Page 88 of Secret Obsession
Isn’t that fucked up?
I should know what I want.
And yet, sifting through desire and want and need is overwhelming.
So I don’t, and he does.
The stares are getting worse. All around campus, people whisper about me as the brother-hopper. Never mind thatplentyof girls have probably fucked or blown both of them. I’m the whore because I jumped into a relationship with one and got played like a fool, and now I’m with the other.
But because of Miles, no one says anythingtome. Just around me. About me. And it’s getting harder to ignore them.
I blew off the detective on Tuesday. I called her up and left a message right after my Crime Fiction class, lamenting that we were assigned a paper due the next class, and I couldn’t make it. That was before I hustled across Crown Point to teach the brats how to sing.
“You’re coming to the game,” Miles announces, dropping down into the seat beside me.
Dining hall. Lunch, Friday afternoon. My Crime Fiction class is in an hour, and I think Miles has a class at that time, too.
He reaches for my hand and runs his thumb across my palm. “Willow, say yes.”
“Yes,” I reply automatically.
And then I wince, and I jerk out of his hold.
“I mean,no.” I glare at him. “I’m not going to a game with you.”
He shrugs. “You wouldn’t gowithme. I’m playing. You’d go with Violet and Aspen and her other friend, whatever her name is.”
“Thalia.”
He snaps and points at me. “That’s it. You’ll go with Violet and Aspen andThalia, and you’ll sit right behind the players’ benches, so I don’t have to worry about you.”
“And if I decide…” I cast my gaze around, then back to him. “If I decide, ‘Hey, you know what? I think I like this other team better. Maybe I’ll wear their jersey and—’”
“You’ll wear what I say you’re going to wear,” Miles replies. “Coach wants to give our second goalie some ice time tonight, so I’ll be able to keep an eye on you, too.”
“I don’t like it.”
“No one asked you to like it.”
“I don’t want to go. Hockey is my least favorite thing about you.”
Miles laughs. Helaughs. Tips back in his chair, throws his head back, and belly laughs.
“I’m serious,” I snap.
“Oh, I know,” he says once he’s calmed down enough to breathe normally. “And that means there are pieces of me that youdolike.”
I cross my arms. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? How much ego—”
“A lot of fucking ego.” He smirks. “But I think it works out for us.”
I sigh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Meet me at the house before the game. Five o’clock.” He eyes me and rises. “Don’t be late.”
I’m never late.
But… I definitelywantto be late. To push his buttons or whatever. Because it seems to be the only interesting thing happening to me lately.
