The Tutor (BOOK 2: OMEN KING SERIES)

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Jenny Johnson

I take a deep breath, letting the cool air wash over me like a balm, but it does nothing to ease the ache in my chest. It's like a gaping hole, raw and throbbing, and I can't shake the feeling that it's only going to get worse. Today, I'm supposed to be tutoring Romeo, and the thought of it fills me with dread.

I didn't quite grasp how much regret could weigh on a person until I had that conversation with Tim. I thought he couldn't be that bad, that maybe I was just blowing things out of proportion. But standing there, face-to-face with the real him yesterday, I realized I was wrong. He's worse than I imagined.

Then I see a guy I haven't seen in forever. Leaning against the side of the Omen dorm building, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He looks so effortlessly cool, like he doesn't have a care in the world. His dark hair is a mess, and those emerald eyes of his catch mine, locking me in place. He's the kind of guy who could make trouble look appealing, yet he's also a friend of Romeo's.

Ant Kashida.

I stop in front of him, feeling utterly ridiculous. "Your dorm is on the third floor, right?" I should've just asked Romeo yesterday and saved myself from this awkward encounter but there was Tim, and then I realized I don't even have Romeo's number.

Ant raises an eyebrow. "Listen, I know your Coach's daughter and all..." He yawns, stretching slightly, "But I can't just invite random girls to my dorm. That's kinda weird."

I blink, caught off guard. "Oh, no, I didn't mean... I'm just looking for Romeo. I'm supposed to tutor him, and I don't know where his dorm is."

He takes a drag of his cigarette, smoke curling around him, creating a hazy barrier. There's something almost reckless about him, like he thrives on living on the edge. I can't help but notice how effortlessly he seems to break the rules, even if he's technically overage. The rumors about him making others take drug tests for him must have some truth; there's no way he'd pass one himself.

The cigarette dangles precariously as he pulls out his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. "Romeo's room is 303. Don't make me regret telling you that, and please, no hooking up while he's supposed to be studying. Owen's going to kill him."

"Are you joking?" I blurt out, the audacity of it hitting me. "Why the fuck would I want to hook up with him?"

Ant shrugs, unfazed. "Don't know, but I've seen too much shit in that living room for my liking."

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I can feel the heat rising. "Right," I mutter, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "Well, I'd better go."

I'm halfway down the sidewalk when he calls after me. "Hey, Johnson."

Johnson? Is that my new nickname now? It started with that moron, Romeo, and now this guy too.

I turn, and I can't quite read his expression. He takes a drag from his cigarette, and the smoke curls around him like a ghost. His green eyes are intense, boring into me, as if he's trying to peel back the layers I've wrapped around myself.

His jaw clenches for the briefest moment, and I can see a thousand emotions flickering across his face-frustration, confusion, maybe even a hint of anger? But the most dominant one is pity.

He points to my face, his curiosity almost palpable. "Girl or boy?"

"Huh?" I cock my head, confusion flooding my mind.

It feels odd to have a conversation with one of Willowbrook's star hockey players, especially since I've spent the last few years avoiding anything that resembled normal interaction and hockey all together, along with the players. But here we are, and somehow it feels almost normal.

How weird is that?

"The bruise," he clarifies, his tone dead serious, his emerald eyes boring into me like I'm some kind of puzzle he wants to solve.

That's when it clicks. Harlow's fists. The bruises. Shit. I forgot about it completely. Panic rises in my chest like bile, hot and bitter. I grab my hood, pulling it over my head, trying to shield myself from the scrutiny, but it's too late. I thought I'd hidden it well enough with Bianca's foundation and concealer, but obviously, that was wishful thinking.

I put on a brave smile, forcing myself to look casual. "You should see the other girl."

There's a beat of silence, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. "Right," Ant says, his voice flat, but there's an edge to it that makes my stomach twist. The way he stubs out his cigarette on the sidewalk feels like a punctuation mark on our conversation. "Great makeup skills, but next time, try a turtleneck."

And with that, he's gone, strutting away like he's not leaving me here, feeling like a total idiot. I should have realized. Bianca's foundation is lighter than my skin tone, but I thought no one would be close enough to notice. Except, apparently, for Ant Kashida, a bloody pro-hockey player who can spot a bruise from fifty feet away.

Why did he sound so familiar with bruises? Is he just observant, or does he have some sort of past? The questions swirl in my mind, each one heavier than the last. Did he actually care?