Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I swept her hair from her shoulder, leaned over, and placed my lips beside her ear. “No one wants to play with you. Except for me.”
“Oh, no.” She placed a hand to her chest. “I might cry.”
I grabbed her ponytail, yanking her head back. “Please, fucking cry. Rich girl tears are like black tar heroin.”
“Would you get off on it?” The sexy-ass low rasp to her voice immediately had my dick hard.
“All over your pretty, rich-girl face.”
“Mr. West!” Mrs. Smith clapped her hands before balling them on her hips. “Please tell me why in the hell, you’ve got New Girl by the hair?”
“Because she’s hot.” I nodded toward Drew as I released her ponytail.
“My class ain’t no Plenty O’ Fish.”
“I know. But I heard this girl’s gag reflex is practically non-existent.”
A boom of laughter echoed around the room before Smith clapped her hands again. “All right, Hugh Hefner. Go see Principal Brown.” She pointed at the door. “I ain’t got time for your shit today.”
With a shrug, I pushed out of the chair, flicking Drew’s hair as I passed by. “See you later, baby girl.”
Brown’s idea of punishment was having me spend the remainder of second block in the office, helping the aide file charts. And honestly, I was patting myself on the back for getting sent to the principal today because the file I had just grabbed was none other than Drucella Morgan’s.
Drucella Morgan? What a shit name. On a laugh, I quickly crammed the folder underneath my shirt and went back to filing the rest of the charts. By the time the bell for lunch rang, it felt like the thing was burning a hole into my skin.
I skirted into the hallway, opening the folder as I fell in with the students pouring out of classrooms. I flipped past her Barrington address and phone number to her transcripts—straight A’s at an out-of-state school called Black Mountain Academy, some dumb rich-kid boarding school. And then I came to her notice of expulsion. I expected the reason to be dealing drugs, screwing a teacher, something worth a little excitement. But no. Little Miss Perfect had been expelled for cheating on a test. What a letdown.
“Cocksucker.” Hendrix strode up beside me, his gaze dropping to the open file in my hand. “Drucella?” He stopped outside of the cafeteria and doubled over on a cackle. “That’s a shit name.”
We went into the lunchroom, skipping to the front of the line. “Where’s Wolf?” I asked.
“Smith held him after class.” Hendrix reached across the line, scooped a handful of mashed potatoes up with his fingers, and licked them off before passing the tray back to the cafeteria lady and asking for another serving. “She wants him to have an all he can eat on her musty, dusty muff buffet.”
“Jesus, Hendrix.” I filled my tray with crap food, trying to block the mental image of Smith’s muff buffet from my mind when we went to the cashier and swiped our cards.
He spent the first five minutes rattling off his updated Hit it and Quit it list while I read over Drew’s file. “There comes Drucella and Scora Nora…” Hendrix snorted a laugh. “They can both be on my list, too.”
I glanced toward the front of the noisy cafeteria, and the moment Drew’s gaze landed on me, I framed my mouth with my fingers then flicked my tongue through the opening. She shot me the bird.
“She’s defected,” Hendrix said through a mouthful of food. “Most of those rich girls are like horny little beavers hungry for wood.”
“It’s defective, you idiot.”
“Defected. Defective. Doesn’t matter. She’s not gonna bang your wang, man.” He chucked a fry at me, dragging my attention away from her. “Not gonna go all champion pogo-stick rider on your nub. Not going to…”
My phone vibrated in my pocket, the number to Frank’s Famous Chicken flashing over the screen. Ignoring the tirade Hendrix had veered off on, I left the table and headed into the courtyard to take the call. And when I hung up, Drew Morgan was no longer my problem, but I was most definitely hers.
6
Drew
I was halfway through my shift at Frank’s when Eddie, the manager, rounded the corner, with splotchy red cheeks. “Drew Morgan!” He stopped in front of me, nostrils flaring like a stampeding bull. “You’ve been selling cannabis from my drive-thru!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!” His balled fists dug into his waist. “Yesterday evening, I received a phone call from a concerned citizen. He said the”—he made air quotes— “hot brunette with an attitude”—another set of air quotes—“put it in his bag.” Eddie glanced around. “Do you see any other brunettes in here, Drew?”
This had to be Bellamy, and this was low. “It’s bullshit,” I said. “I’m not—”
“Bullshit?” He gave a curt nod. “Bullshit. Do you know the number of people who have come through the drive-thru over the past week asking for a Big Mac? I Googled what that means. And it means weed!”