Page 62 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“I think you’re just trying to get close to him so you can screw us over again.”
Maddy said that was the rumor. That I’m just here as a spy. I step in closer to him, my chest tightening. I mean—he can’t honestly believe that, can he?
“Here’s the thing, Ruiz.” I glare up at him. “If I wanted to screw you over, I’d break into your house again.”
He smirks. “Try. I’ll be waiting, doll.”
I bristle. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why? You’d look great covered in plastic and perched on my shelf. Immobile. Silent…”
I don’t like that the whole immobile thing does something to me. And I don’t like that my body reacts to just his words.
He seems to spot the fleeting desire, though, because he leans in. “I can do that, you know. Tie you down and spank you until you’re screaming into the gag for relief that will never come.”
I push my shoulders back. “Get out of the way. I’m going to be late.”
He chuckles and moves aside. “Just know, the instant you step out of line, or even hint about giving St. James a clue, you’re going to wish you were dead.”
Don’t I already?
Wait.
He’s already striding away, back the way we came, while I puzzle out that thought. A dark, insidious thought that shouldn’t have popped up in the first place.
The worry sticks with me all the way to class, where Penn waits outside the room. His expression darkens when he spots me, but it’s not anger.
It’s something more like lust.
“Want to skip?” he asks in a low voice. “There’s a good bathroom on the fifth floor that never gets used at this time of day.”
“I want to go to class.”
Penn pouts. “You’re no fun.”
“You’re trying to be a bad influence.”
He follows me in. “Obviously. Also, take down your hair.”
I eye him. “Excuse me?”
He motions to my head. “It’s all up, and I want it down. It’s our thing.”
“We don’t have any thing.”
He eyes me, and I glance away. Okay, fine, maybe it has become sort of a ritual. I didn’t even think about it as I put my hair up this morning. It needs a good washing, and I didn’t want to deal with it. So I braided it and looped it around my head, pinning it into place.
“It’d take a while to undo,” I hedge.
“You have a choice, princess. Take your hair down or I’ll rip my sweatshirt off you. No matter how good it looks. And then all the nice treatment disappears, going right back to how it was before. Or maybe it’ll be worse, because they’ll wonder what made me take it back.”
I glower at him.
But I feel strangely caught.
So I slowly pull the pins out, dropping them into his waiting hand. When the two braids hang down, Penn inches closer. We haven’t even taken our seats yet, although we both stand in the aisle, by our respective desks.
He reaches for one, undoing the invisible elastic. He rakes his fingers through it, the strands wavy after being caught up in it all day, while I do the same to the other side. He brushes my hands away and runs his fingers through all of my hair, pulling it forward over my shoulders.