Page 34 of The Secret Girl (Adamson All-Boys Academy 1)
“So help me, Carson, if you're making any of this up, I will fucking kill you myself.” Ranger pushes me up against the counter with his body, and I hate that I sort of like the feel of him.
“I'm not making it up,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Something about that sound seems to rub him the wrong way. He shoves off the counter and stalks away from me, swigging the milk, and then chucking the glass against the wall. I jump as shards fly everywhere.
“Call Nathan,” Ranger growls, glancing over his shoulder at me. His eyes are glittering with anger. I can see them, bathed in light from the fridge. “Call your dad.”
“You believe me?” I manage to choke out, and he turns away from me.
“Clean up this glass when you're done,” is all he says as he heads into the common area and turns the TV on some old black and white show. The volume is basically muted, but it makes me feel safer, knowing he's in there. How messed-up is that? The guy just broke a bottle and then ordered me to clean it up, and I feel safer with him around?
What the hell is with the state of my life right now?
With a deep inhale, I dial up Nathan the security guard, and get ready to wake up the whole school.The next day, I can barely keep my eyes open. Dad roused the entire campus last night, called the police, and grilled the hell out of me. Part of me wonders if he thinks I'm full of shit.
“Thanks for waking us all up last night, Carson,” some blond guy sneers as he walks past, blowing on one end of his straw and shooting the paper wrapper straight into my face. Jerk. But I'm too tired to bother with him. Besides, I already have the Student Council on my ass. The last thing I need to do right now is gain some aggro from anyone else.
My eyes drift over to them, sitting at the table in the corner. The twins are literally standing on it, giving some sort of stupid performance that has the room roaring with laughter. I don't pay much attention to them, switching my gaze to Ranger.
He's staring right at me, so I turn away, and try to catch a nap on the cafeteria table. We're on lock down until the police give the okay, so I'm forced to eat in here with everybody else.
It's a veritable hell.
After school, Dad escorts back to the house, and I find myself being led to one of the upstairs bedrooms.
“You'll stay in here for the remainder of the year,” he tells me, and I gape at him. That's pretty much the last thing I wanted. Don't get me wrong: living in a dorm full of asshole boys is basically a nightmare, but living with dad is worse. Trust me: I've been doing it for nearly seventeen years now, and I like having my own space.
“Why?” I snap, but he just gives me this look, his eyes a deep blue that are nothing like my pale-colored ones. If he hadn't demanded Mom get a paternity test after I was born, I might wonder if I were his biological child at all. We're so damn different in the personality department. “Nobody else has to move in with their dad.”
“Nobody else was chased by a man with a knife,” Dad replies dryly, and my jaw nearly hits the floor as I gape at him.
“You don't believe me, do you?” I whisper, and he gives me a look through his Coke-bottle glasses.
“I believe you think you were chased by something,” he says with a huge sigh, his big barrel chest rising and falling with the motion. “But if you think is going to get you a one-way ticket back to California then—”
“Have I even asked to go back to California since last night?!” I scream, because even though I thought to take advantage of this situation to get my way, I haven't yet. Something … is holding me back.
Jenica Woodruff.
For some strange reason, I can't get her smiling face out of my mind. Or her brother's frowning one. Or … whatever.
“Charlotte, I'm done with this conversation. I've asked some of the boys to move your things over this weekend. For now, you can sleep in the guest bed. There are spare uniforms in the drawer.” Dad moves away before I can even think up an appropriate response, and I slump down on the edge of the doily-covered bed. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I video chat Monica and pray that she answers me.
Instead, this is what I get via text: Why u always callin', girl?! LOL Text me & I'll reply later. Busy now.
My heart drops, and I feel a frown trace across my lips. Texting isn't the same as seeing her face, or Cody's, not the same as seeing the beach in the background or hearing their voices. I don't want to text. I want to talk, face to face.
