So my teachers thought it would be best if I repeated a year.
“Sweet sixteen, huh,” he murmurs, his eyes all glowy and intense.
I swallow. “Yes. So you shouldn’t have said what you said. To your friends.”
“What’d I say to my friends?”
I fist my dress harder.
I know what he’s doing. He’s provoking me. Because this is what he does.
He, Reed Roman Jackson, provokes and I, Calliope Juliet Thorne, make good choices.
So I should make a good choice here and backtrack.
But something in his eyes, in his casual but also tight demeanor, makes me say, “That I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
I lick my dry lips. “That I don’t know how babies are made.”
“And how are they made?”
Stop. Just stop, Callie.
But you know what, I hate that he’s so amused right now.
It makes me want to say it, throw him off, shock him.
So I widen my stance and throw back my shoulders as I say, “They are made when you f-fuck.”
What?
What did I say?
Oh God.
I think I’ve shocked myself. I’ve never ever said that word before, never.
I’ve heard it though. A million times. I have four brothers, of course I’ve heard it. But I’ve never said it.
Not until tonight.
Not until he made me say it.
The guy who has gone slightly still. Like he wasn’t expecting me to take the bait.
Well, good.
There. That’ll teach him not to underestimate me.
“Is that the first time you’ve said that word?” he asks mockingly, with his eyes narrowed.
I hate that he makes me feel so breathless and young. “Why, are you proud that you made me say that word for the first time?”
His jaw moves, that stubbled, sharp thing. It tics for a moment before he says, “Not particularly, no.”
“Well –”
“Don’t ever say it again.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
I’m so confused.
Did he just… tell me not to say the F word?
He did, didn’t he?
But that’s…
Who is he to tell me that? Who is he to tell me anything?
“Yeah, I don’t think you can tell me what I can or can’t say,” I tell him, raising my eyebrows, which only makes his jaw tic even more. “And while we’re at it, you shouldn’t have talked about me with your friends like I wasn’t here. That’s bad manners.”
“What about crashing someone’s party? Does that also fall under bad manners?” he shoots back.
My lips part.
Okay, he got me.
I am crashing his party. I wasn’t really invited, was I?
“I wasn’t… I was leaving,” I say. “I just got lost.”
“Lost.”
“Yes.”
His eyes glow again and something flashes through his features that I don’t really understand. “You do that a lot, don’t you? Get lost.”
“I don’t… what?”
“In the woods. In the hallways…”
He leaves that sentence hanging but I get his meaning. I get it and oh my God.
He knows.
He knows it was me. That I saw him. Months and months ago, on my first day at Bardstown High.
He knows.
A rush of heat fans over my cheeks. My throat, my entire body actually, and can I just dissolve into this tree?
Can I just please disappear?
“I’m… I didn’t think you…”
“Knew?” He smirks. “I did.”
“But I was… quiet.”
“You weren’t as quiet as you think you were. Besides…”
“Besides what?”
He leans forward slightly, the strings of his hoodie swinging, as if confessing a secret. “I didn’t mind. Being watched by you. The Thorn Princess. And if you hadn’t run away, I would’ve gotten rid of her.”
“You would have?”
“Yeah.”
“W-why?”
“So I could focus all my attention.” Then, with a lowered voice, “On you.”
My heart bangs against my ribs, bruising them. Battering them, making them throb.
In fact, my whole body throbs.
I can feel it. I can hear it even.
Even so, I try to hold on to my composure. I try to hold on to the authority in my voice. “As if.”
“As if what?”
“As if I would’ve… let you or even stayed.”
“I think you would’ve.” He keeps his gaze steady and unwavering, both intense and slightly amused. “And I think you would’ve enjoyed it too. Girls love it when I give them my attention. They’re known to even beg for it. On their knees particularly.”
My knees tingle at that as if zapped by a current. They buckle too.
As if they’re going to bend. As if I’m going to fall.
But I won’t.
“I’m not like other girls,” I tell him. “I don’t beg.”
Something about that makes him smirk. “Every girl begs. She just needs the right thing to beg for.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “My brothers would kill you.”
I’m the Thorn Princess, as he said.
That’s what they call me. I’m the princess, the little sister of four legendary soccer gods who so completely hate him.
“I think I can handle myself,” he says, all casual like.
“You should be afraid of my brothers, you know.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s four of them and only one of you.”
“So?”
“So you shouldn’t talk to me this way.”
He gives me a once-over before asking in an amused voice, “Why, does it make you want to beg me for something?”
“It doesn’t –”
“You shouldn’t worry about me too much. As I said, I can handle myself.”
I think so too.
He looks so cavalier, so fearless. Reckless.
My brothers could crush him if they wanted to.
My brothers could crush any guy if they wanted to and everyone in this town knows that. Everyone in Bardstown is afraid of them.
Not him though.
Not Reed Roman Jackson.
He never was and he never will be.
I mean, look at what just happened on the field. What happens every time on the field and also off it. And before I can stop myself, I ask, “Why do you hate Ledger so much?”
“Who says I hate him?”
“You’re always fighting with him, provoking him. Like you did today. On the field.”
“So you were watching, huh?” he murmurs instead.
“Of course. I watch every game. For Ledger. And for Con.”
He stares at me for a beat before chuckling softly. “Of course. Well, your brother makes it easy. To provoke.”
“Why can’t you just get along? You’re on the same team.”
“You tell him to quit the team and we will.”
“He’s the captain,” I tell him like he doesn’t know.
“Not for long.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, his mountain-like shoulders rising and falling. “It means that he must be getting tired.”
“Of what?”
“Of doing a shitty job of it. Of losing to his forward.”
Right.
Of course.
The stupid contest.
So after Reed provoked Ledger, he lost his head for a while and in that while, Reed scored and won their contest, along with winning the game.
“Your team won,” I say, exasperated. “So he didn’t lose. And neither did you.”
“You’re right, I didn’t.”
“You know it’s a stupid contest, right? It doesn’t mean anything,” I say.
He nods sagely. “Yeah, you should say that to your brother. It might help him sleep tonight. After losing, I mean.”
I study him a beat, all proud and handsome.
Arrogant.
A wrecking ball really.
“Is winning that important to you?”
“Winning is everything,” he replies gravely.
“And what about team spirit?”
“Fuck team spirit.”
“And love of the game?”
He scoffs. “Yeah, the only thing I love is being the best. And my Mustang. I love that too.”
Oh, his Mustang.
How did I forget about that?
The other reason why people call him the Wild Mustang is because he owns one. A Mustang, the car. Obviously in white, and rumor has it that he loves it.
It’s his most precious possession.
Which is why one time, Ledger and guys from the Thorn camp slashed his tires before an important game, just to mess with Reed, and I have to admit that I didn’t like that.
I felt bad for Reed.
But then I found out that Ledger did it in retaliation against Reed sleeping with a girl he liked, again before a big game, to mess with Ledger’s head.
So yeah, that killed my sympathy.
“Your Mustang,” I repeat in a flat voice.
“Yeah. It goes from zero to sixty faster than a girl can strip. What’s not to love?”
I’m… disappointed.
I don’t know why.
I mean, it’s not something that I didn’t expect.
For years, Ledger has been telling me the same thing. He’s been telling me that Reed doesn’t care about the team. That Reed is selfish. He only looks out for himself.
Conrad has been saying it too.
That’s why he picked Ledger as the captain instead of Reed. Even though they’re both excellent. Even though Reed’s even better on some occasions.
So I’ve got no clue why I’m disappointed at hearing this from his own mouth when I already knew what his answer was going to be.
Reed Roman Jackson is exactly what they told me he’d be.
A villain.
Sighing, I duck my head. “I’m leaving.”
I don’t even manage to take a step before he says, “Not so fast.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
As if that wasn’t jarring enough, him stopping me, he decides to make me hyperventilate by starting to approach me.
So far we’ve been standing at a respectable, comfortable distance. Like twelve feet or so. But now he’s closing that distance, one step at a time.
Each swing of his legs is almost a foot long and makes the powerful muscles in his thighs bulge. Makes his boots crush the leaves noisily.
I press myself to the tree as I watch him approach me. As I watch him watch me.
He knows I’m afraid.
I can see it on his features.
His beautifully relaxed mouth, the lines of satisfaction around his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my fingers digging into the bark of the tree.
He stops probably one arm away, so solid and towering, as he muses, “I’m assuming your brothers don’t know that you’re here.”
His low voice makes me swallow. “Why?”
“Just a hunch.” He dips his chin toward me, bringing us ever so slightly closer, as he smiles, sort of evilly. “And I also think they’re not going to like the fact that you’ve wandered into the enemy camp.”
I’m not sure if it’s his nearness or what but I think that every part of his body is dangerous. That his blade-like cheekbones could cut and his teeth could rip.
His fingers could squeeze and hurt and that he could somehow make me like all of that.
He could make me like the way he’d hurt me.
I raise my chin, trying to look brave. “Are you going to tell them?”
Those sharp teeth of his come out to play when he smiles again. “Now that’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?”
“Please don’t,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “As I said, I was leaving. You don’t have to say anything. You could just… keep this between us.”
Great. Just great, Callie.
Tell the villain that you want him to keep a secret.
As expected, his eyes glow.
Like he was waiting for me to slip up.
Like he was waiting for me to fall into his trap and only God can save me now.
Maybe not even Him because when he speaks in a low, raspy voice I have to press my legs together as his words drop down and sit somewhere low, very low in my stomach.
“What do I get in return? If I keep it.” He tilts his head to the side. “Between us.”
Run, I tell myself.
Just please push him away and start running.
But all I do is stand here, staring up at him, even when it becomes difficult, even when it strains my neck because he’s so tall and big.
So beautiful that I don’t know where else to look.
I also don’t know how to stop myself from asking, “W-what do you want?”
This is what he wanted, isn’t it?
Yeah, because his features grow warm with satisfaction before he drawls, “You.”
“What?”
Slowly, those eyes of his travel all the way down to my white ballet flats. “I hear you’re a ballerina.”
My right foot tries to climb on to my left under his scrutiny. “Yes.”
He lifts his eyes. “Then I want you to spin like one.”
“I-I’m sorry?”
He shifts on his feet, making himself bigger somehow, pushing at the very fabric of the air, as he explains, “You like to dance, don’t you? So I want you to dance. For me.”
I blink at him.
I think I heard him wrong. He cannot possibly be asking what I think he’s asking.
Just to be sure, I question, “You want me to dance for you?”
“Yeah.”
“In exchange for you keeping this between us?”
“That’s the idea.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re insane.”
“I’d like to think of myself as someone who sees an opportunity and seizes it.”
“What opportunity?”
“I was bored and then a ballerina fell into my lap. A good one too, from what I’ve heard.” Again, he gives me a once-over. “So I want you to entertain me.”
I ignore the flush of pleasure at his off-handed compliment. Mostly because it’s off-handed and followed by a very presumptuous demand.
And also because, as I said, he’s insane.
“What do you think this is?” I ask, exasperated. “A movie from the fifties or something? Where you’re a cigar-smoking villain and you’re blackmailing me into dancing for you.”
“A cigar-smoking villain.” He’s amused. “I’m known to smoke a cigarette here and there and I usually prefer the term asshole but I like that. It has a certain flair to it.”
“I’m not going to dance for you.”
“Well then, I’m going to enjoy watching Ledger lose his shit in the next game when I tell him how pretty his sister looked, standing before me, begging me to keep her secret.”
I clench my teeth in anger.
Have I said that I hate him?
I really, really do.
“Fine. Fine,” I snap at him. “I’ll dance for you. But just for making me do that, you also have to apologize to my brother.”
“Apologize.”
“Yes. You provoked him on the field today. I don’t know what you said but you’re going to apologize to him when you see him next.”
A flash of irritation tightens his mouth. “Just so you know, I don’t do well with orders.”
I go up on my
tiptoes then.
Because he’s so tall and I want to get up in his face, which of course he notices, my feet arched up and my calves strained.
And something in my struggle to appear all strong in front of him turns his gaze even more molten.
“Well, you’re gonna have to start,” I tell him, “because I’m not dancing until you promise me.”
He watches me silently for a few moments before stepping back.
And I think it’s over.
I’ve called his bluff.
But then, he fishes something out of his back pocket, his cell phone, and presses a few buttons on the screen.
Suddenly, the music that was a dull sound in the background flares to life. The air fills with heavy bass and people back at the party cheer.
He commands in a husky voice, “Make it good.”
Just like that, he’s called my bluff and I’m supposed to dance for him.
How did this happen? How is this my life?
When I woke up this morning all I wanted to do was get through my classes, go to the game, and go back home to the scarf that I’m knitting for Conrad.
But somehow, I’m here, about to dance for my brother’s rival.
That’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that I want to.
I want to dance for him.
I’ve been wanting to dance for him ever since I saw him play for the first time three years ago. When both he and Ledger made the team.
God.
I’m so embarrassed to admit that. So ashamed.
But the thing is that the way he plays soccer, the way he moves across the field, with grace and beauty and a certain recklessness, fills me with music.
Not to mention, the music that he’s put on… is gorgeous.
It’s a mix of hip hop and rock and when the word ballerina flutters in the air, I let go of the tree that I’ve been clinging to and step forward.
When the guy in the song calls me his – his ballerina – it feels like he’s calling me that.
The Wild Mustang who’s asked me to dance for him.
And when the guy follows it up with how his ballerina drops her body like a stripper, I have to lick my dried lips and wipe my sweaty hands on my dress.
I should be offended – this song reeks of dirty, filthy sex – but I’m not.
A Gorgeous Villain Page 4