Page 85

“Tutoring? You’re my…oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit is about right. You’re twenty-five minutes late now and I swear, if you ever show up even ten minutes late again, it will be our last session.”

“Sure thing, Abby Jane.” I bite back my smile. “Oh, and by the way, golfers don’t wear jockstraps.”

She sears me with her glare.

“So…are we going to…” I wave my hand over her already open textbook. Looks like me being late didn’t stop her from getting started. Swear, you’d never peg her for the nerdy type, based on looks alone.

However, judging from the current look on Abby Jane’s face, she’s murdered me twenty times over in her head.

Slowly, she pivots in her chair so that she’s fully facing me, and while I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help but rake my eyes down her body, from her bubblegum hair to her perky little B-cup tits covered in an old, faded Nirvana shirt that cuts off about an inch above her skintight leggings, revealing a delicious slice of skin, all the way down to her busted-up aqua Chuck Taylors. She may not be my type, but there’s no denying Abby Jane is fine as fuck.

I’m still glued to that sliver of skin when something smacks me in the face. “Hey! Pervert!”

My eyes fly back to hers and then fall to the offending object that hit me—a pencil.She threw a fucking pencil at me.Smirking, I snatch it up from where it landed on the table and inspect it, pretending it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. I run my thumb over the bite marks in the wood…a habit that seems to have followed her.

“I know you heard me,” she bites out, her voice full of ire. “Brock!”

God, I love riling her up. Always have, though I didn’t realize I missed doing it quite this much. “Yeah, I heard you, Bucky.”

She falters, taken aback at the use of her old nickname, assigned not only because of her pencil chewing but also because of the buck teeth she sported until she got braces in fifth grade.

“You mustwantto fail this class.”

Now it’s me who’s shell-shocked. “You wouldn’t.”

Abby Jane snaps her book shut and jams it into her bag. “Fucking try me.” Swear to God, that girl needs Jesus—or some good dick. I watch as she storms out of the library, wondering how in the hell the two of us are going to survive an entire semester’s worth of tutoring.

CHAPTER 3

AJ

From the momentI peeled open my eyes this morning, I knew it was going to be a shit-tastic day. Why? Because it’s Thursday—which means tutoring with Brock day—which is comparable to hell on earth. I would literally rather get a root canal with no numbing than deal with his immature ass.

Dramatic? Maybe.

Accurate? Fuck yes.

I tripped and face-planted getting out of bed this morning. My flat iron crapped out on me. The tip of my favorite eyeliner snapped off, with no sharpener in sight. The load of clothes I’d tossed in the dryer last night was still fucking damp and smelled like a dirty sock. And to top it all off, I knocked over my coffee can, spilling the grinds to the floor, thus rendering me coffee-less on today of all days. So, here I am, dressed in a pair of ripped-the-fuck-up leggings, a lace bralette, and a shirt with the sleeves and sides cut out, rushing out the door loaded down with my crossbody backpack, keys, and empty Thermos.

I trudge out to my sweet-as-shit matte black ’69 Chevelle. No lie, this car is my baby. It was a gift from my grandpa—along with a generous trust—much to my parents’ chagrin. When they realized I wasn’t ever going to fit into the neat, well-manneredbox they wanted to shove me into, they all but disowned me, going as far as shutting off my cell, canceling my credit card, kicking me out, and refusing to pay my tuition.

No lie. All because I wanted to go to Knight U and double major in business and education, with a concentration in literacy, instead of following in the footsteps of the always-perfect Elenore Adams with an MRS degree. God, most people are proud of their children for having fucking goals. But my parents? They wanted me to become a luncheon-planning, tea-drinking housewife whose only ambition was to be able to fold a fucking fitted sheet.

Yeah, no thanks.

For obvious reasons, I was never daddy’s little girl. Nah, the only thing that asshole and I have in common is our deep, coffee-colored eyes.

My grandpa—my dad’s dad, mind you—is a whole ’nother story. I’vealwaysbeen a “grandpa’s girl.” From a young age, he’s been my person. The one human on this earth who loved me unconditionally. So, when dear old mom and dad cut me off, Gramps stepped up something fierce. Knowing how much it pissed off the parental units? Simply a bonus.

A smile replaces my frown as I crank the ignition, the deafening roar of the engine sending a jolt of happiness through my body. There’s nothing better than the sound of good, old-fashioned, American muscle.Mmm, yes. Please.

Even though I’m short on time, I make a pit stop at the campus coffee shop and order two large lattes: a hot one for now, and an iced one for later. Because something—mainly my impending tutoring session with Jockstrap—tells me it’s gonna be a two-coffee kind of day.

Two classes later, and I was free. Well, free until five o’clock, when I had to meetHe Who Shall Not be Named.That left mewith a measly forty-five minutes to kill…just enough time to grab a bite to eat before heading to hell.

With a full bellyand armed with my third coffee of the day, I whip my Chevelle into an open spot in the library parking lot, shocked as shit to see Brock pulling into the spot next to me.