gym. There’s no report of what was said, but oh to be a fly on the wall…

  In other news, a little birdy told me a certain VirginVixen was recently tagged in a sappy photo montage on her socials. By whom you ask? Well, I’m sure you all remember a certain mystery guy who popped up in candids during VirginVixen’s summer excursion to Cuba. If those thirst traps he’s tagging you in are any indication, it looks like somebody misses you, VV. Wonder if PrettyBoyD’s seen them yet.

  Oops!

  If he hasn’t … I’m guessing he will now.

  Later, Peeps.

  —P

  Chapter 10

  BLUE

  I haven’t stopped shaking since I sat down, unsure of what came over me in the gym. I know what’s at stake, and yet, I couldn’t control myself.

  There was just something about being knocked down by him, hearing them all laughing about it. I’m just so, so sick of taking it all in stride, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

  I’m sitting in the waiting room alone, but still hide my face inside my shirt when the tears come. Here I was, telling Scar just yesterday to play it cool, and now look at me. Waiting to be seen by Headmaster Harrison because I punched West.

  If anything, he should’ve been the last person I laid a finger on. This experience has taught me many things, but most of all, it’s taught me that West’s family’s reach is at least as far as I imagined. Hence the reason I’m on probation and he’s untouchable.

  I’m still sniffling inside my t-shirt when the door opens and closes beside me, but I don’t peek out to see who’s entered. I should have more dignity than to cry so openly in front of someone, but I’m exhausted in every way imaginable.

  A ringtone goes off beside me and whoever’s come in scrambles to get to their phone.

  “Yeah,” he answers, and I’m suddenly aware of who the hell it is.

  I glare up from the collar of my shirt only long enough to confirm. And, sure enough, West is peering down on me. Fortunately, he’s not forcing conver
sation down my throat like before, but it’s likely just a matter of time.

  Why the hell is he here anyway?

  “Dane, I…”

  He pauses to listen, releasing a long sigh right after.

  “I haven’t seen the update yet, but I’m sure it’s just…”

  His words cut off again when his brother interrupts like before.

  “Tagging her in photos doesn’t mean anything. They’re probably just pics of them from summer,” he whispers tensely.

  He switches to speakerphone, and then turns the volume super low. I can hear, but no one beyond the office door should be able to. Still, I can’t help but wonder why I’m even permitted to listen in. From what I can tell, it seems like kind of a private conversation.

  “I haven’t even met this guy and I fucking hate him,” Dane fumes. “Every pic, he’s shirtless, fucking soaked from head to toe, or showing off his damn art.”

  “Art?” West asks.

  “He fucking paints. And, of course, he painted her. Says he’s shipping it to her this week. How the fuck am I supposed to compete with shit like that?”

  “Does this mean you intend to start competing?” West asks, and I hate that I’m mildly interested in this conversation. It’s at least a distraction from the impending doom that awaits me when Headmaster Harrison calls on me.

  Dane sighs before reaching a conclusion. “I… no. We’re not right for each other. She’s got her whole… ‘virginity pledge’ situation I’d only fuck up. Literally,” he adds. “But that dickhead isn’t right for her either,” he insists, sounding like he’s outdoors now, which reminds me the dismissal bell recently rang.

  “Shit!” Dane growls. “And if I say anything about it, I’ll just sound like a hater.”

  “Pretty much,” West sighs.

  “Anyway, I gotta get to practice. What should I tell Coach when he asks where you are?”

  In my peripheral, I’m aware of West peering down on me.

  “Just tell him I had to take care of something first, so I’ll be a little late.”

  “Sweet. Later.”

  He ends the call then and I bury my face back in my shirt when I slouch. Now, without their conversation to focus on, I’m a bundle of nerves again, thinking about how enormously I just messed up.

  I’m so aware of West I feel that telling electricity that moves over my skin whenever he’s near. I smell him in the air surrounding me, and it brings with it a boatload of sadness. There was a short time, between hateful exchanges, where I actually let myself find comfort in that scent. But now, it’s only a reminder of being covered in whatever cologne he wears after being naked in his bed. Felt like no matter how hard I scrubbed, I smelled like him for days. Every time I breathed in, I breathed him in.

  He didn’t magically stop being attractive because he hurt me. I’d still venture to say he’s one of the most beautiful specimens I’ve ever laid eyes on. But most things that are deadly have some sort of appeal. Difference is, I’m no longer under his spell. No longer blind to his beauty only being skin-deep.

  Inside?

  Pure evil.

  And now, I’m pissed. Even more than I was before, because he can’t seem to grant the one wish I’ve made since everything went down. All I asked for was some damn space.

  “Why are you here?” I growl. “To snitch on me? To make sure Headmaster Harrison escalates my probation to an expulsion?”

  He sighs heavily and I’m this close to peering up at him, but fight it. Instead, staring at my navel ring while I sulk inside my tee.

  “I’m—”

  As soon as that one word leaves West’s mouth, a door opens and I pop out of my shirt and smooth my hair back. Headmaster Harrison volleys a look between West and I before inviting me into his office.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to come in, too,” West asserts, pulling that same polite bit he fooled Uncle Dusty with.

  He earns himself a curious glare from Harrison, but he ultimately agrees. “Sure, son.”

  I nearly scoff out loud. Of course, the man in charge calls him son. I’d even bet his dad golfs with the dude every Sunday, because life is so fair.

  The door latches behind us and I hesitate to take the chair beside West, but there’s no place else to sit.

  Harrison’s skimming something on his computer and I’m trying to hide how hard I’m shaking. This is deeper than an expulsion for me, because all I can think about is what Scar’s principal threatened yesterday. Sure, I forged Mom’s signature on that paperwork, and impersonated her on a call this morning, but that wasn’t enough to stop the school from digging if they thought there was good reason to do so.

  And I’d possibly just given them reason to do so.

  “Based on what I’m seeing here on Mrs. C’s referral, you … hit West, Ms. Riley? Is that correct?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “It was an accident,” West cuts in. “I’m sure it looked different from Mrs. C’s angle, but Blue was only trying to stop my shot. It was a clean block.”

  Mouth open, I glance toward West, trying to wrap my head around the lie he just told. With how hard I socked him, his jaw has to still be throbbing, yet he’s trying to save my ass.

  I turn to face Harrison and I’m met with a curious stare. He settles back into his seat, seemingly deep in thought.

  “The two of you have had quite a few… interesting interactions lately,” he observes. “Blue, as I’m certain you’re aware, your probationary status puts you at great risk should you be found at fault for one more school-related incident.”

  “I’m aware, sir,” I rush to say.

  “And, West, this wouldn’t be an attempt to spare Ms. Riley from expulsion, would it?”

  West shoots a clueless stare at the headmaster. “No, sir. Hearing you mention it is the first time I’ve heard anything about probation,” he lies.

  But why is he lying?

  All this time, this is exactly what he wanted—to ruin me, to see me get kicked out on my ass, and now… he’s defending me?

  Harrison isn’t buying this any more than I am, which is why that pen of his is tapping the edge of his desk nonstop.

  My heart races with the sound, wondering if West’s word is enough to combat Mrs. C’s. I suppose it’s a matter of who Harrison regards more highly. A fellow member of the CPA staff, or West.

  There’s a moment of silence that fills me with dread, and then Harrison speaks again.

  “All right. I’ll play along,” he says with a smirk. “But next time an issue like this arises, godson or not, West, I won’t bend any rules.”

  “Understood, sir,” West says, standing to shake his freakin’ godfather’s hand.

  Of course, Harrison’s his godfather. As if the scales weren’t already tilted unfairly in West’s direction.

  I stand, hoping to get out of there before Harrison can change his mind, but I end up catching his and West’s conversation as I gather my things.

  “Looks like your face had a target on it even before Ms. Riley got ahold of you,” Harrison teases, referencing Ricky’s handiwork from their fight.

  West lets out a tight laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with his answer. “Yeah, I guess you could say it’s been a strange few days.”

  “I bet. I’ll have to give the wife a heads up not to be too startled when she sees you next week at Thanksgiving dinner. Your old man didn’t change his mind about dining with us, did he?”

  “No, sir,” West answers with a laugh. “We’re all looking forward to it.”

  “Well, we’re excited to have you all. And we’ll be watching the big game this weekend as well.”

  “Then, I’ll do my best to make sure I don’t let you down,” West answers, spewing that fake politeness again.

  “I’m sure you boys will pull out another win for us,” Harrison concludes.

  Talk of the semifinals reminds me that, come Friday, I’ll be right back in the trenches with the team for the weekend. My stomach twist
s at the thought of it.

  I hear a sheet of paper rip, then another before I’m stopped at the door.

  “You’ll need this, Ms. Riley,” Headmaster Harrison says, holding out two pink passes. One for me. One for West. “I gave you both a ten-minute grace period to change and get to practice. No lingering in the hallways. Understood?” His voice is nowhere near as authoritative as the statement.

  I’m certain that leniency is more so meant for West than me.

  “Understood,” we answer in unison, and then we both hightail it out of there.

  We’re taking the same hallway, so it’s a super awkward walk. Mostly because I’m always aware of him, like he’s always aware of me—two opposite sides of a magnet, drawn to each other because we’re so vastly different.

  Or … at least I used to think that.

  Now, I’m certain we’re both just fucked up.

  “I’m not sorry I hit you,” I say in the bitchiest tone I can muster.

  I shoot him a look and he chuckles quietly. “Never said you should be.”

  It grates my nerves that he’s being all calm about this.

  “And I’m not thanking you for whatever voodoo that was you just worked on Harrison back there. You owe me at least that.”

  This time, the asshole full-on laughs. “I’m just walking, Southside. You’re the one talking. Not me.”

  “As long as you know,” I snap.

  When our paths should fork, and he continues to follow me, I’m instantly annoyed, because I’ve been forced into enough conversations with him that I’m certain this is what he’s hoping to do again. But then, as we get close to the girl’s locker room, I’m shocked to hear his steps slow while I hold pace. It isn’t until I reach the door that I glance back over my shoulder, only to see he’s stopped in his tracks, wearing the most annoyingly hot half-smile I’ve ever seen in my life. And, of course, he’s trying to be all mysterious and shit, so he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, watching with both hands tucked inside the pockets of his jeans.