“Nah, I’d rather not,” I tell him, figuring he’ll back off. But he only grows more intrigued.
“Oh, come on. Just a little bit of information. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“Nah. I think I’m going to hold on to my mysteriousness for now. Make sure I’m representing the symbolism of my name to its truest form.”
He chuckles softly. “Hate to break it to you, but you already messed up with that, because you just gave me a little bit of info about yourself.”
“Um, no, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“How?”
He grins, pointing the sucker at me. “You let me know you’re amusing.”
“Oh, I’m not,” I assure him. “I’m being totally serious.”
“I have no doubt you are, but it’s still amusing.” He gives a short, considering pause. “And I also think you’re a little bit stubborn.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t determine that after talking to me for, like, thirty seconds.”
He throws a dramatic glance at the clock. “Actually, it’s been a little over a minute.”
“That’s still not enough time.”
“Says who?”
“Says the person who determined the time length required to be able to give an accurate analysis of someone’s character.”
He cocks a brow. “And what’s this person’s name? Because, as far as I know, no one has ever come up with such a thing.”
“His name is Jerry.” I make up a name then decide to make up a story. “And he lives somewhere in Switzerland where there’s no internet or cell service, so he hasn’t been able to publish his findings yet. But I met him once while I was on vacation, and me and Jerry had a good, long chat about his theory on the time it takes to get to know a person. And he told me that you have to know someone a lot longer than a minute to determine what kind of person they are.”
He stares at me confoundedly, and I wait for him to back off, to realize I’m a weirdo that he doesn’t want to know. Instead, a grin takes over his face.
“You and I have to be friends,” he insists.
I shake my head. “Sorry, but that can’t happen.”
“Why not?” He sulks, jutting out his lip, pouting. He looks adorable when he does it and seems like the kind of guy who knows it.
“Because it just won’t work.” Again, I struggle not to smile, but I’m totally gonna blame it on being buzzed.
He shakes his head then grins. “I think it totally will. In fact, I think we might be the perfect match.”
“Trust me; I know it won’t work.” Because Dixie May will make sure of it, even if she has to tell you about how I’m a murderer.
“There’s no way you can possibly know that.” He gives me a curious look. “Unless you’re a psychic.”
“As awesome as that would be, I’m just a normal girl,” I assure him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He stares at me in a way that makes me squirm. “I really doubt that. In fact, I think you might be one of the most interesting people I’ve met in a long time.”
I tug at the sleeve of my jacket, a self-conscious move I always do to make sure my scars are hidden. “Do I really need to tell you again about Jerry and his theory?”
“Yes, theory,” he stresses. “Not fact.”
“Did I say theory?” I smack the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I meant fact. Stupid me, I always get the two mixed up.”
His grin is as shiny as a goddamn black diamond ring and just as pretty. “Yeah, we’re definitely going to be friends.”
I’m racking my brain for a good protest when the secretary returns with a pink slip of paper in her hand. She smiles as she hands the paper to the guy. “This will get you out of last period, and last period only, which I noted multiple times on the slip. And in permanent marker,” she warns. “Do not try to pull any of that funny business like you did the last time I gave you one of these, when you erased the date and gave it to all your teachers to get out of all your classes.”
He presses his hand to his chest and dazzles her with a grin. “You have my word. No more funny business.”
She sighs tiredly. “One of these days, I’m just going to tell you no.”
“But today’s not that day.” He winks at her.
The bell rings then, announcing class is about to start and that I was right when I guessed I was going to be late.
“Just get to class,” she tells him then sinks down onto her chair.
He salutes her then turns to me. “I’ll see you around, mysterious Raven. And when I do, I expect some more details about you. You know, so we can start establishing our beautiful impending friendship.” He winks at me then pops the sucker into his mouth and strolls out of the office.
“That one is a handful,” the secretary remarks as she types a few things onto her computer.
I focus on her. “Yeah, I can tell.”
She clicks the mouse. “He’s a good kid, though, especially considering what he’s been through. It’s also probably why I have a hard time telling him no.”
I want to ask her so many questions, like why she gave him a slip to get out of class. Or what he’s been through. Or better yet, what his name is since all I ever heard her call him was Mr. Hathingford.
But doing so would mean I have an interest in him and would put me a little bit closer to knowing who he is. What would be the point in that? Like I said before, by the end of the day, he’ll have no desire to be friends with me anymore.
Raven
Like I guessed, I end up having to walk into first period late. Thankfully, the teacher lets me slide on in without too much of a fuss. And as a double bonus, Dixie May isn’t in this class.
I keep waiting for something to happen. For the whispering to start. For the labels to begin being thrown at me. Strangely, though, the morning goes by pretty uneventfully. Well, until fourth period rolls around.
Like I did in every other one of my classes, I first go talk to the teacher when I walk in to tell him I’m new.
“Oh, yes, right.” Mr. Mcnellton, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair, glances up from the stack of papers on his desk. “I think your sister was in my second period class.”
“Cousin,” I correct. “But, yeah, we live together.”
“Oh, I see.” He clearly doesn’t, confusion flooding his eyes.
He wants to ask questions, but like most, he won’t, over the fear that the answer might be uncomfortable to hear.
It is, too, for everyone who dares to ask.
The girl who murdered her parents.
He clears his throat then adjusts his tie. “Well, you can sit anywhere you like. The seats aren’t assigned. And I’m sure I’m going to enjoy having you in my class.”
I want to tell him my story of Jerry and his theory that proves there’s no way he can be sure of that, but I decide to attempt to keep on the teacher’s good side for now.
I nod then wander toward a row of desks lining the middle of the classroom, choosing the far back one where I can keep my head low and hopefully not get called on.
Once I’m seated, I set my binder on the desk, pop my earbuds in, and then recline back in the seat. I have about four minutes until the bell rings, so I should be able to listen to one full song.
A minute later, I'm zoned out, tapping my fingers to the beat, when a guy approaches my desk. He has on a black hoodie with the hood drawn over his head, and his eyes are as dark as storm clouds, although completely and utterly gorgeous—and intense. His jawline is covered with stubble, along with a scar, and his expression is intense. I’m not sure what he wants, but I don’t really care too much, at least not enough to take my earbuds out. He makes no effort to move, though, continuing to stare at me.
What the hell is this guy’s deal?
I tug one of my earbuds out. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you’re in my seat,” he grumbles.
I’m so confused. “Really? Because the teach
er said they weren’t assigned.”
A beat of silence passes by as he stares at me intimidatingly.
“They’re not officially assigned,” he finally states with a hint of annoyance. “But anyone who has any self-perseveration knows not to sit in that seat.” He nods at the desk on my right then my left. “Or in those.”
I tap my finger against my lip. “Huh? I guess I must’ve left my self-preservation at home today.”
The tiniest bit of surprise flickers in his eyes, but he swiftly extinguishes it. “Well, I suggest you go find it before you end up doing something stupid.” He places his hands on my desk and leans in. “Now get out of my seat.”
My heart thunders in my chest. How do I want to handle the situation? I mean, I want to keep going about my day unnoticed, and if I put up a fight with this guy, that’ll draw attention. But his demanding attitude is annoying. It’s like he just expects me to do what he says, like everyone in this world does.
He’s like a male version of Dixie May, only more intense.
His irritation festers the longer I sit in the seat without moving. His jaw ticks, his eyes darken, and his muscles wind into tight knots.
“Trust me, new girl; you really don’t want to play this game with me,” he warns in a low tone.
“What game?” I carry his gaze. “I’m just sitting at a desk, trying to mind my own business.”
“At my desk,” he stresses. “Now get up and go find a seat somewhere else before I make you.”
My pulse spikes, but so does my stubbornness. When I was younger, my mom used to tell me that being stubborn would be a benefit and a curse. But she was wrong. It’s only been a curse for me. I wish I could get rid of it, but sometimes it creeps up on me without warning. Like when brooding guys get up in my face and threaten me.
Lifting a brow, I recline in the seat.
Surprise blazes in his eyes. It’s like no one has ever defied him before. It makes me feel both proud of myself and a bit nervous. But I conceal the latter. I’m good at that—concealing my emotions. At least I have been for the last almost six years.
His jaw ticks as he straightens. “Fine, you wanna play this way, then let’s play.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to jerk me out of the seat or something. Instead, he turns around and drops into the seat in front of me.
“You just destroyed your chances of making it here, new girl,” he warns, throwing me a dirty look from over his shoulder.
“Awesome. I didn’t have a chance anyway.” I move to put my earbud back in.
“Hey, Mr. M.” The blond guy from the office this morning strolls into the classroom, smiling at the teacher.
The teacher glances up from the papers. “Hey, Hunter. That was a good game Friday. You played well.”
So his name is Hunter, and I’m guessing he plays some sort of sport.
I crinkle my nose. Jocks are usually the worst. At least, they were at my old school. But Hunter doesn’t look like the jocks at my last school.
Maybe he plays chess or is in the math league.
A smile tugs at my lips at the amusing thought. At that exact moment, Hunter glances in my direction. I’m sure I look like a freak with a stupid grin on my face.
A smile appears on his lips. “Hey—”
I stuff my earbud into my ear.
Shaking his head and grinning, he starts down the aisle, his grin quickly dissipating as his gaze settles on the guy in front of me. His gaze dances from me to the guy, then his lips move.
I’m curious what they’re talking about, but I refuse to let the curiosity win. But then the song ends, and it’s the last song on my playlist, leaving the noise in the classroom to creep into my ears.
I move to turn on another song.
“So, she stole your seat?” Hunter says to the guy, his voice a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“For today. But she’ll learn her place soon enough,” the guy warns, fishing a pen out of his pocket.
I pause from selecting a song, deciding to eavesdrop.
Hunter casts a glance in my direction then looks back at the guy. “Did you at least tell her that she was sitting in your seat?”
“Yep.” He restlessly taps the pen against the desk. “Apparently, the girl has no self-preservation.”
“Aw, come on, Zay, give her a break. She’s new.” Hunter plops down in the desk across from the guy. “Remember how scary it was on your first day?”
The guy—Zay—lets out a hollow laugh. “I wasn’t scared.”
“Bullshit,” Hunter teases. “You were six. All six-year-olds get scared about their first day of school. Even you.” When Zay doesn’t respond, worry flickers across Hunter’s face, his lips parting. “I’m sorry, Zay. I wasn’t thinking when I said that.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Zay mumbles. “None of this does.”
They grow quiet, and Hunter continues to frown as he sneaks glances at Zay. I can’t tell if he’s afraid of him or worried. Maybe a little of both. I find myself fascinated by it. How can he make people so afraid of him, even his own… friend? If that’s what Hunter is. What I wouldn’t give to have that talent. Then maybe people would stop tormenting me.
Eventually, people begin pouring into the classroom. No one says anything to Hunter or Zay, but a lot of them do double-takes in their direction then gawk at me. I’m not positive, but I have a suspicion that it has to do with the new seating arrangement. Why the hell is it such a big deal? Just what kind of guy is Zay?
The frown remains on Hunter’s face until a tall guy with dark, chin-length hair enters the room. Like Hunter, he’s dressed all in black and has a pretty face, although his seems to have a more beautifully haunted way about him, all serious, as if he hasn’t laughed in a very long time. He also has a lip and brow piercing and tattoos cover his lean arms.
“Dude,” Hunter says as he approaches. “I thought you weren’t gonna show today.”
“I didn’t think I was either. My fucking car wouldn’t start, and then …” He trails off as his gaze skates from Zay to me, a crinkle forming between his brows as he looks back at Hunter. “Did Mr. M. finally assign seats?”
Hunter shakes his head. “Nope.”
The stranger looks at me, but I pretend not to notice, picking at my chipped fingernail polish.
He looks back at Hunter. “Is she aware she’s sitting in Zay’s seat?”
“Yeah,” Hunter replies, leaning back in his seat and kicking his feet up onto the chair in front of him. “Apparently, she didn’t want to move.”
“She was a real bitch about it, too,” Zay mumbles as he twists sideways in his seat.
So, I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t move out of the seat when he demanded?
Annoyed, I tug out my earbuds. “I wasn’t being a bitch just because I refused to obey you.”
As Zay’s gaze cuts to me, the stranger’s brows rise while Hunter gives me some sort of cryptic pressing look.
Zay studies me for an intense beat. “You’re right; you don’t have any self-preservation.”
“Actually, I think my exact words were I left it at home,” I remind him. “Maybe I’ll remember it tomorrow. But probably not since I have a habit of forgetting things. I’m so bad that I had to install that app on my phone that helps me find my phone because I kept losing it. But I don’t think there’s an app that helps people find their self-preservation. Maybe, though. I’ll have to look into it.”
Hunter smashes his lips together while the stranger stares at me with a crinkle between his brows.
Zay’s dark gaze practically bores a hole into my head. “You know what? I think I’m going to enjoy teaching you your place here.” Then he gets up and storms out of the classroom.
The stranger lets out an exhausted sigh. “Do you want to go check on him this time?” he asks Hunter.
Hunter shakes his head. “Might be better to let him vent it out this time.”
“Maybe.” The stranger drops into Zay’s seat t
hen turns around to look at me. “So, who are you?”
I have no plans of answering him, but Hunter does it for me.
“That’d be Ravenlee Wilowwynter. Raven for short.” A smile dances at his lips as he glances at the stranger. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
Huh?
The stranger stares at me with an unreadable expression. “Perhaps.”
Dude, these guys are weird.
“I tried earlier to get more information out of her,” Hunter informs him, still appearing amused. “But she insisted she wants to remain mysterious. I’ll wear her down, though. In fact, I predict we’re going to be BFFs by October eighth.” He winks at me.
“That’s a really random number,” I tell him. “Maybe you’re the psychic.”
Strands of his hair fall into his eyes as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just a goal setter, something you should know about me if we’re going to be friends. You should also know that I almost always meet my goals, so get ready to start making those friendship bracelets.”
“You might want to go easy on setting that goal,” the stranger warns, “until you talk to Zay.”
What is Zay? Like their ringleader or something?
Hunter slumps back in his seat, totally sulking. “Jax, why you gotta always ruin my fun like that?”
“Someone has to be your babysitter,” the stranger—Jax—tells him, digging his phone out of his pocket.
Hunter’s pout deepens. “I don’t need a babysitter. You just think I do.”
“Know. I know you do,” Jax throws back at him while opening a notebook.
The bell rings then and the teacher walks to the front of the classroom to start class.
Jax lowers his voice and whispers one final thing to Hunter. “Do I need to remind you of what happened with Clara? Or Jessa? Or Katy?” He gives Hunter a pressing look. “You get me? Or do you want me to keep jotting off names?”
Hunter frowns. “No, you can stop. I get it, and I’ll try to back off.” He flicks one quick glance in my direction, offering me what appears to be an apologetic look.
The Raven Four: Books 1-2 Page 3
