Page 40 of The Secret Girl (Adamson All-Boys Academy 1)
“Me?” he asks, blinking pretty honeyed eyes at me and smiling. Again, the expression doesn't reach his gaze. Not even close. “Oh, I didn't let you out. I sort of hoped you'd be stuck in there all night.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Oh, and your father's very insistent on the idea of me tutoring you. Meet me in the library tomorrow after class. Don't be late; I abhor tardiness.”
He starts to walk off, and I reach out to grab the edge of his blazer. The look he throws me over his shoulder is cold fucking hell. My eyes widen, but I don't let go.
“You didn't let me out of the trunk?” I ask, and he raises a blond brow at me.
“No. I didn't exactly have the keys, now did I?” Church politely picks the bit of fabric from between my fingers, freeing himself before he turns and starts off down the hall. I'm left standing there with a pit of ice in my stomach that I can't make sense of.
If Church didn't let me out of the trunk … then who did?The library at Adamson All-Boys Academy is this monstrous tomb, like a massive mausoleum, made all the worse because of the undertaker … I mean librarian, Mr. Dave. As soon as he sees me walk in on Friday, he's glaring at me from behind his desk.
I ignore him and weave through the massive wood tables towards the back where Church Montague is sitting, hands steepled on his crossed legs, eyes focused directly on me. He watches me as I take the seat next to him—the tables are far too wide for me to sit across and still have his help while studying—and pull out my iPad and my laptop.
Neither of us speaks for several minutes, and I look up to find Church watching me. He's smiling, and his face is pleasant, but those cold shadows are still there, that darkness that he hides so well brewing just beneath the surface.
“Why are you helping me?” I ask finally, and Church slides his amber gaze over to mine.
“Because I'm the Student Council President, and that's my job: to help others.”
“I think you're a sociopath,” I blurt, and his smile gets a bit wider.
“I think you mean psychopath. Sociopaths have trouble controlling their emotions, and are prone to emotional outbursts. Psychopaths don't feel human emotion per se, but are extremely skilled in imitating it.” He grins at me, and I frown. “But I assure you: I'm not either.”
“Oh, wow, that's so convincing,” I grumble, shoving my glasses up my face and pushing up the sleeves of the baggy blue Adamson sweater I'm wearing. We're required to wear our blazers every day of the week, except on Friday when we can go without, or don a school hoodie. I'm quite literally swimming in mine which is good; it helps hide the boobs I didn't bother to bind this morning.
Hopefully nobody's noticed. I was just too damn tired. I hate sleeping in dad's house. He turns the Wi-fi off when he goes to bed and hides the modem, so I can't get online. My phone service is crap out here in Nutmeg, Middle-of-Nowhere, so I've spent every night this week just staring at the ceiling and wondering if I'll still fit in when I go back to California.
Just a few more weeks, and everything will be okay, I tell myself. Because honestly, I've decided that once I get back to Santa Cruz, I'm not leaving again. If I put up enough of a fight, Dad will have to realize that I'm serious about this. My whole life is in California; I have plans to go to UC Santa Cruz with Cody and Monica. Then when I graduate, I want to live locally anyway. If you really think about it, him moving me across the country was kind of a selfish, fucked-up thing to do.
“It doesn't matter to me what you think, Chuck. You're a stuck-up asshole that nobody else in this school likes. Your opinion is dirt.” Church turns to look at me, still smiling, and then reaches out and taps my tablet with a long finger. “Now pull up your list of assignments, and we'll work our way through. I don't fail at anything: not even when it comes to educating idiots. We'll get your grades up if it kills you.”
“You mean, if it kills me,” I say, and then I shiver because that expression is just so off-putting.
“Exactly,” Church says, his smile getting wider. He's got a handsome face, but it looks like a mask. Nothing he says or does is real, and I wonder if even he knows why that is. “Now, let's get started. There's nothing I hate more than wasted time.”
With a sigh, I open up my math homework and Church leans over to take a look, our heads nearly brushing. His fingers linger far too close to mine, and even though he's a cold-hearted bastard, there's a warmth that transfers between us that can't be faked.
