Page 18 of Scars of Anatomy

Up the Ante

Monday morning, my alarm clock goes off and I hit the snooze button at least seven times, missing my first class.

After the homecoming game, and after Olivia was rudely whisked away thanks to Rat Boy’s temper tantrum, I may have celebrated our win just a little bit. Or a lot. All weekend long. And I may or may not have a mild hangover currently.

I’m almost tempted to skip my second class, but I think better of it. It’s already halfway through the semester and I’m not sure how many classes I can afford to skip anymore with finals slowly approaching.

Half awake, I drag my ass out of bed and shuffle to the showers. After a quick shower, I get dressed and sling my backpack over my shoulder, heading to the nearest coffee shop on campus, in dire need of a caffeine fix to get myself going.

I walk into the sleek, modern space filled with students, the strong scent of coffee wafting in the air, tingling my senses.

Standing in line, I look around and notice Delilah sitting near the windows, chatting with someone.

As if sensing my gaze, she turns her head, and we lock eyes.

She gives me a smile and a wave, and I reciprocate the gesture just before I’m up next to place my order.

After ordering my coffee, I stand off to the side and wait for the barista to call my name. It only takes a few minutes for them to make my drink and I’m out the door, walking toward my class.

“Miller!”

I look over my shoulder to see Delilah jogging to catch up with me, her dark curls bouncing with each step. I stop and wait for her.

“What’s up, Dee?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

She takes a moment to catch her breath, adjusting her glasses and the emerald-colored cardigan she’s wearing with a white top and dark plaid pants. “I just wanted to apologize for the other night.”

I furrow my brow, not quite understanding what she has to be sorry for.

“Quinton,” she says. “I realize I’m the one who accidentally spilled the beans that Olivia and I were going to the homecoming game,” she clarifies.

“Originally, I was texting my cousin, and I guess I wasn’t paying too much attention.

A text came through asking me what I was doing that night, and me thinking I was still texting my cousin, texted back that I was going to the homecoming game.

I didn’t think anything of it, but then the next thing I know it’s an interrogation about who I was going with, what time, etcetera.

Before I realized it wasn’t my cousin I was texting with anymore, it was too late. ” She cringes, looking guilty.

Ahh, that explains it .

“From there, Quinton called me, and I couldn’t really lie at that point. He came over just as Olivia was picking me up and he tagged along. I’m sorry,” she apologizes sincerely.

I shake my head, dismissively waving my hand with the coffee in it, the ice clanking against the side of the cup. “It’s all right, Dee. I’m sure he would have found some other way to crash anyway,” I admit bitterly.

Her lips purse ruefully, and she nods. “Still. And I’m sorry I couldn’t hold him back when you guys went to the truck. You two looked pretty preoccupied when he stormed over,” she says, her lips twitching into a knowing grin.

I huff out a laugh, shoving a hand into the front pocket of my jeans. “Yeah, the guy has got great timing.”

She lets out a laugh, expression sobering after. “You were going to kiss her, huh?”

I take a sip of my coffee, trying to hide any emotions on my face. “Maybe,” I muse.

She grins, eyes twinkling. “I knew it.”

“Did she say anything about it?” I ask, figuring I may have a chance of getting some dirt on Olivia from her.

She tries to smother her grin, failing. “She’s my best friend, you know I can’t rat her out,” she says, and I can’t help but frown.

“But.” Delilah looks over both of her shoulders, making sure no one is lingering, eavesdropping on our conversation. “Let’s just say she was pretty bummed to have to go home early,” she says, keeping her voice down.

She flashes me a smile, purposefully bumping her shoulder with mine as she brushes past me, walking away. I spin on my heel and follow her, matching her strides.

“Really?” I ask, a huge grin forming on my lips. I was hoping there was a possibility she wanted to kiss me back. If not, that would have been awkward as fuck and I would have felt awful.

“Mh-mm,” she hums, taking a sip of her iced caramel macchiato. “That was a smart move, you know? The bet. Although next time I’d really up the ante.” She grins mischievously. “The jersey was cute, but you can do better.”

I match her grin. “Oh, I plan to.”

After English, I follow Olivia to the library to study. We walk across campus, the air chillier now that fall has arrived. The trees have just started changing colors, and leaves are falling and swirling around in the breeze.

With the temperature change, Olivia has exchanged her staple T-shirts for sweaters, looking adorable and cozy. She’s wearing a cream-colored one today paired with black jeans and tall brown boots, and her long caramel-colored hair is tied back in a braid.

“You know,” I say as we walk up the library steps, “you could have worn my hoodie today.”

“Shoot, I forgot to bring it in to give it back to you,” she says worriedly.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assure her. “I don’t want it back. The jersey, though, as much as I’d love for you to keep it, I don’t think Coach would be too happy to have a jersey missing.”

“I’ll get it back to you,” she promises.

We walk into the library and grab our usual table tucked away in the back corner. She pulls out all of her study materials, getting everything set up.

Flipping through pages of the textbook, Olivia sketches out a quick outline of topics to go over, referring back to our notes. I watch as she scribbles and highlights, my mind running a little wild whenever she pauses to think, pressing the end of her pen to her bottom lip.

Those lips. They look so soft, so inviting.

My mind wanders back to the other night, how it felt to be standing between her thighs, my hands running up and down them. How it felt to have her hands on my body. And when her breath mingled with mine at one point . . .

Damn. I want those lips on mine. To sink my teeth into her bottom lip and suck, letting my tongue—

“Bronx?” Olivia’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up to see her looking at me expectantly.

I clear my throat, adjusting in my seat and sitting up straighter. “Yep?”

She looks at me tentatively. “Ready to get started?”

Kissing? Yes.

But then I glance down at all the books in front of her.

Studying. Right. Not really, but I nod anyway.

I try my best to focus on what she’s saying, I really do, but it’s so hard to concentrate with all the wildly inappropriate thoughts running through my head.

Finally, I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table. “Finch,” I say, cutting her off and nudging her foot with mine under the table.

She looks up from her textbook at me. “Yeah?”

I bite my lower lip, trying to suppress a grin. “We never discussed the wager for the next test.”

She blinks, looking perplexed. “You want to make another bet?”

I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest and giving a casual one-shoulder shrug.

She gives me a pointed look. “Depends. What are you thinking?”

“Hmm,” I hum, thinking of a way to make this interesting. I’ve been thinking about it pretty much nonstop since Delilah and I talked this morning, and I think I’ve come up with the perfect plan. “If I pass the next test, you have to go to The Library with me.”

Her face screws into a cute, confused expression. “But we’re already in the library . . .” She trails off, acting like this is some sort of riddle or trick.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Not this library, Finch. The Library.”

It takes her a moment but eventually it clicks, and her eyes grow wide in realization. She shakes her head. “No, Bronx, I can’t. I’ve never been to that library,” she sputters adorably.

“There’s a first time for everything.” I grin.

The Library is the local nightclub that’s popular among the college crowd, and I’m not surprised she’s never been there. Which is exactly why I want to be the first one to take her.

She shakes her head again. “That library’s not really my scene,” she admits, her nose crinkling adorably.

“And you think this library is my scene?” I tease playfully. “Come on, Finch, it’ll be fun,” I try to coax her.

She gives me a tentative look, anxiously nibbling at the corner of her bottom lip.

Damn, those lips . . .

“You’d have to get a nearly perfect score for that to happen,” she says.

“Fin—” I begin, planning to persuade her, but she holds up her hand, silencing me.

“A ninety percent or above.”

“B plus,” I counter, knowing there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to pull off an A.

She shakes her head. Now she’s the one leaning back in her chair, arms folded over her chest, looking uncompromising. “I’ll accept nothing less than an A.”

I mull it over, trying to think of some sort of compromise, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to budge.

I lean over the table. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you take charge.”

Flustered by my boldness, Olivia lets her authoritative mask slip for a moment. But she composes herself by sitting up straighter, her folded arms tightening across her chest. “Those are my terms,” she says with finality, only the tiniest nervous wobble in her voice.

I grin, leaning back and getting more comfortable in my chair. “You drive a very hard bargain, Finch. You must really not want to go with me.”

I watch her features soften a fraction, a look of guilt flashing across her face. “It’s not that,” she mutters so low I almost don’t hear her.

Damn, now I kind of feel like a jackass for making her feel bad. I only meant it as a joke.

Before I can ask her what it is like, my phone rings in my pocket, and I quickly grab for it, silencing the ringer.

I glance at the screen, mentally groaning.

This is the third time I’ve gotten this call in the past week, so I know something must be up.

I just don’t have the time or the mental capacity to deal with it right now.

Stuffing my phone back into my pocket, I look up at Olivia. “Like I said, Finch, you drive a hard bargain, but I’ll have you know I thrive under pressure. And with the stakes this high”—I let out a low whistle—“I may even get a hundred.”

That puts a tiny smile on her face.

“I’m going to have to work my ass off in order to get that grade,” I admit. “So I guess I’ll have to spend even more time with my tutor,” I say, giving her a hopeful, lopsided grin.

She bites back a smile, sitting up straight in her chair and flipping a page of her textbook. “I think she can squeeze you into her schedule.”