“Sure thing. West?” I turned around, waving for him to come to the window. He frowned but complied. An unjust sense of possessiveness washed over me as he rested his elbows over the sill, leaning forward, and I got another glance at his body and that A tattoo on his inner arm. I wondered how Tess found the strength to leave his bed.
I wondered what sex felt like with West St. Claire, in general.
And that angered me to no end, because I couldn’t possibly find West St. Claire attractive. He was everything I resented. Popular, handsome, and with a bright future. Just because he was strapped for cash didn’t mean we had anything in common. He was going to soar and burst like a supernova once he was out of this small Texas town, and I was going to remain the ashes he left behind—the stardust that slowly descended the earth in his wake.
“Hiiiii, West.” Kelly popped her bubblegum, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. My guess was she was a junior in high school. Total jailbait. I slinked into the depths of the food truck, something heavy pressing against my sternum. West may have proven to be a reasonable person to work with, but I still knew he was a jerk.
He flashed her a bored look, waiting for the punch line.
“My sister told me you work here. Anything you recommend from the menu?” She tapped her hot pink fingernail over the list of foods.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Read it.”
Her friends burst into giggles. She blushed, her lips flattening as she tried to take the humiliation in stride. West ran a hand through his damp hair. Every slight movement made his muscles flex.
“Ouch. Are you fighting tonight?”
He stared at her like she just grew a second hand and a pair of shiny, multi-colored wings.
“Just kidding. It’s not Friday!” She pouted, nibbling on her lower lip. “Max says you’re going pro next year. That true?”
He didn’t answer. I knew he wouldn’t. He wasn’t big on words. West grabbed my slushie, spat his candy out, and sucked on the straw like it belonged to him, starting to retreat back to the grill.
“I … uh …” The pretty girl ran a hand through her tight curls. The pressure on my sternum grew. Trying and failing was the essence of soul shattering. It was exactly why I didn’t want to take part in A Streetcar Named Desire. And she was experiencing it right now. “My friends and I had a bet. I said I could get you to give me a ride on your Ducati,” she blurted out, flinching, bracing herself for rejection. West froze, turning around slowly.
“Why, that’s a dumb thing to bet on.” He smirked. Suddenly, his tone took a different, predatory lilt. Like she’d finally made a faux pas and it was time he set her straight. He was going to enjoy every minute of it, too.
“I was just thinking … I mean, hoping, maybe …”
Her friends began to cackle.
“He’d love to do it!” I jumped in, smiling at her brightly. I couldn’t see her going through this. I hoped to hell she learned her lesson and wouldn’t put herself in this position again, but I didn’t want to see her walking away from here with her tail between her legs.
West’s head twisted in my direction, his face turning from bored to thunderous in a heartbeat.
He lifted one thick eyebrow. I could practically hear him thinking, what the fuck?
I tried to communicate to him with the power of telepathy that he needed to do this. For her. For himself. His square jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. He didn’t appreciate my interference—or telepathic abilities.
“Didn’t know you were my pimp, Gray Cap.”
He kept calling me Virgin Mary and Gray Cap, because he had no idea what my name was. The thought was depressing, but I held his gaze.
I didn’t know why, but having him look at me didn’t feel so horrifying. Maybe because he looked directly into my eyes, as opposed to being distracted by my scar.
“C’mon, she needs to save face,” I whispered. The combination of ‘save’ and ‘face’ made my stomach churn.
West turned back to the girl. She looked like she was holding her breath.
“The answer is no. The humble pie is on the house and so is the free slushie.” He handed her my slushie. I ground my teeth together. The girl took it, lowering her head dejectedly.
“Is it because I’m seventeen?” she asked, trying to keep her tone careless and flirty.
“Sixteen,” her friend coughed into her fist.
“No, it’s because if I indulge your underage ass, fifty schoolgirls will be lining up here tomorrow. I can’t afford the gas, the trouble, or the pissed-off daddies. Not to mention, I’ll get nothing out of this deal, since I don’t mix with jailbait. I’m not Netflix. I’m not made for your entertainment. Now beat it.”