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Chapter Ten

Scarlett

C arter didn’t text again after that exchange yesterday afternoon, but I couldn’t get it off my brain last night. I’m still trying to reset my mood when I pull into the Braun’s driveway after breakfast. Phil is standing outside again to see Dylan off. He still looks stressed, but possibly less than yesterday.

Five minutes into his resolute silence and intense stare-down with the passing shrubs outside the passenger window, Dylan asks, “Your friend—the guy who ended up in hospital… He gonna be okay?”

It’s the first time I’ve heard him initiate conversation of any kind, and it shocks me enough that my gaze swings to him. The car jolts briefly before I bring my focus back to the road.

I school my features. “Seb? Yeah. His brain’s a little… scrambled. But I think he’ll be alright. It might take time, but he’s going to pull through.”

Dylan makes this sound that’s kind of a grunt, and I have no idea what it means. Then he goes back to staring out the window. But still, that was kind of… nice of him? It throws me off.

“I told you not to sit alone at lunch yesterday. I see you chose to go a different route.” I smile, so he knows I’m teasing. Sort of.

His only response is a nod. That’s it. A nod. What am I even supposed to do with that?

“Well, in case you change your mind about taking my advice, here’s another tip: change it up today. Find a group to eat with. I mean, not the center section, God forbid,” I make light of his comment the other day. Because this is me… being nice. Letting stuff slide. Making light of his asshole comment for his benefit. “You could hit up the student council table if you want a sure thing—they won’t turn anyone away. Pretty sure they have wet dreams about a new kid voluntarily sitting at their table.”

When I look over, he’s doing that thing where his tongue worries his lip ring. I don’t think he’s even aware of the habit. I wish I was equally unaware of it.

“And if Trevor Albrecht gets in your face, don’t engage,” I add. “He’s an irrelevant dipshit and not worth your time. Or risking a suspension over.”

“Think I can figure it out myself,” he says in that iron-flat tone he uses.

He. Is. Such. A. Jerk.

I inhale a slow breath, then let it out. “Just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Breathe in… Breathe out. “Got it.”

“Yeah, I doubt that,” he mumbles.

And I lose it. “You are aware I’m possibly the only person in your life right now who isn’t either obsessed with you, determined to keep you on a two-foot leash, or intent on beating the crap out of you, right?” The car swerves when I take my eyes off the road to glance at him. I break to regain control of the car, smiling smugly as his seatbelt whips him back and pins him to his seat. “So you might want to think twice about saying shit that’ll make me cut you loose. It isn’t some mandatory thing—me taking this crap from you. I could pull over right now and you’d have to walk to school.”

I regret it as soon as I say it. He’s acting like a dick because it’s all he knows; it isn’t personal. And I should be able to let his attitude slide off my ego for the twenty minutes it takes to drive to school, for God’s sake.

There’s still no inflection in his tone when he says, “Pull over, then.” He unbuckles his seatbelt.

“I’m sorry,” I force out. “For saying that. I shouldn’t have said that to you.” I manage to keep control of the vehicle this time when I look over at him.

He reaches for the door handle.

“Dylan, what—”

He pushes the door open. While I’m still driving.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, struggling to keep the steering wheel steady as I grab for his shirt. “Dylan! Shut the fucking door! ”

He doesn’t shut the door. He’s climbing out of the freaking car.

“Dylan!”

He pulls away easily from my grip and I screech the car to a halt just as his foot makes contact with the pavement. Thank God no one is behind us.

“What the hell are you doing?” I scream, as he gets out of the car—ironically right beneath a massive Volt billboard ad with the words “Show off your killer attitude,” sprawled in bold white font beneath a wide-angle shot of him wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else, flipping off the camera. Which seems like a really weird marketing strategy, but what the hell do I know?

He shuts the car door—doesn’t even slam it—and throws his backpack over one shoulder, then starts walking, long, panther-prowling strides along the grassy side of the road.

I mutter a silent curse as I pull the car over a little more onto the shoulder, then put down the window. “Dylan!” I call. “I’m sorry, okay? Just—get back in the car.” When he doesn’t even turn around, I add, “Please… Just get back in.”

He ignores me.

“It’s a three-hour walk to school!” I call.

“Good thing I’m not wearing five-hundred-dollar vice-grip heels, then.”

This guy… He’s such a jerk.

“Those shoes cost over a grand. Also, I’m not sure they were your color.” I go for humor. Like that’s worked so well with him before.

Dylan doesn’t even falter. Just lazily lifts his arm, middle finger extended, as he keeps striding casually away. If I wasn’t freaking out so much right now, it would be funny—the way he is so perfectly mirroring that ad, just a few feet above him, without even realizing it.

Also, is giving the middle finger Dylan Braun’s only party trick? If so, he really needs to expand his repertoire.

I call out to him—okay, beg him—a couple more times, but there’s no changing his mind. He’s walking to school, and that’s that. Or maybe he’s not even going to school. Maybe he’ll use the opportunity to play hookie, too. I mean, even if he doesn’t, he won’t get there until much, much later this morning.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

And how is it that even though he’s the one loping along the side of the road, staring down at least two unexcused absences on his second day of school—and I’m the one cruising along in the Mercedes coupe—it still feels like he’s the one coming out on top?