The Tutor (BOOK 2: OMEN KING SERIES)

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Jenny Johnson

I plop myself down on the white carpeted floor, legs crossed, and rest my head against Bianca's bed frame. It's one of those days where everything feels heavy, and I'm torn between sulking in silence or continuing the same tired conversation about her forever crush on Tim bloody Waldorf.

Why can't she just let it go? It's been two years since she first laid eyes on him, and here we are, seniors at Willowbrook University, still stuck in this ridiculous loop.

I huff, letting out a loud sigh that I hope pricks her attention. "This is annoying, B."

Silence reigns. I glance at her, sprawled out on her bed, completely absorbed in her phone. I know she can hear me and it's downright rude.

Finally, she plops down next to me on the floor, legs stretched out and a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "It's not annoying, Jen. You just don't understand."

Rolling my eyes, I can't help but think how ridiculous this whole situation is. I glance around her newly decorated room, which looks like a tomato-themed circus exploded. Everything is red or white, as if she's trying to live inside a candy cane. I mean, I get it, she loves red, but this is a bit much, even for her.

The curtains are practically choking the sunlight, all crimson and oppressive. The walls glare back at me, blindingly white, like they're trying to erase any hint of personality. My gaze lands on her massive queen-sized bed, draped in white sheets that scream innocence. But there are those obnoxiously vibrant red pillows strewn about.

I squint at the full-body mirror on her dresser, also red, because apparently even self-reflection needs to be on-brand. It's bizarre, a symphony of colors that shouldn't work together but somehow does-like a painting that would make Salvador Dali dizzy.

I let out another dramatic sigh, staring up at the blindingly white ceiling. "You've been in love with the guy for two years. Of course I don't understand. You haven't even spoken to him. Does he even know you exist?"

"Uh, well, no," she admits, her voice dropping to a whisper, a far cry from her usual confident self. "But I've spoken to him. Like, once."

I can't help it-laughter spills out of me, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle it. "That's not speaking, B."

"It counts!" She shoots me an irritated look, flipping her short brunette hair over her shoulder with a huff.

Does it though? I can't wrap my head around it. How is a thirty-second chat a conversation?

I know what a real crush is supposed to feel like-those butterflies, the thrill. But this? This is just...sad. I want to shake her, to tell her that she deserves better than to pine after some idiot who doesn't even know her name.

Bianca crosses her arms over her chest, pouting her pink lips. "You're the worst best friend ever."

I can't help but grin. "And yet, you still love me."

We've been inseparable since we were kids, growing up side by side, sharing everything from secrets to birthday cake. She's the star athlete, the one everyone notices, while I'm the quiet one, buried in textbooks. My grades at Willowbrook University is no small feat, but it feels like a consolation prize compared to Bianca's glitzy volleyball scholarship.

It's strange, really, how two people so different can click so perfectly. Sometimes I wonder if people see us together and think we're a joke-a brainy girl and a popular one, best friends against all odds.

But I don't care. I love her, and she loves me.

I glance at her, and my heart twinges a bit. She's stunning, no question. Her dark, silky hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and her skin glows with that sun-kissed tan. She's got curves that turn heads, and those eyes? I often catch myself staring at her, mesmerized by those eyes-one blue, one green, like they belong to two different people. Sometimes I think I see flecks of gold in them, and it's breathtaking.