Fall: A High School Bully Romance (Sunset Beach High Book 1) Page 6

  And I can't imagine any place on the planet I'd less rather be.

  FIFTEEN

  I'm standing by Bridget's car after school when I hear his truck.

  I made it back to campus and through the rest of my classes without speaking a word to anyone. Bridget lets me borrow a sweatshirt that she has in her car and I yank it on over my now soda-stained shirt. I keep my head and eyes down in the hallway, knowing that people are looking at me, whispering about me. All I want to do is go home and hide.

  But then I hear his truck.

  It rumbles across the parking lot and he stops it so that I'm between the back of Bridget's car and the driver's side of his truck. He's leaning out of the window, staring down at me, and I'm doing all I can to not look at him.

  He opens his door and jumps down. “Come on. I'll give you a ride.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on. She's not coming anyway.”

  “Fuck you and your ride, okay?”

  He smiles. “Fuck me in my ride? Sure.”

  I look away and shake my head.

  The engine rumbles quietly next to us.

  “She's not coming,” he says. “She had to stay after class.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we're in the same class. I'll give you a ride.”

  “I'd rather walk.”

  “Then I'll follow you.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?” I ask.

  He smiles again. “Loaded question, New Girl.”

  “Maybe Shanna needs a ride,” I say. “Go bother her.”

  “Been there, done her,” he says, still smiling. “Not interested.”

  “Didn't look that way last night.”

  “That was last night,” he says. “Long time ago.”

  “She almost put her hand in your pants at lunch.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Sounds like you're jealous, New Girl.”

  I ignore him, pull out my phone, and text Bridget.

  “She's not coming,” he says. “I already told you.”

  I look at him. “Die in a fire, asshole.”

  He laughs, but stays right in front of me.

  My phone vibrates and I look at the screen.

  Sorry! I've got to stay late for this project in history. It's going to be an hour. You can wait if you want?

  Shit.

  I text her back.

  No worries. I'll get home. See you tomorrow.

  I tug on my backpack strap.

  He smiles again. “I told you she wasn't coming. Let me give you a ride.”

  I know I need to be home to meet my dad for his stupid dinner, but the last thing I want to do is get in the truck with Trevor for a million reasons. “I'll walk.”

  “Come on,” he says. “You'll like the truck.” He holds up his hands. “And I promise. Hands off the whole way.” He grins. “Unless you say otherwise.”

  I start to tell him no again, but then I see Shanna walking to the parking lot with Jessica. They both slow when they see us.

  I look at Trevor. “If you touch me, I will break your fucking fingers.”

  “You say that now.” He steps over to the truck, reaches in behind his seat, and pulls out a folding step stool. He sets it on the ground. “I'd boost you up myself, but you said no hands.” He nods at the car. “Come on.”

  I hesitate for a second, then use the stool to climb into the cab.

  “Looking good,” he says.

  “Fuck off.”

  He laughs, picks up the stool, slides it behind his seat, and swings himself into the cab behind the wheel.

  I turn and look back through the window.

  Shanna and Jessica are both standing there, glaring at me.

  I smile and show them my middle finger.

  SIXTEEN

  “Seventy three seventy one Emerald,” Trevor says. “Right?”

  “How do you know my address?”

  He laughs. “I know everything, New Girl. Nothing gets by me.”

  The cab smells like wax and sandalwood. I expect it to be trashed, but it's immaculate. The seats and dash look brand new. The floors look like they've just been vacuumed. The stereo is turned down to a low hum from the speakers on the doors.

  “I don't appreciate being stalked,” I say. “And jesus christ. It's like we're riding on top of a fire truck up here we're so high up.”

  “I'm not stalking you,” he says, one hand on the wheel, one arm hanging out his open window. “I just know shit.”

  “You know shit,” I say. “Sure.”

  “Why so hostile?”

  “Maybe because every time I've talked to you you've ended up being a prick to me?”

  He laughs. “That's harsh.”

  “But true.”

  He glances at me with those ice blue eyes and I have to look away so I don't melt.

  “Just trying to get to know you,” he says.

  “So you talk shit to me on the beach? Kidnap me and carry me to the ocean? Make out with the school's biggest bitch so I'll see you?” I shake my head. “Your social skills really suck.”

  He laughs again. “Maybe I'm one of those guys that is mean to girls he likes.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Such a mouth on you, New Girl,” he says.

  “Also, calling me New Girl isn't winning you any points, either.”

  “What will win me points?” he asks. “Presley.”

  The way he says it, it's like he's purring and it sends a jolt through my whole body.

  “Let's start with not acting like an asshole,” I tell him.

  “Maybe that's just who I am.”

  “Then maybe this'll be the last time we talk.”

  “You wanna go down to the beach?” he asks. “Work it out?” He smiles and glances at me. “I've got time.”

  “I don't,” I say. “I need to get home.”

  He nods slowly. “Alright. You didn't answer my question last night. Where'd you learn to surf?”

  “I did answer that.”

  “The ocean. Right. I mean you didn't answer my question in a non-bitch way.”

  I look down at the road below us. “We used to vacation in Florida when I was little. My dad taught me.”

  “Is that where you moved from?”

  “No.”

  I don't feel like I owe him any great explanation because I know the more I tell him, the more I'll feel his pull.

  “So why'd you move here?” he asks.

  “My dad's job.”

  “You didn't want to move?”

  I shrug. “I don't know. Not really.”

  “Might be easier if you were, like, friendly.”

  “I am friendly. Unless you're an asshole.”

  He laughs, shakes his head, and keeps driving. “You've got it all wrong, Presley.”

  “I don't think I do. Anyone that would dry hump Shanna Becker in public, I think I've got a good handle on them.”

  His smile flickers. “And I think I've got a good handle on anyone that would kiss Derek Morgan to make someone else jealous.”

  The heat rises in my cheeks. “Maybe I didn't.”

  The smile is totally gone now. “Then that would be a serious fucking mistake.”

  “Not a fan of his?” I ask, enjoying the fact that I've put him on the defensive for a change. “Maybe I'll do it again, just to see your response.”

  He responds by stepping on the gas pedal. The truck lurches forward and the engine groans beneath the hood. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one arm out the window as the truck picks up speed. I can see the light in front of us change from green to yellow.

  “Slow down,” I say.

  He looks at me with no expression and flattens the pedal to the floor. The truck surges forward toward the intersection.

  I grab onto the door. “Slow down!”

  He turns back to the road, but doesn't pull his foot back as we careen toward the four way intersection. The light flashes to red before we get there.<
br />
  “Stop!” I scream.

  But the truck barrels through the intersection at nearly double the speed limit. A car to our right jams on it's brakes, stopping just short of hitting us on the side, screeching to a halt. Horns blare behind us as we pass through.

  He finally eases off the pedal and the truck slows.

  “What the fuck were you doing?” I ask.

  “You don't like the way I drive, you can get out,” he says.

  “You wanted to give me a ride,” I say.

  He slams the brakes and swerves to the curb and I have to brace myself against the dash so I don't fly out the window. The giant tires screech to a stop and the smell of burning rubber fills the air.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask.

  “Get the fuck out,” he says.

  “Gladly.”

  “And if you go near him again, you'll regret it,” he says.

  I shove the door open. “Oh, okay. Dad.”

  “I'm serious,” he says. “Don't.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” I yell at him. “You just show up in my life and start telling me what to do? Go to hell, asshole.”

  “Save me a seat,” he says. “And get out of my truck.”

  I drop to the ground, my backpack falling off my shoulder as I land and crashing to the pavement. I knew I shouldn't have been so dumb to take a ride from him. My decision making was really starting to suck.

  “And I won't say it again,” he says, leaning across the seat. “Don't go near him again.”

  “Fuck. You,” I say and slam the door to the giant truck.

  It idles loudly next to me and the burnt rubber still lingers in the air.

  Then he cranks the stereo inside, music pouring out of the windows at a deafening level. The tires start spinning hard against the asphalt, kicking up smoke and gravel and rock. The heat from the friction drifts toward me as I cough on the smoke.

  Then the tires catch the road and he peels out back into the road, the tires screaming against the pavement, leaving me there, plugging my ears and trying to cough the smoke out of my lungs as he roars away.

  SEVENTEEN

  I get home, sweating and angry. I'm more angry with myself than with Trevor because I should've known that's how it was going to end. Having to walk home after he kicked me out of his truck is exactly what I could've predicted would happen, but I got in anyway.

  I throw my backpack in my room and hop in the shower to rinse off the sweat and the residue I feel from having been in that truck. I wash my hair and go over my legs quickly with my razor. I'm out in five minutes, wrap a towel around me, and immediately go to work on my hair with a hair dryer. By the time I'm done, my dad is home and warning me that we need to leave in fifteen minutes. I rip through my closet and pull out a yellow sundress I haven't worn in forever. I put it on, smooth out the wrinkles in it with my hands, and have just enough time to do a quick pass with makeup before he's telling me we have to go. I find my sandals and meet him at the car.

  “How was school?” he asks as we head toward dinner.

  “Fine,” I say, slipping my feet into the sandals.

  “Just fine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Homework?”

  “No. First week. We aren't doing anything.”

  “I'm sure you're doing something.”

  “Nothing that requires homework,” I tell him. “Where are we going to do dinner?”

  “The beach and tennis club,” he informs me. “Frank insisted we meet there because he tells me I'll want to become a member after we see it.”

  “You don't play tennis.”

  “I guess I could learn?”

  I laugh. “Sure.”

  He smiles. “Or maybe not. I think it's more of a social thing and it is right on the beach. I'm sure it's outrageously expensive, too, so I'm not sure we'll be doing more there than visiting.”

  “Maybe he'll pay you enough money so that we can join,” I say.

  He chuckles. “We're a little ways off from that happening, Pres. But hopefully this won't be too painful for you.” He glances at me. “Thank you for coming.”

  I lean back in my seat. I know this is when he most misses my mom and I'm sort of taking her place. He doesn't have a wife anymore to take to dinner to make conversation with clients and their wives. If I go, he's not alone. I'm sure this client did invite me along because he wanted to meet my dad's family, but I know that I'm filling multiple roles.

  “You're welcome,” I say. “I think I'll be able to tolerate a dinner at the beach. It might be tough, but I'll do my best to get through it.”

  He smiles at me and I know he appreciates that I'm not fighting him about going. “Thanks. How's the surfing coming along?”

  I sigh. “I'm ready for the weekend so I can get out there again.”

  “Are you getting good at it?”

  “I'm not sure good is the right word, but I'm doing it.”

  “I'll have to come watch.”

  I can't think of much that sounds more mortifying than having my father come watch me surf, but I know he's trying to be nice and that he still feels guilty about moving us here.

  “Sure,” I say, hoping I'll be able to hold him off if and when he actually does want to come watch me.

  The beach and tennis club is just north of where I surfed, built on a crescent shaped piece of land against the sand. It's a low slung, salmon colored building next to what looks like a dozen tennis courts. The parking lot is full of expensive, shiny cars, and a kid in a tux shirt, a bow tie, and shorts comes running at us as we pull up to the gatehouse. He opens my father's door and another kid in the same outfit does that same to mine. My dad exchanges the keys for a ticket and the kid with the keys points us toward the doors of the restaurant. I can smell the ocean as we cross the parking lot.

  A woman in a dress the same color as the building greets us in the dining room and acts like she and my father are old friends despite the fact that they've never met. She leads us across the room filled with people laughing and chatting across expensive linen table cloths and large plates of food. There's a large man sitting at a table for four near the floor to ceiling windows on the far side that showcase the sand and ocean on the other side, like I could reach out and touch them both. He sees us coming and immediately stands, holding up a hand in greeting.

  “Stephen,” he says to my father, holding out his hand. “You made it.”

  “Of course,” my dad says, shaking his hand. “Frank, I'd like you to meet my daughter Presley.”

  Frank smiles at me and extends his hand. “A pleasure, Presley.”

  My hand feels tiny in his. “Nice to meet you.”

  “My kid is running late as usual,” he says. “But we'll try not to bore you until then.”

  “I'll be fine, but thanks,” I say.

  He encourages us to sit and the view is incredible. The restaurant is built right on the sand and we can't be more than fifty yards from the edge of the water. I can see the waves rise and fall and wish I was out on them.

  “Presley, how are you enjoying school so far?” Frank asks as the server arrives and fills my water.

  “It's been good,” I tell him.

  “I hope it hasn't been too hard having to switch for your senior year,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No, it's been okay.”

  He smiles at me. “Your father told me you were a trooper and that I really should be thanking you for the two of you moving her and not him.”

  “I don't know about that.”

  “Well, I'll say thank you anyway,” he says. “Your father is going to help me do some great things and hopefully we'll make him a whole lot of money.”

  I just smile because I'm not sure what to say to that.

  They settle into some chatter about business and I watch the ocean on the other side of the windows. The server brings us heavy, leather bound menus, and everything on it sounds delicious. I'm trying to decide what I want to e
at when Frank clears his throat.

  “Well, it's about time,” he says. “If there's one thing that's reliable about him, it's that he is reliably late.” He holds up a hand. “Over here, bud.”

  Both he and my father stand and I follow suit.

  “Stephen, I'd like you to meet my son,” Frank says. “Trevor, this Stephen Baxter. Stephen, Trevor.”

  I hear the name and ice forms in my gut. I turn around slowly.

  Trevor looks nothing like, well, Trevor. He's wearing sharply pressed khakis, a white linen dress shirt, and a navy sport coat. His gorgeous blond hair is damp and combed back away from his face. His face is clean-shaven and his tan skin looks even darker.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Baxter,” he says, shaking hands with my father and smiling at him.

  “And this is his lovely daughter, Presley,” Frank Robinson says. “Presley, this is my son, Trevor.”

  Trevor freezes for maybe half a second. It's small enough that if I hadn't already been watching him, I might've missed it. He's looking at me and a brief flash of anger flits through his expression, then passes just as quickly as it arrived.

  “Presley,” he says. “Yeah, I think I've seen you at school.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I hesitate, then shake his hand. It's warm and soft and I realize it's the first time I'm aware of what his skin feels like. “Hi. Nice to meet you, too.”

  The corner of his mouth flares upward for a moment into something resembling a smirk, but it passes quickly. He holds onto my hand for a moment longer than normal so I have to make the effort of pulling it away. The corner flares again and he waits for me to sit before taking the seat to my right.

  I stare out the window, shaking my head.

  How in the world am I having dinner with Trevor Robinson?

  “I thought it might be nice for you to meet Trevor, Presley,” Frank says. “My parents moved in the middle of high school from the east coast to the west coast and I remember how hard it was leaving friends and having to make new ones.” He pats his son on the back. “Trevor's been fortunate enough to live here his whole life, so I figure he's the perfect person to help you meet people at Sunset Beach. Right, Trev?”