Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

Sam

After I tell Spencer that I'm a new student at Ryder (he accepts this to mean that I'm new along with my fictional brother/boyfriend/cousin/etc.), he uses our walk to the dining hall to point out every building, field, and secluded makeout corner Ryder has to offer. I know a lot of this from Jill, but it's fun to hear a fellow boarder explain it. Turns out that the students that live at Ryder during the school year have developed all sorts of ways to game the system into letting them explore their teenage desires to the fullest.

"How do you know all this?" I ask after he points toward a barely visible park bench and tells me that Beth Armstrong and Andrew Omar lost their virginity to each other there after last year's Valentine's formal.

He shrugs, wagging his eyebrows at me. "I'm hungry for knowledge. It's the Ryder way."

"Sounds more like gossip than knowledge to me," I retort, laughing.

Spencer shrugs again. "Tomato, tomahto."

By the time we've reached the dining hall, Spencer has moved on to the intricacies of the social order at Ryder Academy. I'm going to need to hook Jill up with this guy. His "knowledge" rivals hers, particularly when it comes to the guys. I wonder if Jill was onto something when she talked about the mystery of the boys' dorms. When Spencer mentions Rusty Weaver, I groan.

"You know him?"

"My best friend spent some time with him last year." I can't keep the derision out of my voice. Rusty Weaver was a piece of crap to Jill. One of my secret goals for this year is to kick him in the balls. Just once. Publicly. I don't tell Spencer this.

"Who's your best friend?" He asks, bringing my attention back to the present.

"Jill Ross," I tell him. "Her dad teaches Spanish."

"I know Jill!" Spencer exclaims. "I love her! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was too busy gaining knowledge. It's the Ryder way."

Spencer lets loose a hearty laugh before we part ways to load up our trays. When I plop myself down at our table, Spencer eyes my plate apprehensively.

"What? Breakfast for dinner," I defend, pointing at my omelet.

Spencer shakes his head and leans in, pointing to different tables and cluing me further into the who's-who of Ryder. I'm nodding and laughing when a shadow falls over our table. I glance up at the source of the shadow from under my stolen trucker hat and realize:

1. I'm wearing a stolen trucker hat.

2. I'm looking into the grey-blue eyes of the hot guy from Brandon's jeep this afternoon.

3. I am in deep, deep trouble.

The boy is—there's no way around it—gorgeous. And he's about as far from my Ryder Academy stereotype as physically possible. He's tall, lean, still wearing skinny jeans and a dark t-shirt. His broad chest is covered by a punk band's logo and a leather cuff is wrapped over one of his strong wrists. His face is framed with a dark mess of tousled hair, and his light eyes and teasing smirk—complete with the lip ring that sends butterflies loose in my stomach—take in my obvious admiration with a kind of cocky pleasure that I want to hate but can't.

"Yo, Spence," the newcomer—lip ring—says to my dinner companion. "What the hell happened earlier? I texted you three times."

Spencer checks his phone and looks up at the Adonis behind me, nonplussed.