CADENCE
The cafeteria falls into tense silence. Everyone is holding their breath for fear that the quietest cough will interrupt the drama.
Footsteps thud behind me. I’d know the sound of Dutch’s walk anywhere, not only because it usually hints of my coming misery, but because it’s a staccato rhythm.
Thud, thud, thud.
Cocky and measured, it inspires a haunting melody. The kind that would play in Count Dracula just before the vampire rises from his casket to feast in the night.
He’s closer now. I can hear it by his footsteps and feel it by the prickles surging over my skin.
I don’t move a muscle when I sense Dutch come up beside me. His energy is crackling with anger, but it’s not showing on his face. His gaze is calm, unbothered.
“Go on, Brahms.” Dutch reaches for the sandwich on my tray. He peels the clear plastic with big hands. “We’re all waiting for the show.”
I twist my head and glare at him.
Dutch arches both eyebrows and tilts his head, drilling in the point. I barely quell the urge to smack him with my tray.
“Or, and here’s a better idea,” Dutch casually nods at the jock, “why don’t you start stripping first?”
“Me?” The jock trembles.
“Who else could I be talking to?” He stares blankly at Dutch.
Sandwich still in his hand, Dutch walks forward calmly. “You don’t want to?”
The jock comes to some kind of realization because he lifts both arms and fearfully backs away. “Dutch, man, I don’t want any trouble.”
Dutch’s stare hardens. His entire face has gone cold.
My eyes volley between the smarmy athlete who’s bowing his head and the tatted prince. Dutch hasn’t made any moves—he hasn’t even lifted his hands—and yet it feels like the jock just got a royal beating.
“See that girl behind me?” Dutch whispers.
The jock’s frightened eyes jump to me before swinging back to Dutch. “You don’t mess with her unless you get my permission.”
A rush of air leaves my lungs, and with it, the bit of gratitude I’d started to feel toward Dutch.
I scowl in his direction.
“Have I made myself clear?” Dutch places his hands on the jock’s shoulders and brushes the top of his football jersey.
“Y-yes.”
Jaw tight, Dutch strides back to me. “What the hell was that?” I hiss.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he uncaps my orange juice and guzzles it down. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, caps my bottle and tosses it back into the tray.
Stupid jerk.
I whirl around, my nostrils flaring as two opposing forces war within me. On the one hand, he did put that jock in his place. Whatever his intentions, he helped me out.
On the other, he claimed me as his ‘property’ and basically admitted to being the only one who can mistreat me.
Dutch wasn’t trying to rescue me. He was just keeping other bullies from tearing into me so he can do it himself. The motives basically cancel the result.
Students move out of Dutch’s way as he leaves the cafeteria. The jock scrambles in the opposite direction. His football friends, all looking embarrassed, shuffle behind him.
I stand alone, surrounded by everyone’s stares. Once again, I’m the freakshow of Redwood Prep.
With a huff, I toss the rest of my lunch into the trash and storm after Dutch. The door crashes behind me, but when I look left and right, Dutch is nowhere in sight.
Determined, I choose a path and start running. The more I think about what just happened, the more incensed I become.
How dare he ‘claim’ me in front of the entire school? Do I look like a toy? Do I look like his plaything…
My riotous thoughts come to a screeching halt when I round the bend and spot a sensory spectacle.
Time seems to slow as Dutch Cross strips his shirt off and pours water from the tap all over his head. The muscles on his back flex and my eyes greedily trace the tattoos over his arm and across his shoulder.
There’s way more ink than I’d guessed. Not that I’d been able to see anything beneath all the sweater vests. But it turns out, Dutch has transformed his body into walking artwork and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
He turns, showing off his equally s*xy abs and all I can think about is how dangerous it is to be standing here, alone, with him.
I step back, but it’s too late. He’s caught me. His expression tightens and he stares at me like he can see every dirty thought that flashed through my messed-up head.
I really must be insane if I’m thirsting over the boy who’s made my life at Redwood a living hell.
“Like what you see?” he asks darkly.
At his words, the illusion shatters and I’m back to hating his beautiful, tatted guts.
I drag my eyes away from his body and glare at him. “You ate my sandwich and drank my OJ. You need to pay for it.”
Amusement flickers in his gaze. His lips curl up a second before he coaches his expression back into its natural ‘I don’t give a damn’ state.
Feeling brave, I tip my chin up. “You’ve ruined my textbooks, ruined my practice piano, ruined my favorite teacher’s life. But I will not let you ruin lunch for me.”
“What?”
“You ate my sandwich. Am I not talking English?”
He studies me for a long moment in which I begin to second-guess every part of this hacked-together plan.
Then he starts moving.
As Dutch crosses over to me, every ounce of bravery I thought I had evaporates.
I start wheeling back.
Dutch is massive. His body is glorious, sure, but it’s also a weapon. I saw the way he flung that jock in the cafeteria and the other guy wasn’t small. I can’t imagine what he could do to me.
Nerves twisting in my stomach, I raise a hand. “Keep your distance, Cross or—”
The rest of my words are trapped in my throat when Dutch shoots his arms out and traps me against the sink. The small of my back collides with the protruding basin. Moisture seeps into my hip, meeting the surface of my heated skin.
I inch back, but Dutch follows me with his head. He’s so close, so intense. I battle the crazy urge to scrub my hands over his muscles. Heat bursts up my spine, sending a flush to my neck and face.
Dutch narrows his eyes at me. His hair is damp and hanging limp. I watch a drop of water skate down his strong nose to the top of his luscious lips, curving around it the way my tongue is suddenly begging to.
“I make the demands, Brahms.” He leans in a little closer. The pulse in my heart drops to somewhere between my legs. “And I ask the questions.” He tightens his grip on me when I try to squirm away. “Ah-ah, little mouse. You followed me here. You deal with the consequences.”
“Let me go.” I push against him. It’s like trying to move a mountain. A mountain that’s getting me and my clothes wet.
“Why’d you run last Friday?” Dutch asks, his eyes intent on me.
I stop struggling and stare up at his handsome face, sure I’ve heard wrong. “What?”
“I thought our sources were off, but you really do have stage fright.” “Sources? You’re talking about Jinx?”
This is getting creepy. How did that anonymous number know about my stage fright?
“Remember, Brahms,” he grips my cheek to force me to look at him, “I ask the questions.”
His grip isn’t harsh but it’s firm. I shake him off. “Why do you want to know?”
“You’re Mulliez’s special pick. Why the hell are you studying music if you’re scared of it?”
“I’m not scared of music, you buffoon.” I glare up at him. “I’m scared of crowds.”
I have no idea why this conversation is happening and I especially have no idea why it’s happening when Dutch is half naked and soaking wet, but it looks like I’m stuck.
He narrows his eyes and it’s clear that he’s waiting for more.
Maybe it’s stress or maybe I’m still too flustered from what happened in the cafeteria, but the words come pouring out.
“When I was a kid, my mom traded music for drugs. She’d drag me into dens with creeps and crackheads and sit me down at the piano. It was dark, smoky and there was something dangerous about it.” I shudder. “Something off about the music I played there. It tainted me. Tainted everything.” I huff. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
He gives me a thoughtful look. I don’t know what it means and I, honestly, don’t want to know.
Which is why I’m grateful when I hear voices coming our way. A group of students are approaching from the direction of the quad.
Dutch’s hands loosen on me as his attention turns to them. I take the chance to slip his wallet out of his back pocket. By the time he sees what I’m doing, I’m already hopping away with a five dollar bill.
His eyebrows hunker low over his amber eyes. His voice is a deep warning. “Do you really have a death wish, Brahms?”
Before he can pounce, the students see us. “Dutch, we didn’t know you were… occupied.”
I can’t imagine what a picture we must make. Dutch is shirtless and glaring at me. My entire top is soaked through with water. I’m pretty sure they can all see through to my black lace bra.
“Are… should we leave?”
Dutch makes a sound deep in his throat.
“No, you can stay.” I toss his wallet into the sinks and grin when it drops like a rock. “Happy fishing.”
“Cadence!” Dutch yells.
It’s the first time he’s using my actual name, and I don’t stick around to hear the words that follow it.
Sprinting away, I skate into the cafeteria and blend in among the other kids.
I hope I ruined his wallet.
I hope I ruined his entire day.
That’s just a taste of all the hell I plan to bring on him. Dutch Cross is going to wish he never messed with me.
