This Boy

by Jenna Scott

  “You like that?” I imagine him saying.

  “Yeah,” I’d say back.

  “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he’d say, just like he did earlier.

  “Don’t stop, Hunter. Go harder.”

  Something’s happening, and my hips move on their own, thrusting faster against the plushie as I lose myself in the pursuit of this. I feel little electric sparks in my core, a sweet twisting feeling, and all the while my fantasies about Hunter get more intense.

  That time when I heard him jerking himself off in his room—had that been to me after all? Was he imagining me on his bed, legs spread wide? Looking up at him all innocent and hungry at the same time, ready and waiting for him?

  And what about the way he’d whispered my name? “Camilla.” Like he was begging me for something. Begging me for me.

  What if I was the girl in the pool, bouncing up and down on his cock, letting him drive himself into me with harsh little gasps?

  “Fuck me, Hunter,” I’d say. And he would. Harder and faster, both of us breathless and moaning, his lips crashing onto mine—

  A wave slams into me from inside, hot and tingling, so strong my back arches and my hips buck. I hold my breath, riding out the aftershocks squeezing my core, a shudder going through me as I realize that I just came while fantasizing about Hunter.

  My face meets the pillow. The last thing I think about as I drift off is him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Camilla

  Mandatory homework sessions are held in the library, so that’s where I go on Wednesday after my classes are over. Predictably, Hunter hasn’t shown—he’s been avoiding me all week, in fact, both during and after school—and Ms. Spencer sighs as she comes over to the table where I’ve spread out my work.

  “Flying solo again, Miss Hanson?”

  I look up from my notebook with a tight smile. “Seems so.”

  She shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do anymore. Hunter was great first quarter, but then out of nowhere he just…stopped caring.” Giving our immediate area a cursory glance, she lowers her voice and confides, “I’ve had serious talks with him, left messages at home, had a one-on-one conference with his mother—”

  “Stepmother,” I interrupt.

  “Right, of course,” Ms. Spencer says, dropping into the seat next to me and massaging her temples.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

  “To be honest, Hunter’s been a tough nut to crack.” She quietly goes on, “I was hoping he’d bounce back with this project, knowing his work ethic would affect his partner…but it doesn’t seem to have made a difference. I’m at a loss here. When students don’t perform well, parents call administrators and principals looking for answers. And then the blame falls on me.”

  With her frustration clear, Ms. Spencer seems so human that for a second I’m too stunned to reply. I’m not used to teachers treating me as an equal or letting their guard down like this. I suddenly realize her harshness during my debate presentation with Hunter might have had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her. And I also realize how young she actually is, probably early twenties. Her career is on the line.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling sympathetic and a little guilty. Damn you, Hunter.

  “Don’t be,” she says. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. It’s just…Oak Academy is a private school. Parents have expectations, things they demand because of what they’re paying. I’m already on thin ice thanks to a few complaints last year.”

  “What happened?” I whisper, not sure she’ll even answer.

  She smiles wryly. “I refused to bump up the grades of some football players who weren’t maintaining their GPAs. I guess debate has traditionally been a ‘cruise class’ for jocks, but that’s not how I run my ship. So.”

  “That sucks,” I blurt. “I mean, it’s really unfair. You’re just doing your job.”

  “Not everybody sees it that way.”

  For a few moments we just sit here, lost in our thoughts. It’s hard not to be even more annoyed with Hunter, knowing his dad is probably going to be yet another parent lodging a complaint against Ms. Spencer—even though it’s on Hunter to do the work.

  “Listen,” she says, “this after-school work was really more for him than for you, but I do think you’d benefit from it. And I’m more than happy to help get you up to speed with your classmates, okay? Let’s just think of this as extra credit.” She smiles.

  “Will it be enough extra credit to balance out the F we got on our project?” I can’t help asking.

  “I’ll make sure it is,” Ms. Spencer says. “Come get me if you need anything.”

  With that, she heads over to a corner table where she’s set up a pile of papers to grade. I feel better about debate now that we’ve talked, but I’m still pissed at Hunter.

  My notebook is open in front of me, but after about fifteen minutes of zoning out, I have to admit to myself that I can’t focus on my notes at all.

  I still can’t believe I let him touch me on Saturday. That I thought I might even like him. This is Hunter Beck we’re talking about. God, what is wrong with my brain lately? And what makes it all even worse is how he’s just flat-out avoiding me now. Maybe he’s as upset about getting to third base with me as I am.

  That doesn’t ring true though. Putting his hands up a girl’s skirt is par for the course. Unless he’s ashamed (or worried his friends will tease him) about screwing around with “the help.” But that seems incredibly unlikely. Even if he thinks I’m white trash, he’s not the type to care about the socioeconomic status of the notches on his bedpost.

  So what the hell is going on?

  I’m an idiot for letting myself think he cared. That he was being protective and honorable when I was drunk at Matt’s party rather than just disgusted with my behavior. There’s no way in hell Hunter would ever go for someone like me. It was delusion, all of it. Plain and simple.

  And besides, I can’t let myself be the girl who falls for the walking bad boy cliché, thinking he’s secretly good underneath it all. Because he’s not.

  I spot a girl with a familiar set of pigtails by the windows to my left. Isabel. She usually doesn’t tutor on Wednesdays, so I’m glad today is an exception. Talking to her always distracts me from whatever I’ve got going on. Plus, she seems to be the only other girl at this school who realizes Hunter isn’t all sunshine and roses.

  After packing up my things, I go over to where she sits with three underclassmen who have their geometry texts splayed open on the library table. “Hey, girl.”

  “Milla!” Isabel squeals, loud enough to get a few “shh!”s and glares from the other students.

  Rolling her eyes at the shade, Isabel turns in her seat to hug my side. Her expression quickly shifts to one of irritation once she looks over my shoulder. “Wait, why are you all by yourself? Isn’t today…”

  “Debate practice. Yeah.” I shrug, a poor attempt to downplay it. “Hunter didn’t show.”

  She frowns. “Milla…”

  “It’s whatever. I talked to Ms. Spencer and we’re cool. Hunter on the other hand…”

  Isabel gives me a long look before she turns back to her study group, who have their eyes glued to us. With a hand-wave in their direction, she says, “Work on those triangle problems. I’ll be back in a few.” She gets up and points me toward the elevator. “I need a snack. Let’s go see what the vending machines have to offer.”

  Mouthing a “be right back” to Ms. Spencer over my shoulder, I let Isabel lead me upstairs to the Snack Nook. It consists of two couches arranged in an L shape, a coffee table covered with magazines, and a few vending machines against the wall.

  We agree to split a bag of peanut M&Ms and a granola bar and get two mochas from the instant coffee machine. Drinks in hand, we plop onto the couch.

  “So what’s up with that boy?” she asks. “Is he trying to get you flunked?”

  “I wish I knew,” I say. />
  Isabel taps her cup with a finger before taking it to her lips for a sip. “I will say he’s been weird this year. Not the entitled, aloof, wannabe frat boy part—he’s always been that way—but like, not being on the swim team? That’s not Hunter Beck.”

  Now, I’ll admit, I’ve seen Hunter’s naked torso several times because babysitter. Even before I caught him in the pool with that random girl, I’ve been there when Harrison wants to join his big brother for a swim. But somehow, I never connected his lean, muscled build to a swimmer’s. Which, let’s be real, makes sense.

  “Swim team?” is my entire contribution to get Isabel to keep talking. I can’t manage anything more because I’m trying not to remember how that very toned physique felt pressed against me and the way his fingers played with my pussy.

  I can’t mention any of it though. That I let him finger me up against a wall even though Isabel and I both know he’s nothing but a massive jerk is my deepest shame.

  “Yeah,” she muses. “He was a CIF state champion. Makes no sense he’d quit senior year when he already had college recruits circling. Wonder what happened there. I never heard about him getting an injury or anything like that.” She wrinkles her nose.

  The cloud over my head darkens. “Maybe he just got too caught up in his other extracurriculars,” I say sarcastically. I pop a blue M&M into my mouth.

  “Spill the tea,” Isabel prods, leaning forward.

  Shrugging, I say, “It’s not my place to gossip.”

  And what a load of gossip it would be. Gossip about all the girls I’ve seen sneaking in and out of the Becks’ house, or the one I watched him with in the pool, or how I overheard him masturbating in his room. Or how he took advantage of me outside his brother’s room—no, how I let him take advantage of me—and I liked it.

  “Anyway, I don’t actually think that’s it,” I deflect. “I mean, when I went over to practice for the debate assignment, his stepmom was in the room, and watching them snipe at each other was super awkward. But I don’t think it’s a secret that he hates her.”

  Isabel shakes her head. “Yeah, no. He’s been very vocal about that since his dad married her.” She pauses to sip her mocha, tilting her head as she thinks. “So maybe this is all a product of neglect on his dad’s part, and he’s just self-sabotaging to get a rise out of the old man. Tale as old as time. Hunter’s just a typical jackass, I guess.”

  We eat our snacks in silence. “He’s sweet with his younger brother though,” I finally find myself saying, much to my own puzzlement.

  “Aha.” Isabel smirks. “I thought you were crushing on him because of his looks, which, fine. I get it. But this explains your Hunter-itis. You found his soft spot.”

  “I’m not crushing on him!” I deny.

  Isabel waves me off. “Please, Camilla. You’re not the first case of Hunter-itis I’ve come across. I’m not judging you. However, I must urge caution. He’s left plenty of shattered hearts in his wake, and I’m not going to let you become another casualty.”

  “Are you saying… Do you have history with him?” I ask, more curious than jealous. I just can’t see Isabel going for someone like him.

  “Ew, no. All those muscles, and that chiseled jaw? Please. My type is someone else entirely.” She blushes and clears her throat. “Anyway, just know I’m here for moral support if you need a shoulder to cry on.” Leaning even closer, she squeezes my shoulder. “And like I said, be careful. I don’t want to see you get sucked into that Hunter Beck quicksand. That boy is pure sin.”

  “Don’t I know it.” That’s the whole problem.

  I laugh along with her, but I wish I could tell her more. Then again, I don’t even know what I really think or feel about him. Every time I make up my mind, Hunter does a total one-eighty, and I start questioning myself again.

  And what could I say to Isabel, anyway? Hey, you know all the times Hunter was a complete jerk to me? How he picked a fight with Emmett and then dragged me out of the party where I met you? How he made me fail my debate project? Yeah, after all that, I let him finger me.

  It’d sound insane when Isabel knows he’s such a dick to me.

  So I don’t tell her any of that, and I don’t insist she spill who she’s crushing on either (although I suspect it’s Emmett). I just thank her for the talk and tell her she can always count on me too.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Camilla

  It’s four o’clock on the dot and I’m bolting out the door, backpack half zipped, already calculating how many hours of babysitting I’m going to have left if I can make the 4:05 bus at the corner. Having extra homework time wasn’t exactly torture, but that still had to be one of the longest hours of my life.

  Talking to Isabel did make me feel better, but only temporarily. Now that I’m rushing to the bus stop, my thoughts immediately go back to Hunter. I still can’t believe he didn’t show. I mean, I can believe it—I should have expected it, actually—but some part of me was still holding out hope. Hope which has now been crushed.

  Maybe I should drop debate. I kinda love Ms. Spencer, and I’m sure she won’t pair me with Hunter again anytime soon, but I’m tired of that sick feeling I get every time I walk into class and see Hunter’s chair empty. Or worse, when he does show up and then ignores me. It’s still early enough in the semester to sign up for another class and catch up. At the same time, I hate the idea of letting Hunter win. It’s not fair.

  As I pass the parking lot, a familiar laugh reaches my ears.

  Pivoting automatically toward the sound, I spot Hunter leaning casually against his car with his blazer off and his tie undone, joking around with his friends, all of them looking like they have absolutely nowhere else to be right now. Except that Hunter does. Or did.

  A flash of anger jolts through me. I seriously cannot believe he’s been out here this whole time shooting the shit with his lackeys, not a care in the world, just nonchalantly blowing off the mandatory study session we had together.

  Rage fuels my every step as I storm toward him. I recognize two of his friends—Steve Howard, the one who keeps hounding Isabel, and Matt Mason, of kink closet party fame. One of the two douchebros I don’t know spots me and nods in my direction while looking at Hunter. “Heads-up, Beck. ‘The help’ has arrived.”

  There it is, that word again. More proof that Hunter and all his friends see me as subhuman. Livid doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling. The pent-up anger inside me screams to be unleashed, but I hold it in tight, setting myself to simmer.

  Hunter turns to look at me, raising an eyebrow lazily. “What up, Hanson?”

  “What up?” I echo, fuming, my voice gone low and icy. “Did you somehow forget about the mandatory homework sessions you got us dragged into? Because that was today. Every Wednesday for the rest of the semester, actually, if we want to pass.”

  “Chill out, Camilla,” he says. Behind him, his boys are chuckling to themselves. “It’s just a grade.”

  Something in me boils over, and now I’m inches away, jabbing a finger at him.

  “You entitled. Little. Shit. You might not care about grades, but some of us depend on them! Because unlike you, I don’t have a rich daddy at home to pay my way into an Ivy League. I have to work for it!”

  The guys instantly quiet. Throats are cleared. Gazes are avoided.

  “Catch you later, bro,” one of them says, and then they all shuffle off, leaving me alone and seething with Hunter still slouched in front of me.

  “You’ve made your point, okay?” he says, eyes shifting around the parking lot. “And I get it. So you can stop freaking out now.”

  Ha. He doesn’t want me making a scene in front of his little friends.

  But it’s too late to stop “freaking out.” Because I’ve just made a few decisions for myself. As far as I’m concerned, securing my future is the only thing that matters, and Hunter Beck is nothing but a cockroach in my path. He thinks he can just ignore me? Pretend I don’t exist? I’ll do him one b
etter.

  “I’m done with you,” I say flatly. “And I’m going to transfer out of debate so I never have to see you again.”

  There. I said it out loud. And it felt like a huge weight just lifted from my shoulders, proving that it was the right thing to do.

  Hunter has the nerve to scoff and roll his eyes. “Sorry to break it to you, but you still work for me.”

  “I work for your parents!” I spit, raising my voice again, any coolness I’d managed to summon evaporating under my still very present, still very hot anger.

  My self-control has shattered. All I see is red red red, and I’m breathing hard, my feet restless as I stand there. Now that I think about it, I realize that dropping debate isn’t enough—it will never be enough to get him out of my life.

  I need to burn every bridge that leads back to Hunter Beck.

  “You know what? I’m not going to babysit your brother, either. So you can tell all your friends to stop making fun of me. I’m not ‘the help’ anymore.”

  Genuine shock slackens his jaw for a brief moment. “I call bullshit.”

  “Call it whatever you want.” I straighten my shoulders. “The fact is, I resign. Starting today.”

  I don’t stay to see his reaction, just turn on my heel, go to the bus stop, and jam my earbuds in place. The tension won’t leave my muscles though, and in my head, the events that have just transpired play over and over. I feel good about standing up to Hunter but positively sick to my stomach over losing Harry. It’s for the best, I tell myself. I just wish my eyes would stop tearing up.

  My ride home is packed, sweaty bodies pressed together like we’re sardines in a can. Arm up and hand in the strap, I close my eyes, trying to will the tears away. I’ll cry when I get home because dear Lord, I could use a good cry after torpedoing my life.

  I can’t believe I just impulsively quit my only source of income. But I had to. As much as I care for Harrison, the shadow Hunter casts over me is much bigger than any brightness I get out of my time with Harry. Which really and truly sucks.