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

THE BOARDERS: 32

Sam

As expected, the whispers follow me everywhere Friday. Less expected? The sweet smile Somers flashes my way when we pass each other between third and fourth periods. It scares the shit out of me. (I know better than to think a sedate smile from that chick means anything good.) I'm itching to talk to her, to hear where her head's at. And there's an ugly little part of me that wants to know if Weaver spoke with her after he defected from class shortly after she did yesterday. The half-smile they share when she enters Calc at the bell—and the waves of tension coming off Weaver—seem to indicate they did. My apprehension grows. Something's off.

I spin on it for the entire fifty minutes of class. When the final bell rings, I find myself indulging in my now-habit of lingering, just long enough for Somers to beat me out of the room. I've justified this practice to myself in many ways over the weeks: I like watching Somers walk away, I just want to make sure no one messes with her on her way out. There's no pretense today, though. I'm still here because Somers and Weaver are both still here, and I'm desperate for proof that nothing is happening between the two of them.

Somers wraps up a note and clicks her pen shut, sliding it into the front pocket of her bag and moving to stand, but Jared's already up and in the aisle. He leans against the desk in front of Somers', flashing his best pretty-boy smile. Her eyes shift to me and I focus on stuffing my notebook into my bag, both heartily and slowly enough it doesn't look obvious that I'm stalling.

"Let me take you out this weekend," Jared says.

I stop cold. What the fuck?

Somers has just the hint of a smile on her face, like the proposal isn't as shocking to her as it is to me. What exactly happened after they both left class yesterday then?

I realize I'm not breathing only after she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, shaking her head. "Yeah, I really don't think that's a good idea."

She slides past Jared, who looks positively baffled that she's just blown him off. I'd laugh if I weren't working so hard to keep my fists to myself.

"Wait a sec." Jared catches her arm. "Why not?"

We're the only three people in the room and there's no playing it cool; I am clearly just sticking around to see this conversation out. Somers' eyes land on me and don't leave when she says, "I'm pretty committed to not getting involved with any of Brandon Ott's friends at Remington. Apologies or not."

I can't decide if I'm imagining Weaver's discomfort. His face is all cocky smirk and swagger, but his body language says "get me the fuck out of here." When he responds though, all uncertainty goes out the window. "It's a good thing I'm not a friend of Brandon Ott's then."

Somers sucks her lower lip into her teeth, looking like she's biting back a laugh. Oh, fuck no.

"Somers—" I have no idea what I'm going to say, and as both Weaver and the girl—my girl (why does my brain have to remind me that now?)—turn to me, I falter.

"What the hell are you still doing here, man?" Weaver's annoyance is palpable.

"Just packing up."

Somers snorts. "Oh, that's rich."

I'm chastised by her reaction, but I'm not quite man enough to show it. Instead, I square my shoulders, glaring at Weaver.

"Ott's friend or not, I think Somers has had quite enough of the Weaver brothers screwing with her, don't you?"

"I don't know." Weaver looks at Somers pointedly. "Maybe she should have the opportunity to speak for herself."

"I didn't mean—" Jesus, I sound like a fucking idiot. And it doesn't matter anyway, because Somers is taking a small step closer to Weaver.

"You know what?" she asks, affecting an apologetic smile. "You're right, Jared. I should get to make the call about what I want." She looks at me pointedly, but there's something like conflict on her face. I find myself itching to shout "what happened to wanting me?" But she's already continuing, saying, "Let's do it."

"Oh yeah? Tonight?" Weaver's eyes light as he flashes his perfect white teeth at Somers.

My fingers flex away from my palm as Somers reaches up, flicking the collar of Weaver's polo shirt. "Yeah, for sure."

"Nice!" Jared looks like character from a video game, ready to punch his fist through the ceiling in excitement. I have something very different I'd like to do with my fist, and I almost choke when he says, "Wear a dress; I want to see those sexy legs of yours."

Somers, walking toward the door, pauses, turning back to us. Her eyes flash. "We'll see."

Jared lets out a low whistle while she laughs and shakes her head, lifting her hand to me in a mocking wave.

"Later, Sam."

My head is spinning, and I don't even bother acting like I can answer her, nor do I make eye contact with Jared, even as I feel him wanting to say something.

"Evans," he starts.

"Save it," I growl. If he says another word, I'll haul off on his ass. I need time to think. I keep my eyes on the whiteboard, where Alvarez' formulas are still faintly visible, until he decides it's not worth it and makes his way out of the classroom.

I'm still staring at the ghost of Alvarez' marker on the board when Weaver ducks back into the room a minute later.

"I'm picking her up at your dorm tonight, 6pm."

Satisfied that his final bullet has found its mark, Weaver disappears again. I picture the next few hours unfolding: Somers putting on a dress and smiling when he comes to pick her up, all while I sit on my bed, watching and seething. Fuck no. I'm not going to lie down and take this.

I pull out my phone and text Molly. Her response is immediate, and I allow myself a smirk, even if it's forced—even if it's fake. Somers and Weaver want to play an ugly game? I'm in, and I'm not holding back.